My Cardboard Balcony

Chew 'Em Up by Belinda Roddie The wrappers are peeling back, revealing a bit of skin, as you gnaw, gnaw, gnaw away at gristle in a chocolate patty. Mmmm, feel that flavor, that petty tinge of cacao, while your molars grind a symphony in the back of your mind.

The bedroom was backlit, the orange glow resonating from the closest street lamp that was threatening to flicker from gold to red and then nothing. But I relied on that light. I used it to create shadow characters on the wall, such as butterflies and dogs and all the nice little critters that my mother had taught me to like and approve of. But then things became different. The shadows became more complicated. Sometimes I couldn't exactly control my hands. Other times, the shapes seemed creepier. I couldn't understand it. Neither could the shadows.

8-Bit Night by Belinda Roddie Serve me a cherry sundae, but hold the sundae. There's a line of stars awaiting me, and I'm noisily edging my way through the maze, desperate to find a princess. They say if I look in enough castles, shimmy down enough pipes, and stomp enough earth until it's flat, I'll make something of myself. If I can't go to space, I can at least be a hero and raise a flag. Once you told me it was dangerous to go alone, but all you gave me was a sword without a voice to be my companion. The way I see it now, you always expected me to go alone. But the idea that I could go alone, and wipe out the perilous phantoms haunting my little grid - throwing shells, stealing rings, shooting invaders all while growing stronger - I think that was how I knew you put your high score on me.

"Are you a gamer?" She nodded. He snorted. "Nah, you can't be. There aren't any gamers like you." "Clearly, there's one," she snapped. "What's the matter?" He began to speak, but she cut him off. "Don't tell me. Are you one of those anti-girl gamer brats I keep hearing about?" "What? I - " "Oh. My God." She laughed. "I was hoping they were just a myth, or a breed that was dying out! God. This is ridiculous!"

Everyone's familiar with a raven. Especially poets. Poets and ravens have sort of a sour relationship, you see. They don't exactly get along. People like to say that poets are cryptic, but in truth, they tend to counter the strange little blurts of annoying lingual gibberish that these birds spew out on a nightly basis. Oh, you don't think ravens speak English? Poe wouldn't think so. "Nevermore" is about as English as you can get. The thing is, that raven in particular was kind of a jackass. He just liked to hover and wait for poets to go insane. Ravens don't have much of a hobby besides that, you know.

by Belinda Roddie "Just kidding about the not-having-mono thing." " What?!" "Yeah...sorry...mind handing me another pillow?" "John! I sipped from your cup!" "Oh, you'll be fine." "I sipped from the same straw!" "Hey, you don't know. Maybe I got it from you." "I've never had mono." "Some people don't show symptoms. Some people just get the virus and it lives in 'em. Maybe that's it." "But I've never shared a drink with you." "Bullshit." "John." "Bullllllshiiiiit. Remember how many forty ounces we've passed around?" "Yeah, but that was back in freshman year of col - " "And the times we drank from the same whiskey bottle..." "We had no glasses! And I was cold!" "Not to mention how many times we just reused dirty pint glasses over a...

Archer deftly spun the string around the spool, unraveling it from the wood and watching as it disappeared into the machine. As he happily sewed his new pair of slacks, he was aware of his uncle staring at him. "You can't do that." "Sure I can," Archer remarked cheerfully. "I'm doing it now." "It's a woman's job." "Only because you don't have the skill."