My Cardboard Balcony

Jar Gun by Belinda Roddie You are in my lingual territory, and you've found lifeless chunks of text that used to be stories floating in the empty cavity of my skull. They scooped my brains out with a ladle, but there wasn't enough broth in their bowls to feed a rat. And somehow, they were content with storing my remains in a pretty coffin, like my flesh are pages in a bound book, filled with random jargon, spraying bullets filled with nothing.

Nothing today! We'll see what happens tomorrow.

My Shirt by Belinda Roddie Once upon a time, I was a hypochondriac; it's worth noting that I still am, technically, a hypochondriac, because as experts like to tell us, once a crazy person, always a crazy person. But for the sake of conventional storytelling, let's stick with the liberating past tense: was.  From 2011 to 2012, I was obsessed with sickness. It began with a tick bite that wouldn't go away, and even though my immune system was like a steel factory, melting away mischief with T-cell cogs and teeth, I went to the doctor to get useless antibiotics. That was when, coincidentally, the headaches started. I was prescribed way too strong a nasal spray. Then I couldn't sleep. And from there on out, anything that proved remotely precarious to my health and happiness was always on my mind. I could get a bruise on my leg from a simple slip and fall on the asphalt right outside the interfaith building where I attended noon Catholic mass, and ...

A friend liked to claim that he was all about chivalry - even after he had gotten seven drinks poured down his shirt, nine slaps in the face, and at least two jabs to the nutsack over one week alone. It was hard to remind him that being chivalrous and being overtly forward were two entirely different things, because he wouldn't budge on what he believed was the true path of romance. Last time I checked, someone hit him in the head with a baseball bat.

The Hound's Pail by Belinda Roddie I was in the kitchen when I heard the coonhounds bay, and when I checked outside, I saw the puppies drinking straight from the tin bucket dangling from a string, and I knew it was Garth's moonshine, transferred from the leaden barrel, and the dogs got dizzy afterward, howling in circles, tongues licking the stars.

Scott was beckoning toward me, holding a bottle of warm champagne in his other hand. I knew it was warm because it was already open and half-empty, and the sun slipped across our shoulders like grease and left us stained with ultra-violet rays and perspiration. I walked toward his car and awkwardly opened the door to the passenger's side. "You been drinking, dude?" He hiccuped and laughed. "Why, you a cop? Gonna cuff me?" "Maybe."

"We have a customer in distress on Aisle Three." "Aisle Three. Of course. That's the candy aisle." The manager sighed and put down the cucumbers he was checking on and proceeded to march through the store, following the distinct sound of wailing and whining. I decided to follow him, just in case they needed someone who could "understand." The woman was kneeling on the floor, several chocolate bars strewn beside her.