My Cardboard Balcony

It's Hard To Say Goodbye by Belinda Roddie It's hard to say goodbye to someone who you considered a friend. Easy to cut them off on social networking sites, yes, and to delete each photo online. But when you go to yank the photographs out of an album, a few things come to mind: The photos are perfectly organized, and you want to keep the good memories intact. You try to claw each memento out of its plastic seal and toss it out, to ease the pain somewhat and grow numb to the day when the two of you were happy. But you just can't. You want to remember how strong of friends at one time you both were.

Be patient. Wait longer. The pain will dissipate eventually. Savor spoonfuls of medicine while you lie in bed. Pillow's extra fluffy. Blanket's extra warm. Also extra fluffy. Don't panic. Don't be ashamed. Don't be embarrassed. And for the love of God, do not cry. Because crying just makes it sting more. Sit up. She's brought you soup. Hot, full of noodles. The hearty kind. You take a sip, and she kisses you. Two sensations.

Digging Fragments by Belinda Roddie Pecan shrapnel scraped from a seashell bowl, cloak draped against a low-hung lamppost, where an old man smokes rolled up sand and exhales foam. When he talks, you can hear the ocean.

Determined to find the tavern, the bard struggled and staggered and stumbled and swaggered about the narrow road, his lute banging haphazardly against his exposed thigh. His wife had kicked him out of the cottage again, and by God, he was going to have a skinful of mead to make up for a lousy night. He hobbling into the dimly space and plopped down at a corner table, mopping his brow with his floppy hat. The wench strode over with a huff and puff.

Fart Alligator by Belinda Roddie Two flapping lips pasted onto an olive face under dark hair and a neon pink headband called me a "fart alligator" today - behind my back, no less - as some form of second grade rebellion like they were told, "Forward, march" after Hanukkah books and Christmas carols. In an all-girl class, there's bound to be some medicinal dose of sass, bottled up and doled out like cough syrup for the flu season. The funniest thing was, I had to act all serious about it, with huffy eyes and puffed out chest, telling this poor little lady how in the wrong she'd been to ever lob an insult my way, a teacher's way. And I'm not complaining, it's necessary to grab a student's shoulders and twist them enough so that her head sits properly on a polo-cuffed neck. Ground her nose into black pepper reality and let her sneeze a couple of times to get the defiance out of her system. Discipline, the espresso shot ...

"I'm sorry, Mister Reyes is not available for comment. If you could just leave a note at the front desk..." I barge into his office anyway and there he is. Drinking scotch, no less, while perusing the Sunday funnies. He stares up at me and the amber booze reflects in the light of the chandelier and ricochets off his eyes. His mustache quivers. He is not happy to see me.

The Lousy Magician by Belinda Roddie Look, a dove is tangled up in sprouting vines, spiraling up the contorted vertebrate of my DNA helix spine. This should be a madness to dazzle your eye, but it's no fun when the presentation dies. And there, the poor thing's been strangled again. I'll doff my chimney hat to you, scuttle off to a different Spain or France to try my hackneyed, disaster-prone dance again. I'd show you the saw trick, but they'd most likely mark my poor soul down for homicide.