My Cardboard Balcony

So a few things. First of all, it wasn't the end of the world. The Mayans never predicted it, and long-count calendars, when they end, get replaced with new long-count calendars. This is why common sense is a useful tool, people. But what a day it was, anyway. The biggest highlight was the fact that I snatched up some fiction and poems, went to an alumni showcase for the performing arts program at my former high school, and performed in front of a good chunk of people as an '07 graduate. I was part of an arts program called Marin School of the Arts, and I dabbled in a lot. Creative writing, theater arts, and jazz choir, specifically. Now, obviously I have presence, and I certainly write, sing, and perform music. But writing was what I ultimately went back to as my main passion, and it was also what I did for my first two years of high school. Being on a stage again reading my work in front of former high school colleagues and mentors was definitely interesting, and though I...

Like Birds, Then Cursed by Belinda Roddie The stones upon this shore have turned to eggs And on this separate ground they fertilize With fragrant breath and long, elegant legs They look like growing girls with eyes of green That change their shade to show their every dream So ladies born like birds live separate lives And every boy with his warm red fantasies Their passion lit like bonfires to the skies They kiss the golden skin in revelry But pull their lips away in quiet fear For then it is their secrets all will hear So ladies born like birds live separate lives On stones amidst the like they hide their wings In velvet gowns that shapeshift like their eyes And one, if not from some, quietly sings Of emerging from a lovely woman’s womb Instead of being resigned to separate tombs As ladies born like birds live separate lives The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since July 19th, 2007.

"My thoughts are scattered. I can't focus." "How long has you had this scattered feeling?" "I don't know. I can't tell anymore. My brain likes to tell me that this is the way it's always been." She took notes. I leaned my head back against the blue cushion and tried to settle. My eyes were itchy in their round sockets. My left nostril was clogged. My throat was dry. "So what is something you like to do that helps you relax?"

Santa Claus Lost Twenty Pounds by Belinda Roddie Santa Claus lost twenty pounds just before the Christmas season. He swore off all sweets and cookies that were baked, served, and made more tempting with each sprinkle. The lovely treats were made by Missus Claus herself, though she had pushed her husband to maintain his strict diet and exercise regimen. He did his best with his push-ups and his quick decisions between sugar or cooked greens. Oh, the great holiday legend was tough, and he trimmed down the weight 'til he was lean and fit. Saying no to cake was quite rough, but he was slim and trim by Christmas Eve. "Just one brownie," he said, "before I leave."

It was the season to be jolly. It was the season to be kind. The Santas hovered around the corners of the grocery stores, their spectacles shined, their boots polished, and their beards as white as the blizzard coating red coats with winter wonderland. I gave a quarter to a Santa's bucket, and he gave me a laugh as rich and hearty as a cup of cocoa or a mug of beer. I smiled.

Worm Blue by Belinda Roddie The wristwatch coil around your waistline measures out a deep fried regret that's smeared across your average face, dripping calamari battered belligerence down the front of your way too expensive vest, worm blue, like a serpent drowning in a deep puddle of sewer medication, dissolved tablets and booze-mixed vomit spewed from a CEO's wife's sobbing teeth. There is no happy margarita glass. There is no salt satisfying enough to tingle a twisted tongue. Just the essence of natural financial hemorrhage as you pay the bill for overcooked steak melting in garlic soup, the coins squeaking against the little black tray holding a handful of your fortune for the boy in an apron spooning oatmeal into his gluten-intolerant mother's mouth. Fart Alligator, Part Deux by Belinda Roddie Sweet fart alligator, you and I were not acquainted for many years. I am a master of pen and paper. You are a reptilian wonder of fragran...

Nothing could sate Alex's hunger. Not all the Christmas cookies in the kitchen. Not every drop of egg nog from the stale carton. Not even the bottles upon bottles of peppermint schnapps poured into hot cocoa with candy canes being used as stirrers. When Alex's mother came home, her mouth fell open in terror at the decimation of the holiday sweets. And to make matters worse, there was her son, gnawing on the frozen Christmas ham.