My Cardboard Balcony

A Boombox And A Bicycle by Belinda Roddie Four men lit up, swirling smoke around icicle lights, beside a gas station beside the nearest overpass, while one of them carried a boombox against his shoulder, and a bicycle lay propped, undecorated and uncelebrated, on the pavement next to a Yield sign. Elsewhere, a hotel's Christmas tree glowed in its window, with a wreath haphazardly suspended on a close car's front bumper, twinkling holly and poinsettia as the driver coaxed the festive but fatigued vehicle to life. The fast food chains were still hopping, while I, full with roast and starch, headed back to the apartment where the colors waited to be re-ignited, and gifts waited to be put into their proper places. Somehow, I felt restless, yet simultaneously, in a twisting coil of conflict wrapped in tinsel, I was also in a weird, comforting state of peace.

Guess it makes sense not to have a OneWord on this day. Merry Christmas, everyone.

Sugar Cookies by Belinda Roddie We made sugar cookies for the landlord - and the neighbors and the store owners, and the lonely old man who lived three blocks down and wore three snakes on his shoulders, which complemented his straw hat - and we saved a few for ourselves, spreading crumbs beneath the holly, the red light kissing the water from our window, where sleigh bells could be faintly heard.

"I'm going to the concert, but I have to do some shopping beforehand." "For what?" "Oh, you know." She waved her hand dismissively. "Bare essentials for the refrigerator. Milk, eggs, bread, butter..." "Get the Irish butter," I encouraged her. "It's perfect for the holidays." "And smell like a leprechaun for the Gay Men's Choir? Beautiful." "Hey," I said with a smile, "means there's a pot of gold at the end of their rainbow."

Holiday Headache by Belinda Roddie It's how many days to what?! Get me another beer.

Everything sort of leveled out after the argument at the table. I'm not sure if the calm had more to do with the wordless reconciliation or with the large jug of whiskey that my sister lugged out for us to drink. She mixed my glass with apple juice and cinnamon, and it was mellow and it didn't kick at my stomach, so I enjoyed it more than drinking whiskey straight. Somehow, the Christmas tree felt friendlier than the family.

"Quest?" The Harbinger cocked his head to the left side, his hand slightly shaking where it gripped the handle of his tankard. "I have been on a great many quests, Mister Barkelee. But none of which have proven to be any more than futile. You see, the word quest seems more appropriate for those people who continually struggle to find something fruitful for the end of their days. That is why the word adventure seems far nicer."