My Cardboard Balcony

Putting Out A Fire by Belinda Roddie During a particularly bad argument with my brother, my drunken father thought it'd be a good idea to douse my receding hairline with very, very sticky liqueur. The booze lingered so harshly, and the aroma hovered so aggressively, that I nearly choked on my own vomit while hobbling to the bathroom to wash my head. He never apologized for it. Most fathers don't like apologizing. And my brother never took back the awful barbs he buried in my spine, the reason I felt the skin in my neck tighten into spirals and my tongue spin out of control like a flailing thread from a spool. Brothers like to bronze the pain for safekeeping. Somehow, I hope he realizes there's no value in hating my inner tattoo.

The conversation had been completely derailed by the appearance of Shawn's very intoxicated cousin, who barreled into the kitchen at a very odd speed, considering she was moving on her knees and not on her feet. Perhaps she was trying to be a dwarf from the Hobbit movie, I thought, only to have my theory confirmed when she pulled herself into a chair, her tankard splashing ale on the floor. "I come to claim my stolen gold!" she roared, burping loudly.

Corn Halo by Belinda Roddie She fished the popcorn, dry and butterless, out of the bucket, taking great care to puncture each fluffy lobe caressing each kernel with a needle and thread. When she was done tying and stringing and lacing, the circle sprung from her hair, and the smell of salt clung to the angelic silhouette she left on the stained glass wall.

I'm still standing. Standing, right in the middle of a charred, black circle where the grass smolders and the blood smells like a fresh barbecue beneath my right eye. To my right, the fallen. To my left, the struggling. In front of me, those bystanders who gape with unbelieving eyes, seeing the trident dangle from my nearly limp fingers. Nearly limp, exhausted fingers. They cannot believe I am still standing. They cannot believe that I have won.

The Moons by Belinda Roddie When the light caught on my overstrung fingers, it was like I was balancing two somber nickels on my cuticles, watching the glowing craters pop and fester in the night sky. My father brought me a bowl of something to drink, and we watched the pair of rocky eyes swivel in a murky blue dreamscape, trying to dance but having no feet to coordinate their steps with. I sipped from the wooden mouth in my hands and tasted a hot star on my tongue, and I knew that with this in my belly, the sun would burn extra bright and make up for the frost developed under my boots by the hostile double evening of celestial confusion.

Three officers had been commissioned to protect the Hades Mansion, which was the largest, flashiest, and of course most targeted estate in the entire city. Its owner, a bloated belly of a man with the stereotypical walrus mustache, asked for one of the officers to stay in front of the door of his room, in order to feel more protected. Officer Tandy had never seen the man's daughter roll her eyes so violently.

The wreath on Salvador's door was, I kid you not, neon purple. And of course, Rory was more than confused by it. "You trying to tell us something here, Sal?" she asked with an arched eyebrow as Salvador passed around full glasses of wine. "Yes - that Christmas needs more purple in it," he replied. "Now shut up and enjoy your carbonated beverage." I certainly enjoyed mine. Cider was a million times better than egg nog.