My Cardboard Balcony

Stricken by Belinda Roddie Fear's paralysis almost feels like pins and needles - insects crawling up and down your arms, the stabbing sensation of little legs scratching against your feeble fibers, eager to erase all sense of stability from you, as you claw at the epidermis and sob when the sores begin to form. You are sick. You are stricken. And yet the doctors find nothing wrong with you. Your head spins, but it's only the world turning. Your mouth is dry, but only because your tongue is a natural desert. Your mind is fading, but only because it is a magician, and its disappearing act is slow, and you allegedly have enough time to grab its cape before it vanishes entirely. Your mind is fading, and no one else can tell you why. Why it wants to sabotage you. Why it wants to be set free.

I would have been absolutely delighted to attend the wedding, had it not been for the fact that I hadn't even been invited. It certainly didn't help the matter that this was my best friend's wedding, and it was her father - a corncob pipe-smoking, cowboy hat-wearing, silver-bearded narcissist from the Bible Belt - who was barring me from ever sitting by the aisle, let alone being a part of the wedding party. "He's just jealous that you have a better relationship with your wife than he has with his," my other friend Jack tried to joke. And I tried to smile. But it hurt too much.

Hard To Swallow by Belinda Roddie Sometimes, when I speak my mind, I see whiskey spread like artificial stubble across your lips. The dragon awakens in your gut, and when it screams to be let out of its cage, you simply drown it in more high-proof denial. Your feeble attempt to disregard the truth I stain your uneasy mind with is just that - feeble, the cloth of ignorance tearing, enough to let the light seep through. Yes, I know this is hard to swallow. And yes, I know that my language is hot enough to make even the calmest man squirm. When the talons emerge, I can tell that you want to hide from my swoop to catch you, devour you, regurgitate you into a more tolerable form. But there are no windows to climb through, and the doors are locked. And when you finish the last of your bottle, all hope knotted like a cherry stem against your tongue, you murmur, "I don't feel well." And you shouldn't. "I'm scared." And you shoul...

"You looked frazzled, babe," Annie's boyfriend cooed as he attempted to drape his arm around his exasperated dame's shoulder. "Need to head home?" "No!" snapped Annie. "I just want you to give me some goddamn space!" And with that, she knocked back a doubleshot of whiskey and maneuvered to the corner, where her friends Tammy and Grace were sitting surrounded by green bottles.

My earrings? Oh, they weren't much, really. Just an old heirloom from a dear, dear relative of mine. Quite the socialite. Couldn't live without even the cheapest of costume jewelry. She left these for me, and only these. Her brother got everything else. It just so happens that he happens to be on his deathbed. And I, for one, would prefer to see bequeathed to me a little more than just fair diamonds in my lobes...

by Belinda Roddie Goodbye, friends. I am off to the world of lullabies and dreamscapes. I am taking up an oar and rowing across the Styx where it connects to the Aegean Sea. I will take a trident to the Kraken before washing ashore onto an island where cows are revered as gods and birds carry messages from forgotten kings. And I will maintain a throne made out of coconuts, because it just seems appropriate given the climate of the area. Some say that there is a dwarf in the fields who will give you gold if you sing him your favorite song. Then you dance, and he grows displeased. He exchanges your gold for silver due to your audacity. And yet silver is what buys you a house and helps you raise a family. Only your children are not human, but mutations of something far, far more beautiful. They are mythological entities. They are Chimaeras. They breathe fire to heat up the pot where you boil their macaroni and cheese. And sometimes, I will see you there. I will find you petting oxen...

She wore a violet scarf, while her wife donned a violet neckties, and the violets crowning the tombstone were beautiful. They knew that the color, the flower - they were important to their daughter. They remembered that the dress she was buried in was violet. The jewelry, too. And her own daughter, their granddaughter, was already being drawn to purple, to the last beautiful color of the rainbow over their heads.