My Cardboard Balcony

Well, how about that shit? I guess I'm twenty-four. Not quite as mechanically young as I was anymore. This age ain't quite twenty-five; I guess it's got some bite. Got more of a tang and effervescence than Corona Lite. I'm more than empty calories, I'm not an easy meal aimed to please you or your taste buds. I just make it real, trying to find out a solution to societal collapses, flood your consciousness with thought, overload your synapses. Nerve ends igniting, overlighting with colors berserk - from a mediocre twenty-four-year-old, that's some work. I don't aim to bring flavor, or enact some petty favor. I'll just keep the keyboard hot to bring you words that you can savor. Birthday was today. Low-key for the most part, but nice. I don't consider twenty-four a milestone, even though it did bring out that weird, almost rap-style impromptu poem you just read. The thing is, twenty-four can be a solid number, so I'm going to enjoy it....

To Love Poems by Belinda Roddie all I can offer is percussive experience, tom-tom heartaches and timpani heartbreaks, but what do I know besides wishy-washy wishes and projecting my own insecurities to a white-knuckled, neck-cracking, finger-snapping audience who probably knows where my hands have been. yet all I hear as I stare at rainbow hips and neon lips kissing dew off the bumps on my face is the incessant lub-dub, love-dub, hug-love, fuck -love right in the tender spot below the leather belt that some would prefer for spanking. spare me the pretense of a blue-leaved lover or tell me that running away from the brink of desperation rips the road out from under my boots and brings me back to kaleidoscope focus. there’s a pattern riding on horseback and shooting a colt dragoon at the first aid membrane sealing my infantile fate. all I can do is bleed the pattern, all the blacks and ...

The data that had been processed in the past two weeks was, in fact, incomplete, and Rose was growing frustrated by it. If everything had gone according to plan, the code would be finished, and the next step of her plan would be underway. But as it was, of course, she had to do everything herself. She pulled up a chair and opened up the laptop, only to recoil as sparks seemed to fly from the screen. She wondered if it was an optical illusion due to the lighting, but nothing was ever that simple in her office.

My Mother's Favorite Number by Belinda Roddie My mother's favorite number is, in fact, twenty-four. It's her birthday in July - the hours in a day, all nicely packed around the face of a clock. And now, I, as well as my sister, have reached the age that lies in my mother's favor. Perhaps, now that my twin and I have reached this stage in our lives, all the various mishaps we have will dwindle. Adulthood at last will catch up with us, whether we like it or not. Once eight o'clock AM has passed, it all will be official. Just a bit closer to twenty-five, an age that's nice, but my mom's favorite number will suffice.

The entire hall was adorned with holly and ivy so that it truly felt like a madrigal feast. I felt especially comfortable in my doublet and muffin hat, and my makeshift Renaissance-style shoes made only a small scuffing noise as I darted about the room, observing all the decorations and prepared food. I stepped up to a table with goblets of wassail before being stopped by my biology teacher. "Amy?" "Hi, Mrs. Henderson!" I smiled.

Hat Abuse by Belinda Roddie There was a misguided gentleman who sliced off the top of a bowler hat like opening a wool skull and revealing the cerebral curls underneath. And he claimed it was so the sunlight could hit his scalp just right to warm him up on cool days. His next door neighbor, a fancy hat enthusiast, bellowed, "Then don't wear anything on your head at all, you idiot, and stop ruining clothing articles!" Then the neighbor proceeded to crack the bowler abuser right across the very exposed part of his victim-turned crown with her beautiful snake-headed cane.

If she sold seashells by the seashore, then that would mean she was taking natural relics of the sacred beach, and that would anger the gods something terrible. Those deities got miffed pretty easily if any fragment of land they deemed "theirs" was used for profit, so as far as I'm concerned, that juvenile shell vendor may get into deep trouble. But what do I know? I'm just overanalyzing a tongue twister so I can waste time in speech therapy.