My Cardboard Balcony

The Spatula For Pancakes by Belinda Roddie The spatula for pancakes was missing from the utensil drawer. No matter how I sifted and re-sifted through the spoons and rolling pins, I couldn't find the tool necessary for creating a great abundance of delicious, brown flapjacks for everyone in my family to enjoy. Suddenly, I heard a cackle and then some shushing from the cupboard. So I pulled the door open. I saw, beside the corn flakes and bag of pistachios, three kitchen gnomes, using the spatula as a catapult. Its fulcrum was bread, all stale. I just had scrambled eggs instead.

Lieutenant Clemington, in my opinion, held far too much influence on the corporals and privates milling about the barracks. It wasn't sexual allure, and some more chauvinistic soldiers would try to have me believe - it was difficult to make any roughhousing young woman like me trust in their more masculine thought processes. But Clemington was a different story than I was. She held an aura to her that drew in appeal. And it frightened me.

Five Minutes by Belinda Roddie My stopwatch exploded; tiny fragments, shrapnel, clogged my vision, and now I can't see anything else but smears of color instead of faces, and places, and things, and scenes. It was only five minutes ago that I felt normal, but now the sadness drips off the tongue like dew off a clichéd flower petal, and no amount of sun will bring light to me. Not now. Not ever in the persistent present.

"What did you derive this conclusion from?" asked the professor as she sat down with the student for their one on one meeting regarding final papers. "Bats." The professor raised an eyebrow. "Sorry?" "Bats," the student repeated. "See, I'm a big night wanderer. I wander at night. Fairly straightforward, if you ask me." "Yes, I suppose so, but - " "And see, there are a lot of bats flying around my neighborhood lately," the student interrupted. "And somehow, it just...fit with the whole existential crisis of Hemingway's minimalist work, you know?"

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.