My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie June couldn't stop thinking about what the old man had said to her on the bus. It hadn't been an uttered warning, carried by an ominous wind on the pointed tail of Louisiana. Nor had it been a condemnation of her life or her choices, drawn out from a psychic mind like sticky taffy from a clenched nozzle. No, as the twenty-something woman hopped off the rickety bus and headed toward her car, she remembered that the geezer had said one word alone: Eggs. June had not eaten an egg in over fifteen years. She blamed the Garcia effect, some psychological babble from a battered textbook she had found in the corner of her high school classroom. Last time she had consumed yolk, she had become sick to the point of nearly dying in a Baton Rouge hospital. Eggs, indeed. Did the enigmatic stranger even know? Oh, well. The "end of the world" awaited the lass, as she drove her battered automobile to little Venice. Population: a handful of desperates. Living con...

You meant to instill fear into me. Pump silver into my veins until the blood thickened and turned molten and gooey, like metallic porridge, served to no one’s appetite. Make me feel like I was immobile and alone – contorted at an awkward angle for your advantage and enjoyment. But you failed. My blood turned back to gold, and I struck you soundly with my open hand. You toppled into the asphalt with caved in cartilage and punctured pity. I loved hearing your scream.

(Ahem) My darling turns twenty-two tomorrow - away with the superficial sorrow of nine to five days, burned alive by the endless swarms of fireflies perpetuating endless rhymes of classroom rules and tutoring times. This isn't about me, it's about her. It's about nearly two years - yes, sir, two birthdays in which I've been able to celebrate with her at a table, a park bench, a city, a restaurant, a walk, a necessary romantic talk. I may not see her on the second, but in three weeks, the fates will beckon us together, no matter the weather, to tie the bonds between "me and you" again. Again. Again. Again, with the standard hope that it will never end. But this time, we'll share a bottle of wine and laugh over memories that are intertwined with the wish that we, in our ecstasy, make two Happy Birthdays into three, and four, and five, and six - so here's to you, mo chuisle, and to us, ALL THE YEARS! Yeah. Tonight warranted t...

The Silent Mob by Belinda Roddie Handprints on the city walls, melded into metal wrought with Mortals’ touch upon this sacred ground so dear To the idle individual who makes his living in this fear This is the work of the silent mob No one in particular leads, while many are not ashamed To follow, for in following we allow ourselves to be taught About the concepts that are worthy to be thought This is the work of ones cloaked in ideals, like many colored robes The work of the silent mob If every man and woman would turn their head to look They would see children with morning dew upon their faces For only would it melt away if by hand or book The innocence of our youth would be taken away Why do so when they are the only ones with beautiful things to say? Such is the work of the silent mob As one man spoke, soul broken as he lay in the gutter of an American street, the roars of lions settled without prey For he himself said such crowds, without voice, sway A ...

"Um...Miss Kor..." Barkelee looked more than a bit shaken. "Just what exactly have you conjured up?" The four of them stood hazily out on the snow-drizzled slope, and the moon was blazing outward nearly as brightly as the sun would. Mistress Kor, the smile dripping off her lips, lifted her jacketed shoulders in a shrug. "Don't look at me," she said. "I'm not a magician."

I Tasted Onions And Dill by Belinda Roddie I tasted onions and dill when I kissed her, the white walls of the diner closing in around us. I took her back to my apartment so we could watch a brand new episode of her favorite sitcom while eating homemade nachos laden with fresh salsa, guacamole, and pinto beans. It wasn't dramatic; it was simple. It was divine, however, at the same time. I was thrilled by the way we both were straightforward: Me with a gut, her with a scraggly hairdo, us both with a mighty appetite. I adored the flavor of her lips - the taste of matter-of-fact love.

Sentenced to an unquantified number of years in a small penthouse with no windows, no doors, and a flatscreen television with all of the voices playing outside her head. She cradled her own rolled up blanket like something from an unyielding womb was nestled inside it - the child she had not wanted, could never want, and would get rid of because she didn't want it. But in this world, it was murder. Sacrilege. Dishonor.