My Cardboard Balcony

Pirate's Gratitude by Belinda Roddie She doffed her hat to the hook-handed lieutenant, who eyed her cautiously, unwavering, as he bore more scars and had lost more limbs than most of her crew. The buccaneers stood looking on, drinking from barrels and praying that they'd avoid scurvy, their boots dredged in brine and their open wounds still bleeding from the barrage. But the lieutenant was letting them go, and the captain, smiling, waved a thank you as she returned to her ship and left a feather from her hat floating toward the officer's remaining, steel-like fingers.

What a cinematic touch to an otherwise mundane day. The way you ran to me in the rain outside the grocery store. The smell of chai tea still lingering on your barista apron, as you hastily wiped away coffee grounds from your blackened fingers. The way I stared at you from beneath my blue umbrella, tattered at the edges after my dog got his teeth on it. You kissed me in the rain. Only the kiss was kind of soggy, and we laughed too much.

I Dream Of Losing My Teeth by Belinda Roddie I dream of losing my teeth - wiggling them out, yanking them out, feeling them loosen in my gums as I rip the ivory from the roots and stick my tongue deep into the crevasses my actions leave behind. And then I wake up and run an index finger against my canines and incisors and relax when I find all my chompers are still there. They say you dream about your teeth falling out when you are afraid of growing older, but what does it mean when you twist out the molars yourself, smiling gaps and spitting cider in between the holes? Is it that I initiate my own aging, growing up too fast and losing my bones to dust? Or am I accepting the inevitable, dragging my gums into soup, and preparing to go prematurely gray?

Were you unfaithful to me that tonight? Did you find a way into Larkshire's bed when I was half-asleep on the curb, eating cold kidney from an iron plate. No. Hush. Foghorn on the bay. South of here is the tower. It transmits radio waves. Sends me messages about you when you're not around. Reminds me to come home. Reminds me to drink coffee more often. Reminds me to think. Reminds me to weep. While you licked Larkshire's beard.

Tankard Cake by Belinda Roddie I baked a cake in a tankard today, all steeped in molasses so the sugar swelled up all my pores as I drank the dessert while it split down the middle and oozed sweetness and clung to my lips. At my gig in the local bar, I tried making the cake again with whipped cream foam and syrup and served it, but it wasn't a hit without a little Irish cream, and it was impossible to serve on tap.

After a brisk, clean aired walk, I returned to my house only to find that my microwave was missing. The television set had not been touched. Nor had my laptop been swiped or my music players confiscated. No, out of all the things to steal - jewelry, clothes, even spare change - some bastard swiped the thing responsible for making me hot pockets every night. I went to the thrift store just on a whim and, lo and behold, a scraggly looking teenager was standing by the counter, trying to sell the microwave. He went white when I approached him and asked, "Really? That's the best you can do to make money off my appliances?"

If you ever find someone acting suicidal on the top of a bridge, don't grab the bullhorn, and don't abuse the tissue. Tears, whether crocodilian or genuine, won't do much to dissuade the desperate. But maybe know what their favorite food or beverage is and make the combination: A box of Hawaiian pizza and a bottle of Scotch; a jar of pickles and a glass of ginger ale; a can of Pepsi and a crate of crackers. Hand it up to them and ask to sit with them and eat in an impromptu picnic, to make a last meal a first one instead.