My Cardboard Balcony

The Land Was Dry by Belinda Roddie The land was dry as she walked; not a drop of rain had fallen there for thirty years. The earth had once been fertile but had lost its moisture, as the sun had scorched and seared it. No food grew now, and hundreds, if not thousands, of people had left the small town in search of wetter, greener lands. The spot where her parents had met was dead and brown, the grass no longer sprouting, the flowers no longer blooming. She found the old home where almost every memory of hers from childhood had taken place. Now she'd roam on to the next town, still seeking to quench her thirst, her trauma, and nature's vengeance.

"I used to have a pet turtle," said Timmy, "but he died. So now I have a hamster." "Quite a change, huh?" asked his teacher. Mister Hammerstein. Timmy shrugged, chewing on a wad of peanut butter and banana. "I like both. One day, though, I want a snake. One that'll wrap around my shoulders like a big, squirmy scarf. And I could look all cool and scary, and maybe the grown-ups would respect me a little bit more."

The Girl With The Green Hat by Belinda Roddie I found you at the food court when I wanted someone to talk to, and you were wearing a bowler as green as spring with a silver-topped cane at your hip. You offered to share your kung pao chicken because I didn't have the money for my own meager sampling. I declined, but then you bought me a pizza pretzel, and that was awfully nice. There was something about the way you made jokes about the mannequins, mocked the window displays, and found glamor in the cheapest and wackiest of the clothes on the clearance rack. You made the hand-me-down jeans and jacket I was wearing seem like something out of a fashion show, and you never stopped smiling beneath the brim of your hat.

NO SMOKING, the sign said, until I tore it down and lit my pipe aggressively, the smoke thrashing like an angry third arm across my shoulders. When a waiter stormed over to demand I put the thing out, I threw my bad beer in his face, jostled on my coat, and sauntered outside, pipe still puffing like a chimney. The tobacco was sweet, and the smell clung to my curls and made them feel sticky against my jawline. I felt like myself again.

Ten Minutes by Belinda Roddie Ten minutes before the clock's face breaks and leaves scars everywhere. Ten minutes before the eclipse swallows the moon whole in despair. There's enough time wasted with silly notions that there's immortality for us. It's a lie, we'll die, we'll leave nothing behind. Ten minutes before I self-destruct.

His chin was coarse with stubble, the bags below his eyes sticky with syrup-like sweat. He stood over the counter with a crooked leg and a hunched back, slowly drinking from the nearly empty beer can and slurping with every sip. I had not seen my father for over ten years, and I could tell how broken he was. Still, I pulled up a stool, waved for the bartender, and said to him gruffly, "How's it going?"

Give Me A Break by Belinda Roddie My head is a fucking whirlwind, all dust and dirt and shrapnel, the debris of a past life swirling fast and getting hotter and hotter with time. The seas are bubbling over, the cauldron thick with brew. All artificial, too. And it clogs my every pore, and it makes it too difficult to think, or smile, or laugh, or breathe. And I'm absolutely tired of it. Let me live a life without fear. Let me straddle the South Pole as the ice collapses without another panic attack. This, I swear, I wish for: a day in which I do not pace, or fret, or steam, or sweat, or scream inwardly for a minute of calm. While the missiles are at the ready. While the dollar becomes just paper. While paper burns the nearest forest down. While I cling to what I believe is little hope and watch my last bit of sanity be stripped from me like the last of the gold from a sunset - dripping fear, icing anxiety to my brow while the temperature is rising, and...