My Cardboard Balcony

Today, I ran my very last GirlSMART class with my ten second graders. And to be fair, it was pretty fun. The girls made bracelets for each other. They wrote nice messages to me and other teachers. They played "Two Truths And A Lie" while eating cupcakes. They completely wrapped up the literacy program, and next week will be their last week of school before the summer and before they all become third graders. I wish I could say that the whole experience was brilliant, and that I completely changed these girls' lives and got them back into reading full swing. I can't say that. Not with full confidence, anyway. I would be so happy if I positively influenced only one girl in that group of ten, because when it all came down to one thing, it was the students I worked with. And not just the GirlSMART students, either - I tutored several second, fourth, and fifth graders, though I wonder more with them if I made a difference. I was talking with my mom about my concerns to...

Impromptu E-mail Poem #1 by Belinda Roddie As she stood, the watery aneurysm erupted from the yellow cornea spreading molten gold up and down her face as he turned off the car radio. Piano jazz, Erroll Garner – “For once in my life, I’m got someone…” She wasn’t someone who cried very often, especially not enough to fill the cracks in the sidewalk and stain her collarbone with salt-blackened circles, salty words filling her mouth with excess. She asked, “Why aren’t you looking at me?” and he pushed his skull deep into his fist, bone against bone, knuckle to knuckle, buried in leather cushioning that would always grow sticky in the summer. “Why aren’t you looking at me?” Sour repetition. He wasn’t impressed. The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since May 13th, 2011.

The lack of attention given to my particular bureau was alarming, to say the very least. And as such, I was swamped with enough paperwork to sink the Titanic without the necessity of a giant iceberg. As I hunched over my desk with all the poise and elegance of an angry cat, I listened to the sloppy shuffling of my boss's shoes as he walked over to me. "You got the reports done yet?" he demanded. "No," I scoffed. "Do I have six arms?"

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."