My Cardboard Balcony

A Nitwit Stole Gold Teeth by Belinda Roddie A nitwit stole gold teeth from a brass box that my dear wife kept on an old nightstand. He found a way to break through seven locks and stuff all twelve molars into his hand, balling it up into a fist. He slid across the slick linoleum, searching for a container with a matching lid to hide his new precious metals within. My dear wife marched down the stairs with her old sword cane, the snake head nearly hissing at the stumbling oaf. Sure enough, all the gold dropped from his hand, and, like a frightened cat, he scurried off. He had done the trick well, but my love with a sword was Nitwit Hell.

As the montage unfurled across the large movie screen, I found myself struck with a sense of ennui. This was not the film I imagined would be produced from my brain hemorrhage of a novel. The stream of blurred scenes, complete with cheesy song from the newest band braze, seemed far too succulent and exaggerated for my liking. But my wife was there, watching, and she was even getting teary-eyed. "Need a tissue?" I asked snidely under my breath. "Nope," she said. "Just a less stupid movie."

From The White Corner by Belinda Roddie From the white corner comes a mean green left hook, tearing up the sinews holding together a floating rib. Tell me, once the bone snaps, will you have your way with me, or will you enjoy the sound of silence as I refuse to shriek or be shrill in any way? I am built like a god, and you shall fear me one way or another, because in your white corner, there is the absence of shadow to conceal you, and when I spill blood, there will be a very distinct, unapologetic rorschach of red.

"So." Chad pursed his lips. "You make collages." "Hmmm? Oh, yeah. I love 'em." "Collages of what?" Grey rubbed the scruff on his chin. "Photographs, mostly. Nature stuff I've taken pictures of. I sometimes frame my work and try to sell it." "Is it any good?" asked Chad, already knowing it was a stupid question when he opened his mouth. Grey laughed. "Not exactly my call to say, dude."

The Comedians by Belinda Roddie We are the comedians. We are the jesters of old Nottingham, fixed bells on our shoe buckles, chewing up microphones and expected to chuckle when we break our canines on the metal. We are given piss water to drink, in hopes that they will get a rise out of us. So we'll crack a sloppy, lockjawed smile over it and pass a barb or two around like a bowl of soggy mixed nuts with the shells already half-cracked and the mess inside soaked by the facility's humidity. We are raised up onto a stage and expected to levitate above the floor just enough to avoid the trap door. We are the comedians. We spend excess time on our self-deprecation. We bite our thumbs at critics and make goofy faces when they paint their faces red in frustration. Don't worry - sticks and stones are meant to hurt us more severely, because in every book, film, TV show, magazine, and other pamphlet stapled together by dry men's fingernails, we are n...

The Captain of the Philanti Guard was the absolute antithesis of cowardice. No one had seen anyone like her. She had begun her military career as a noble private of the Duke's Personal Squadron, before being recognized as the only survivor of the Red Infiltration of Philanti. Her bravery earned her several promotions, and she was especially most well known for taking out an enemy sergeant with a pocket knife.

Saucepan by Belinda Roddie Debra used the saucepan like a semi-automatic and smacked her husband about sixteen times in under half a second. When the cops interrogated her, she said she was just so tired of the times her husband had condemned her mother's meatloaf recipe. "It's like, I don't even want to cook the damn stuff. I would rather shoot a gun and hook a fish as well as any beer-gutted man could do. So when I try to please the bastard, and he's never satisfied, I'll give him enough brain damage so he'll smile every night he dines."