My Cardboard Balcony

The Tree Stopped Growing by Belinda Roddie The tree stopped growing in the middle of the square, and it stayed as a short, stout sprig of what it could have been. Still, the town loved its presence. They called it the Dwarf, and big trees did not receive such fair attention. One day, a child took a piece of its bark, and it was rough and thin within her hand. She dug a hole and buried it, a spark of hope lighting her eyes. She thought a small tree would grow just like the Dwarf, and yet no twig sprouted from the dirt. Her family all pitched in to find a little tree just so their little girl could have her own short, stout tree, which she simply couldn't live without.

People do hateful things for the sake of their "values." They spit on those they deem immortal because they feel it is what God expects of them. As if he keeps a long, typewritten list and gestures at a name to scourge. They kick down those who fall hard because they believe the fall is not long or hard enough. They believe they are the judges of suffering. Their shoulders are heavy due to their own fool's scales.

So by Belinda Roddie She wanted to be a critic, so she lambasted everyone and everything she loved. So she lost all of her friends in the process because they thought negativity was the worst lens to see the world through. So she began to criticize them more and claimed that she saw things realistically. So she got a job as a critic, so she was known for nitpicking everything that people usually praised, so they didn't take her reviews seriously. So she got belligerent. So she started drinking. So she hiccuped her cynical ballad as she fell asleep outside her apartment with the key half-extended from her blistered fingers. So the landlord kicked her out. So she wandered. So she scathed. So she dug herself a hole beside the railroad tracks and stayed there, so she could curse the world for being unkind to her cracked lens.

When my mom told me I wasn't being active enough, I countered with a morning sprint with zombies roaring in my earphones. When she told me I needed to cool down once in a while, I literally dunked my head under running water in the sink. I always liked to mess with my mom like that - since she never seemed satisfied with my state of mind or lack of equilibrium, I took her advice as literally as possible. Needless to say, she liked talking more to my husband than to me after a while.

For God's Sake by Belinda Roddie Don't rub hot oil on my head and act surprised when there are blisters beneath my hair. We used to play nicely on the swing set of a lost Babylon playground, the stones piled in poor men's monuments, and epitaphs' words tied together with driftwood. Now you find a snide enjoyment in the bruises festering on my forearms - the rich man partaking in the struggle of the artist, the theist seeking solace in the weeping of a surviving skeptic. You can discover new ways to pinch me to remind me that I'm not dreaming, and you can easily send snakes on me praying that I'll eagerly suck the venom from their fangs through a straw. But for God's sake, don't play the role of messenger when the scrolls you carry are stamped with sharp brimstone. The devil is in the fine print - you just didn't read it thoroughly enough before you signed it.

I was more than grateful for the company as I sat in the waiting room, impatiently awaiting the end of the operation. Wesley had brought a bag of cheese puffs for me to snack on, while Tara tried getting me interested in the ridiculous celebrity magazines that littered the adjacent coffee tables. "She'll be fine," she assured me just as the doctor walked toward me. "People get these surgeries all the time."

Too Much Nail Polish by Belinda Roddie My girlfriend bought too much nail polish, and many more vials slipped into our mail. Reds, greens, violets, teals, glittery to glam to shy to sultry. A match for an evening gown, a tone for an afternoon in the park. Mimosa brunch shades and midnight walk hues and just enough bloom for the fingers during every seasonal episode of madness. She says she doesn't have a problem, and maybe she's right. For now, I await the day she goes ballistic and smothers her cuticles in one great big, gut-spewing rainbow.