My Cardboard Balcony

He Spoke Diagonally by Belinda Roddie At a slant, not a bias - a slope, not a dancing crevasse. He waited for me to complete my thought chain and then added another crooked link. "I speak diagonally," he told me. "I'm like a hidden word search puzzle." I could circle his eyes with red pen, watch as the letters formed within his irises - solid greenish gold, transcribed, stamped with the stone etchings of the Roman scribes.

Scratching my nails against the glove compartment, I pulled out the battered Brian Wilson bobblehead and haphazardly perched it atop the dashboard, watching the great black plastic beard sway back and forth against the pivot of the figurine's neck. The lights were melting like candied caramel against the windshield, and I tried concentrating on little Wilson to keep myself awake.

Self-Made Manager by Belinda Roddie I'm a self-made manager of original composition, equipped with enough scribbling in my cerebrum to set my coordination off-center, my pace off-kilter. I lose muscular capacity to the art of not losing a word to my own indulgent sleeping habits - dreams are simply opportunities to speak, and to the spirits residing in the cheap motel in the back of your twenty square mile mental estate. They enjoy the complimentary breakfast.

Down in the trench, Sergeant Banks was writing a letter to her grandmother. The insignia had lost its glitter against her collar long ago, and dirt had buried its way so deep under her fingernails that she could barely feel her cuticles. It was cold, and the ink was thin. She tried to draw a heart. It came out as a circle.

I was being punished for telling the truth. For uncovering the scandal. For looking at the dean straight in the eye and telling her, "You screwed up. You screwed it up for me. You screwed it up for her. You screwed it up for us. For everyone." Now, I was being expelled for that truth. Not because I did anything wrong - but because I had the "audacity" to call someone out for her own mistakes and even more heinous actions. I walked away from that university, however, with my head up.

by Belinda Roddie "Who would ever accuse little old me of such a thing?" "Mrs. O'Reilly, apparently." "Oh, God. There are so many things wrong with that." "Tell me about it." "First of all, I was not that drunk. We've calculated the degrees on that one." "We sure have, John." "Sadly enough." "Yep." "See, I was only third degree intoxicated." "Run by me the elements of third degree again." "Well, there's still a grasp, if somewhat shaky, of the world around me." "And speech has yet to be slurred." "See, you remember one thing. But the hippocampus has not been hindered. I still held judgment." "Indeed." "Second of all...her son isn't even that hot." "You know what, John? I totally agree." "I know, right? He's like a three-point-five on a scale of one to ten." "...

A little bit of flour, a teaspoon of vanilla, and an excessive amount of sugar was all it took to bake the cake. Carlos drew it out of the oven, smoldering hot, and set it down. His hungry Corgi, Martin the Sixth, licked his pink gums, waiting for a crumb or morsel or chunk to descend into his mouth. Carlos cut the cake into very, very thin slices. He set a place for himself at the table, then a place for his wife. This was her favorite cake.