My Cardboard Balcony

We Write Down Our Dreams by Belinda Roddie We write down our dreams over pecan pie, the diner lights dimming above our heads, signaling that it's time to say goodbye and return to the comfort of our beds. But we don't go to sleep. We tuck our pens behind our ears, we slam our journals shut, and we jump in your old Mercedes Benz and drive until we see no others but the occasional truck skimming the road, where trees grow taller than the skyscrapers. We keep jotting down dreams, the heavy code of fantasy, while the car engine purrs a lullaby. We try to comprehend our minds' worlds, where we're foreign residents.

Iris was on the opposite side of the crosswalk, fiddling with the small pin that glinted on the left side of her shirt collar. She waited for me to walk hurriedly toward her, avoiding a few pedestrians and one jerkwad behind the wheel of a semi who didn't bother to read the Yield sign. When I got to her, I could see the worry pooling in her eyes. "It's okay," I whispered, pulling her into my arms without hesitation. "I'm here. Everything's going to be fine."

Leslie Rage by Belinda Roddie The two men guzzled two pitchers, each, and tried to fill their stomachs with a liquid courage strong enough to put fire behind their eyes. Instead, said eyes would be ringed with black and blue halos as Leslie Rage knocked down both of them with her fists and a broken pool cue from the nearest wall. When the thugs were good and bruised, bleating like sad sheep in a storm, Rage asked for her own jug of ale, downing it as if she were dehydrated from a long bout at the boxing ring. Then, giggling in between belches, she said, "So long, boys. Until the next romp," adjusting the collar of her jacket as she walked out of the bar with silver glinting from her dead father's leather boots.

"I made some alterations to the suit," the tailor said quietly before handing the gentleman the loaded hanger. "Some tucking in, some stitching. It should fit much better now." The gentleman smiled, cleared his throat, and handed the suit to his daughter, who was beaming. "Thanks," he told the tailor. "We're both really looking forward the wedding, obviously. Now she's going to look like one fantastic bride."

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...