My Cardboard Balcony

Winded by Belinda Roddie Extravagance leaves a fat man winded when he's weighed down by anchors of pirate gold, Blackbeard's laughter subsiding in his ears 'til there's a slim echo anticipating cardiac collapse. No, don't take the diamonds off him - he sparkles so naturally, his sweat just like crystal against the cut manufacturer's wet dreams. And again make him dance like a chandelier. And again make him drool puddles of silver. And again submit him to emerald pull-ups with crowbars over stock market chainsaws and watch him scream over the buzzing. But he's happy to be rich, and he'll happily endure the wealth spasm until he passes it down like a disease to his sons and daughters, who will bloat from the $$$ but slice the baby fat with scalpels paid with more $$$ but it's not good enough, so more $$$, and more $$$, and more $$$

Denise looked pained to see Rosalyn trot into the room. Rosalyn's hair was pulled back for her jog, the puckered skin exposed around the nape of her neck. Her cheeks were flushed, like a flare kissing the whitening sky. Rosalyn inhaled, then saw Denise. "Oh," she gasped. "Hey."

The Media's On Your Side by Belinda Roddie The panic's finally set in, glistening, like the handheld tears you saved in the back of your Adam's apple just in time for the cameras to see. But don't worry about losing the faith of the clueless, because they, and the media, are on your side. Go back to your milkshake days when you cleared the sugar air with broad interceptions, leather skin aneurysms, and the whole town was on its brick feet, rooting for you, until you decided to stick your greasy fingers into an unwilling victim's soft spot and shook her innards up like charbroiled indecency. Oh, and then spread it around. No amount of crocodile wailing will get the rational, the coherent, the heart-savvy folks to defend your glittery varsity gold medal honor. No clammering for top roles in overhyped sportsimania with the Cain stamp on your head. But hey, at least the small-stomached and hot-brained neophytes equipped with the gift of th...

"You want the truth?" "Yes." "The whole truth?" "Yes." "Nothing but the truth?" "Yes, damn it! Tell me!" He puffed out his chest. "You can't handle the - " "And don't quote 'A Few Good Men,' for Christ's sake!" I spat. Sighing, he sat back down on the couch, forgetting about the warming glass of beer. He rolled his eyes. "If it makes you feel better," he muttered, "I was at the parade last night."

The three cities of Baldrumme were linked together by several bridges, but they weren't the kind of bridges that were wrought from iron or cast in cold. There was a certain fleshiness to them, from the way they pulsed to the sounds they made, so that when one walked across them, a certain loneliness oozed from the turrets and railings. Almost as if the bridges were wailing, with no one to answer their keening.

by Belinda Roddie None of the boys liked what they saw through the X-ray goggles. Granted, what they viewed through them was bound to perturb anyone involved. Larry slowly lifted the spectacles away from his face, his eyes still bulging green outwardly toward the wall. "You think he knows we're watching?" Gregory, while disoriented, took the moment to click his tongue. "Don't be stupid. We have the goggles, not him." "But suppose he finds out?" "Then we come up with the best alibi ever," Gregory replied. "And it'll be concocted by Mister Storyteller here." Howard threw up his hands in exasperation. Yes, he was the raconteur of the group, but there were always times that his creativity dissipated into the rudimentary "My dog ate it" level. He snatched the goggles from Larry and looped the strap around his neck. "So," he muttered. "We've learned a lot of new things about Mister Liamsw...

This was a strictly covert operation. No wonky strategies. No embellished "secret agent" attire. No sour attempts at exaggerated camouflage. We needed to act naturally. Like civilians. Normal human beings, more accurately. And we got to work. We produced driver's licenses, passports, and fake social security cards. I came up with my own pseudonym. Attire. Age. Attitude. And a very scruffy upper lip.