My Cardboard Balcony

Morris by Belinda Roddie Once, I found a boy half-naked, half-drowned, beside the schoolyard where the rain welled up around his toes, puddles on the swing set and muddy cascades down the slide. He said his name was Morris, but it was not his birth name. Just the name he stamped on his arm himself in purple classroom ink. He accepted shoes from me but not a shirt. When I told him he could stop by for something hot to eat or drink, he replied by walking in the opposite direction, sloshing water in his new boots, his jeans stained with grass newly wet from the storm. I never saw him again, and I wondered if a lightning bolt had struck him near the train station, and instead of falling, he dissolved into light shooting back up toward the clouds.

She had gold in her teeth. Flakes stuck between her molars, dust coating the harsh enamel that had begun to yellow throughout the years. She wore no crowns, but it was as if her mouth was a living, breathing mine, with ore gleaming from her tongue instead of bacteria or germs. Maya stepped away from her cautiously, staring at the glow emitting from her mouth. "What?" she asked, as if the metal did not slur her speech.

The Best Part by Belinda Roddie She says the best part of a chocolate chip cookie is the texture you chew when it's hot from the oven, and the best part of falling asleep is the temporary notion that nothing will harm you as you succumb to your dreams.

The local veterans' fund was running dry, and former Lieutenant Colonel Hilary Bryson was more than displeased. She waited outside the office of Congressman Jonathan Brown, expecting a very deliberate and very determined discussion with him. "Congressman Brown has had to step out for some time," a worker told Bryson, and her nostrils flared.

Flesh Wound by Belinda Roddie I swung back with my father's sword, trying to slash the sinew in his exposed forearm, waiting for the opposing blade to clatter in a cacophonous defeat on the concrete. I barely scratched him, yet somehow he recoiled, as if he had never felt pain before, let alone pain dealt to him by a warrior's daughter. As he ran, I thought I saw his eyes well up. Men do not handle rivalry on the battlefield very well.

How long do feelings have to be repressed before they explode outward in a perfect nova of color, before settling into the dusty white dwarf it was meant to become, when you're no longer crying about cuddling in a bed with someone who has lips as soft as yours without stubble on a chiseled jawline? And how long do they expect you to relax after just a hole has been drilled into your chest, so that all of your truths ooze out in a sickly golden oil for them to bottle up or stain their boots with as they attempt to stomp away your honesty?

"You don't have to be so goddamn selective," frowned Harold as Teresa continued to peruse the shelf. "Just pick a book and be done with it." "And that is why you haven't gone anywhere in life," Teresa sassed back. "A book isn't like a candy bar or a tee shirt. I can't just pick up any old book. I have to find one I like." "Make sure it has tits in it!" replied Harold. "Then everyone's happy!"