My Cardboard Balcony

Crisis Averted by Belinda Roddie Crisis averted - for now. Enough time to celebrate with a flask and flagon, and enough stained spoons to boom out a boozehound drum solo. We're a to z okay - for now. Drink with me, friend, until three months slither by on their bloated bellies, and we're back to square one when we've barely played hopscotch. Leave enough chalk dust between my cigarette fingers and my beer thumb, and I'll draw an Ash Wednesday cross on ye, to celebrate a purge of sympathy. Because twenty-four billion Washingtons emerged from the foam for a stein, friend. Twenty-four billion chances at a bottle of water or half a sandwich for a preschool kid. A food stamp or a drop of milk. An orange peel and a sense of worth. Save money, they say, while loosening their belts enough to let the green slip from loose and cowardly bowels. They should drink, too, so they can forget and bring us to the brink again. But we're okay - for now...

I finally noticed the tattoos on her scalp when she took off her hat. I guess her hair hadn't grown back in a very long time, not since the disease had gotten to its worst threshold and she shaved off the rest of the lonely tufts just to feel beautiful. And she was beautiful, especially with all the typewriter print across the crown of her head. "I want to kiss the words," I told her. And I did.

Wicker Witch by Belinda Roddie "No one's going to want those silly baskets," the jealous ghoul hissed at the witch, but she wove and wove the reeds together into tight snatches that rose up in curls like trees bursting from a wicker wood, ready to carry water to the other side of the haunted river.

"STAMPEEEEEDE!" That was all we needed to hear as we practically dove behind the registers, preparing for the absolute craziest sale mob we had seen in the past five years. With the economy finally picking up, everyone now seemed to have money for electronics. So I adjusted the collar of my polo shirt and nodded to my coworkers. "Remember," I murmured as the doors opened, "worst comes to worst, we get the helmets." "And the catapults?" one colleague asked, getting the joke. "Especially the catapults," I replied.

Log Cabin Romance by Belinda Roddie When she draped the flannel across my shoulders, I felt my conscience grow weak, floundering at the tips of my index fingers where normally I'd be charged with electricity. I asked her, "When can we go hunting again?" and she replied, "Hush, love. I need to clean the glock, and once it's confident, we'll load it so we can eat venison on our honeymoon."

The letter was sealed and stamped, and the old-fashioned wax emblem felt rather eerie and perturbing to Mara as she reached for a knife. The paper whistled slightly as it was cut, as if she were slitting a man's throat and any last ounce of air he had left came gurgling out in a high-pitched whisper of warning. The paper containing the message was fragile, enough to crumble into ash in Mara's hand. But the words themselves were as stark and hot and unfriendly as steel.

"Don't let me fall! I don't have a parachute!" "Why didn't you get one?" "I was trying to, but then I slipped!" "This is the worst skydiving trip ever!" Harold desperately cling to his brother Bob's hand as the plane they were in continually descended, the pilot knowing full well that Harold could let go sooner than thought. Other skydivers in the plane tried to help.