My Cardboard Balcony

Mrs. Nick by Belinda Roddie Mrs. Nick put her lipstick on, blue purple red beauty face-licious extraordinaire. She went to the kitchen to stir a pot of gold and kissed her reflection in the carbon mirror. Oh, baby, it's cold outside. Don't forget your slippers 'cause it's cold outside. Mrs. Nick was a saint when she was forty-something, but now she's reaching sixty and she's beardless and fine just in time for Christmas Eve.

The Christmas procedure went as follows: We made an incision upon the mantel, filling it with holly and tinsel. We set up a pine in the core, garnishing it with electrical outlets and pulsing ornamentation. When it was plugged in, it would spark life back into the space, filling the cavity with light, rejuvenating the five senses and allowing the patient to sigh in delight. Call me a holiday surgeon.

The actual murderer had fled New Wickham seven months prior. He stayed in a very small tent where his long, knobbly feet pivoting on two long, knobbly ankles protruded from the scratchy flaps, the fire made of dry brush and leftover tree scraps being the only source of warmth. Some mornings, he would go out to fish, but his animalistic instincts would kick in after snatching a fish and he would gnaw on it while it was still alive and flopping.

by Belinda Roddie You'd think running from the law for thirteen years would make a man skinny. It doesn't. Gunther "Grimace" MacGee was fat, fat, fat - weighing over a good three hundred pounds when we finally nabbed him. He was called Grimace because even when he was thinner, he always had a few good folds of extra skin bunched up around his cheeks, like he was meant to be born a dog with a wrinkled mouth and snout. Therefore, even when he smiled, it looked like he was either disgusted or in immense pain. My superior, Evan Schmidt, had been trying to sniff out this enormous hound for a dozen of those thirteen years. The job was passed to him by the chief after Grimace MacGee didn't show up at the courthouse to play witness to a murder case. The victim had been a twenty-something black gentleman, a fairly wealthy son of a more than fairly wealthy business mogul, having invested much of his inheritance in the car industry. The young man had been mowed down by ...

She knows me. She's seen me. Breathing out wisps of macchiato daydreams, billowing outward in streamers, confetti sparkling in my sultry honeycomb pseudo-golden hair. She smiles at me. Tries to wave, and I try to remember her name. It's a very pretty name, but it's lurking in the corner where it thinks it can't be seen. I want to say something.

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.