My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie When the seedpods opened, the little farm girl screamed. But the truth was, there was nothing to be afraid of whatsoever. For out of the pods emerged the greenest, plumpest, tastiest giant peas that one did ever lay her blue eyes on. Her uncle, rugged and superbly masculine as he was, laughed and clapped his large hands together, then stooped down to pull a pea the size of a fist out of its opened, fleshy womb. He held it out to her niece, but the girl wildly shook her head. "Self-opening pea pods," her uncle tried to explain. "I swear to you, the peas will be the best you've ever eaten." The girl was not interested in eating something that came right out of a giant green shell without the need of human hands. Besides, she didn't like peas. Uncle Jared owned the patent on the giant genetically modified vegetables that he farmed now, having once operated the company born out of the genetic study, "Allegranto." In ...

"If we use the velcro shoes I invented," Lisbeth snapped, "then we can sneak into Letterman's mansion undetected." "How?" She sighed and shook her fist at Hammel. "You don't listen," she scowled. "The shoes have been equipped with astute stealth capabilities. They make no sound. They leave no prints. And they also carry a electronic signal in them that can corrupt burglar alarms like as solar flare."

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."