My Cardboard Balcony

You Can't Please Ev'rybody by Belinda Roddie You can't please ev'rybody, not even your own flesh and blood sometimes. Sure, you try to satisfy the gnawing, pervasive desires and expectations of your friends and next of kin. But usually, you find that expectations are painfully vague and constantly change with the ooze of time seeping out from behind your eyes and mind. No, sometimes you must turn to some simple solutions to accommodate for those who do not ever seem to be appeased by what you do and what you cannot do. No matter - some will always be happy with you. Others will never set you free.

After Vincent placed the flowers in the middle of the table, he went back to the kitchen to finish glazing the ham. Sitting in the corner with a crossword bunched up against her chest, Emma busily toiled over whether or not 32-down was "wise" or "keen." If only she knew what the name of King Charlie's second cousin was for the across.

Behave Yourself by Belinda Roddie If you don't eat your veggies, you will find yourself on the corner of a dirty, dirty street with several old and sluggish hookers. So gobble up your broccoli, because clearly a little more green in your blood will light the way to a brighter future no matter what cynics say in opposition.

What does all the television watching in your life amount to, really? You're watching a medical drama. I could write that, but the doctor is a unicorn who needs to save lives in order to obtain magical powder to survive. What about the cooking shows? I can bake a cake and I can sear a pan of fish as well as any guy with a blonde mohawk and a really gimmicky accent and sense of slang. Let me write and cook. Not watch.

Pistachio Butterflies by Belinda Roddie Salted, roasted, dried crystalline wings served in a shallow glass bowl. Crispy and flavorful, hot and playful, delicate and fleeting, the kind of taste you feel guilty about once the prism dies in your mouth.

There was a barrel full of very dark, very rich wine in the cellar. The smell was pretty damn palpable. I couldn't walk by without getting a whiff of what seemed like a mix of elderberries and orange pulp. Very fruity and very tangy. I could almost taste it on my tongue just by inhaling. My oldest cousin, who owned the vineyard, told me that it was a very special wine. His grandfather had made it for years, but he never bothered to sell it. It just sat there. Bewitching those who caught the odor.

New Year's Revolution by Belinda Roddie Past the empty bottles of gin and vodka and Russian and Spanish and French neglect, there's a swell of energy from the dawn of a new grandfather clock with overgrown second hand whiskers. There's a need for running and cheering and clapping and hoping and praying and thinking that maybe, just maybe, a miracle will occur that didn't happen the year before. While in other parts of the world, people gnash their teeth, others slosh their innards with peach-spiced influenza, while you, on your handheld recorder of galaxies, start to contemplate conquering a post office for James Connolly, with his stone hands raised high, as Easter meant revolution over resurrection - so a new year will mean to you.