My Cardboard Balcony

Hot Cider and Croissants by Belinda Roddie Hot cider and croissants are all I have on the table, but it's a good enough meal between the two of us. Cinnamon on our tongues. Crispy, buttery pastries flaking against our teeth as we munch on the café delicacies. Feeling warm and tingly all over, I want a kiss from you. I want a crispy, buttery pastry kiss from you. I wish for a kiss- shaped croissant, the swirling mosaic of a display counter in a coffee shop that we could open with sappy motifs. Hot cider and croissants are what we'd serve to young lovers whose dreams will soon converge.

Crime was on the rise in Off Key Village. Nothing was on pitch. Everything was out of tune. The Oboe Scoundrel had trilled off with another bag of reeds. Now none of the Clarinet Gang could play. And to top it all off, some trumpeter was tooting his horn about how the mayor was sleeping with the virtuoso violinist.

Blackberry Yogurt by Belinda Roddie Licking lactose from the bottom of a cup that was once topped with blackberry yogurt the sweet sensation of summer in bushes grown on a "No Trespassing" property with broken down fences You tempt the last curdle to slip on your tongue and set the spoon down to sleep against the dirty tile while you smile a maroon-stained smile and you grab a new cup and dig in while your mother scowls nearby

For the past three hours, I've been lounging at my computer, wearing red scottie-patterned pajama bottoms under my work shirt - a blue polo with blue insignia like I'm some sort of veteran. And maybe I am, in a way. But I try not to flatter myself. I suck on the straw of my generic fast food chain milkshake so hard that the tip catches along my tongue. Mmm. Processed dairy.

Hugh Jackman by Belinda Roddie Wolverine, Wolverine claws down under blankets, stripping at the romance pages hidden under fluff. You, you, you want him in all his Australian glory, from the crazed hair to the musical timbre rattling your chest making you insane like a mutant in the membrane

Under the lights of the auditorium, I watched the two of them dance. They nuzzled their faces into each other's shoulders, red gown and red jacket. Peaceful. "What do you think of it?" scowled the dean beside me. "I think it's beautiful." I could hear her blink. "Excuse me?" "Just look at them!" I pointed at the swiveling couple. "A symbol of God's pure love." "Are you insane?" "No," I replied. "Are you?"

Calendar by Belinda Roddie It feels like Friday when it's meant to be Monday, tempted to be Tuesday, waiting to be Wednesday, thinking of Thursday when I can love you Someday