My Cardboard Balcony

The End. He never wanted to say goodbye. He watched as she boarded the train. The train was five minutes late, but she didn't look at him. She didn't respond. He tried to say something. She wiped away tears with her hand. He watched her cry. She began to sob. He asked her not to lose it. She wanted to say she hated him. He wanted to say he loved her.

by Belinda Roddie Maybe if he were more careful, things like that wouldn't happen so often. But as it were, Todd's truck had been totaled, a lion cub had escaped from the zoo as a direct result of said crash into the wildcat exhibit, and an enraged zookeeper with a greasy coif and a long-handled taser was after him. Now he was crawling on his hands and knees through tall grass, not knowing how close he was to the zoo after so much running. The entire city was surrounded by forest and valleys, almost nestled into nature like an ugly metropolitan steel tumor. He could be lost in the thickening landscape, for all he cared, with no food or water. The only two things he had on him besides his hoodie and his baseball cap were his dead zoned cellphone and a crushed can of beer - which he had been unapologetically drinking at the time he had barreled his way past the lemur cages and disturbed the lions. Poor lion cub. In the last minute of pulling himself from the smashed pick-up...

Everybody's moral compass points north, and no one bothers to question why. North has never been forward, nor has it ever been backward. Magnets tell us nothing about the direction we should take in life, and frankly, I'd personally like to forego the compass entirely. A moral map is what I need, with destinations and roads, and my decisions on which paths to take and which towns to travel through.

Back to work after a two week break. It was great to see my girlfriend to celebrate the New Year. I just spent a week testing my girls on their reading, and all of them, at least slightly, have improved. Which is good news. Lots of interesting stuff coming up. I may be talking on a panel for my coworkers in a safe space session. Maybe bring up LGBT stuff so I'm pretty open (obviously) about my sexuality. Performing in a talent show - on my dad's birthday, no less. It's mandatory (funnily enough), but it should still be fun. ...Yeah, I'm not being very poignant tonight. That's what happens when I return to work. Back into a routine. Back into teaching. Back into learning. I missed deadlines to enroll in graduate school, but I'm going to start researching for potentially getting a master's in the fall of 2014. That, or a teaching credential. Or both. Wish me luck. Writer's Quotation of the Night: There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortuna...

Sober Thoughts by Belinda Roddie I’m going outside when the carnival’s over That merry-go-round of everyday life Each creature and beast not quite the same But it spins in a circle every day I’m going to the place where the moon is still sober No wine from the flesh to satisfy   I wait until I can ride the tornado Like the wispy gray back of a wild mustang As it screams its demise, I cannot tear my eyes From the hollow wood whose haven is mine It takes me to the place where the moon is still able To see clearly enough for it to be sane   And so when the fool’s wits are recovered I drink a wine sweeter than the blood of the savior Whoever it is who made the sacrifice Whether to save us or just to be nice I drink to the moon and my thoughts are uncovered In the saving wine’s rich and blessed flavor   A feeling of peace pervades the midnight hour When I leave the storm and dismount from my saddle Into a...

"Don't cry." Can't stop, can't stop. "Don't cry." Can't stop, can't stop. Clinging on wood, chair cushion soaking saliva. No. Can't stop crying as you coil around me. Scaled snake attempting to comfort me. Forked tongue slipping across my cheek. Hot water. Tea steeped. Brewed. Brewed. Served lukewarm.

This Tennis Court by Belinda Roddie This tennis court was once a skeleton of a manor, owned by a wealthy yet agoraphobic family of five: The Earl of Braggart was wistful in rooms as he scribbled away on his own arms to turn calligraphy into tattoos. His wife, the Duchess Chagrin, painted red over both eyes and cheeks, but never on the lips. Their two sons, Condemned and Confused, did sway their heads to Gregorian chants, drugging themselves with opium each night. The youngest, Daughter Slight, held a pillow to her chest even as she ate dinner, but all the family just got thinner.