My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "Your kidneys have, for some reason, turned into cans of kidney beans." The response was nothing but the high-pitched hum of the machines flatlining. Doctor Randall Hemingstein paused. "Ma'am?" He prodded at the IV in the patient's wrist. "Ma'am?" His companion doctor, Patricia Wendt, looked ready to punch a nearby nurse in the gut. "Damn it, Randall!" she barked. "She's dead! Dead! Just like your last victim of renal failure!" "But I didn't do anything this time!" "That may be so, but..." Patricia frowned. She looked over the now cooling corpse of the patient before turning to the screen where two cans of kidney beans could be plainly seen. "Er...well..." "What?" She pursed her lips. "Yes, this is not as bad as your kidney speakers dilemma. But. We might find sometihng beneficial out of this." "Which is...?" Ran...

Mister Ramshackle Huxley had been in a coma for thirty-five years. Ramshackle, obviously, was not his first name, but he was given such a title for two reasons. First of all, no one remembered his actual name, and second of all, no one believed he looked any better than ramshackle. Therefore, when he collided with a brick wall during one of his drunken motorcycle rides, no one was surprised by the reason or the outcome.

It's almost Christmas. It's almost Christmas. It's almost Christmas. IT'S ALMOST FRIGGIN' CHRISTMAS. FORGET INTROSPECTION. I'M BEING FESTIVE.

"Caramel Kisses" is an unfinished novel I began to write back in 2009 and stopped working on in 2010. The two main characters - Adriana Maguire Reynard and Emma Burking - would ultimately be revised for my later completed novella, "The Liffey Is Half-Asleep," in 2011. Several elements of "Liffey" can be found in their original forms in "Caramel Kisses," such as the characters' names, the haiku scene, and Adriana's penchant for writing.  Because of its influence on my later writing, I figured that this story, though incomplete, was worth sharing. Caramel Kisses: Chapter Five by Belinda Roddie One night we decided to get Indian food. We drove up to Novato, that strange little suburb. Oh, how I had missed thee. The night before it had been take-home Chinese and we had eaten it in my cramped living room because I had been at your condo the week before, and while we were downing chow mein and Mongolian beef, we thought that maybe we coul...

If I were a car, I'd break down right in the middle of a wasteland, and I'd breathe oily fumes so strong that the nearest town could smell the toxins and feel it churning up the acids in their stomach. I'd have an owner who'd curse and scream and kick my tires a few times with a heavy leather boot, then throw a reception-less phone at the hills while scraping her pockets for a spare cigarette.

A Bronzed Peppermint Bowl by Belinda Roddie "A bronzed peppermint bowl," my grandma said when I asked what my Christmas gift was for, and I loved it. I never put any other candy besides peppermint in the beautiful vessel. My sister thought it was silly, but after our grandma died, the bowl became more sentimental than ever before. When I got older, and my daughter had children, they would come to visit me and hear my stories. Each time they sat down in the living room, I offered them a peppermint from the bowl. They always thanked me for the little treat, which, with the mem'ry of Grandma, was sweet.

"I'm a celebrity here? Why am I a celebrity here?" "They heard all about what you did to that one bitchy customer," Harriet replied with a smile, undoing the fraying knot that held her apron against the curved part of his back. "You know, the one who always cut in line and claimed the manager was an ugly dyke? She hasn't been back since. You're a hero now." "Huh." I pursed my lips. "Does that mean I get a hero's discount now every time I want a bowl of noodles?"