My Cardboard Balcony

Yes, Again by Belinda Roddie Yes, again. I want to try it all over again. I want to sip whiskey from a mug instead of a shotglass. I want fireworks instead of campfires, hot peppers instead of s'mores. I want to abandon California and climb up to Cusco, where the air is thin, but the atmosphere is fresh and, though simple, the struggle is soulful. I want to discard first world problems, cut the cable of my laptop fantasies, read more books, drink more nectar, stow away on ships, smuggle salt, and light a thousand fuses to go off simultaneously in ten thousand brains. Because once everything short-circuits, I will be the only flare left alive. Though I do need to check my Tumblr first before my emotional, detached adventure. I'm sure it won't delay me much.

"I have him wrapped around my littlest finger," said Rosa as she repeatedly clasped and unclasped the locks on the briefcase in a fit of compulsive attitude. "He'll never know what to expect, or what not to expect. His future will be nothing but static and white noise. And it will terrify him." Warren nodded slowly, rubbing the stubble on his upper lip with his thumb. He knew never to question Rosa, as she was almost always right. Except for the times when everyone was wrong.

Derelict, Tuxedo Man by Belinda Roddie He practically lives in the shoddy jacket. His belly, once hanging past his leather belt, is now shriveled and lifeless, without so much as a scrawny steak on a stick for him. He steals graham crackers from the closest gas station, but he can never grab the marshmallows, and besides, if he heats those up, the sugar stains his vest something awful. You're a derelict, tuxedo man. The rose in your lapel is three years left of romantic. Its petals wilted long ago. And so did your smile.

Albert took delight in the sweet comforts of the bakery. He ate all the cannoli once in just a single day, and while usually the owner would be somewhat irritated by that, Albert paid him one buck extra for each sweet he ate. It was clear that the fifty-something man was an excellent addition to the list of patrons that the bakery still had. It had almost gone out of business before.

Staring out the window was known to be stereotypically wistful, so Otto Mann tried not to do it. His sister, Sofia, listened to her MP3 player that pounded out Taylor Swift so loudly that the twang lingered in her brother's poor ears. In the front of the SUV, Otto's father hummed a jingle from the latest commercial of his favorite fast food restaurant - Harvey's Ham Haven - and his mother reapplied lipstick.

by Belinda Roddie He didn't quite catch what was off about the room until he realized that all of the picture frames were turned around. Then again, even if he did turn them around, there'd be no photographs in them at all. Not that the master of the house didn't like to retain memories of his youth - but he didn't like hanging up his past for all to see. So Barkelee was more than curious about why the frames were on the wall to begin with. "They're quite lovely standing on their own," the master replied placidly, offering the youth a glass of very dark wine. "Excellently carved wood. And they were gifts. It'd be a pity to let them gather dust." Barkelee was unsure as to how empty, turned around picture frames made any of their givers happen. But given Miss Kor's warnings, he was willing to let it slide. Sir Ifolde was a staunchly middle-aged, egregiously curt man. He did not smoke, and he offered alcohol even though he hims...

"Wanna see my collection of lizard tails?" "Your what?" "Lizard tails! You know...tails from lizards!" "How in Hell did you get lizard tails?" demanded Shaw. "What, did you cut 'em off of victims with a cleaver?" "No, Shaw!" gasped Rensley. "I found 'em! I always find 'em. They wriggle something awful, even without a body. I just pick 'em up and stick 'em in a pretty blue box!"