My Cardboard Balcony

The Sammy Shadow Project by Belinda Roddie The Sammy Shadow Project was unveiled to the city council on Thursday night, as February wrapped around the palms of each person sitting in the pews, cold, listening to the deputy mayor's excited speech. The Project would include a return to a more Gothic sense of architecture, to recreate the old medieval vibes of the town's history. The new city hall would cast an ebon shade upon a carved out cathedral. The museums would be marble, houses dark, and stained glass painted with the silhouette of Sammy, who the town owed heavy debt.

The hungry salesman ate a taco shell full of rusty nails, sprinkled with the finest hot sauce in packets from the closest Mexican restaurant. As the tetanus set in, he propped his briefcase against his frozen knee, the convulsions ready to kick in like a side effect to the prescription. Last week it had been broken glass, but shredding his innards had become more laborious. He wished to pitch for the best death. It never came.

Markovsky White by Belinda Roddie Markovsky White regularly poured a night terror into his coffee, a shaky substitute for cream stirred straight from the can. He sipped from the brim of his anxiety attack and tilted his two-cornered head back, bumping the brick wall of his brick mausoleum, caught weary and gray in the spare window dusklight. Mister White was an extravagant sick man - a fool with more medicine than money - a plaid-patterned epileptic episode on a trademarked green sofa bed. He dreamed about love number seven on the mental queue, ate nothing but barbecued temper tantrums, and wished for a day in which he'd replace the one AM chills with frosted toast to nibble on when the sun thawed out the blood clot in his bottom left brain.

"He claims you hit him." "I didn't." "You didn't?" "I didn't." "You didn't hit him?" "No." Dan doesn't look enthused. "Are you telling me the truth?" "Yes," I scowl as I pull on my hoodie. "I'm telling the truth." "Okay." He sighs and shrugs. "He's crazy, then." "Yeah, I didn't hit him." "Good." "I shanked him."

Coma by Belinda Roddie It's cool when you lose your sense of self over a hot teaspoon of instant temper, and then come to and stare in horror as the poor scared children scurry away from your fallen state of authority. Kind of blows, the echo and the aftermath. You suck a straw so it catches on your sore thumb. You cry about it to a friend of the family of a friend because you just don't feel like failing, but it happens, and it will keep happening, even when you get used to the abrasions all over your knees. When you taste it, you know it's bitter, and when you hear it, you know it's hollow, so get over your latest coma, trek harder, live longer, drink faster to keep the room spinning, and always, always, always, forget to forgive yourself.

Don't think, just act. Don't speak, just listen. Don't breathe, just plead. All these things wrapped up in a sticky, sticky cinnamon roll you can't swallow. The sugary spikes your palate and chills your spine, and you shudder, shudder from the intake. Don't forget - your vocabulary's too much. Tone it down. Simmer. Stir. Serve. Cold.

Aztec Chocolate by Belinda Roddie Quetzalcoatl would like a spicy chili cocoa, hot sauce whip on top, and a sweet scone for Cortés 'cause he's a big sissy who can't handle the zest ("Can't believe they thought he was me."). Serve up the serpent with a sense of flare, because the world didn't end and it won't end for a long time unless the mortals have their say over sugary mochas and latte manic experiments. Mmm, whisk the cinnamon a little bit stronger - cooled bicep, tough palate, crisp tongue over brown lips, and I'll stroke the feathers on the big boy's back as he creates a roomy festival in the shop, while everyone sips and sighs and stares at the choco-guzzling morning star.