My Cardboard Balcony

The Ice Is Thin by Belinda Roddie The ice is thin, and puddles slosh around my boots as I trek up the steep mountain, observing how the frost has turned to mush and glaciers have shrunk drastically. I can no longer feel the summer on my face, but still, the heat is ling'ring from my hike, the sweat rolling from my brow in large beads and soaking my jacket. I draw a map in the sad dirt to detail my journey, emphasizing the recession of chill so early in the year. They say I should retain hope, but it's getting difficult to cling to it. Will my grandchildren know what it's like to frolic in fields of snow?

Olivia had a copy of "Starry Night" etched onto the back of her jacket, and it almost made the fabric spring to life. I couldn't stop looking at it. When she hung it on the back of her chair, I was tempted to touch the textures, even though I knew it wasn't the real painting and I knew that Van Gogh probably would have been a bit confused by his artwork being stitched onto clothing.

Besieged Ex-Lover by Belinda Roddie By launching the grenade, you've exposed your right arm mid-hurl. The tattoo of amber eyes glaring from your lopsided elbow is haunting me from a distance. I cannot shield my sanity in a no man's land, all my words shredded by imagined barbed wire. You are too close for comfort, yet too far to touch. Your chest heaves beneath your shirt. There's a tattoo there, too, of something far more daunting. Verse. Scripture. Distorted sainthood with a halo built from briar. I kissed you once. You nearly bit my tongue off. I wait for the patrol to stomp me out. I wait for the barber to shave my head again for my sins. My scalp is painted violet - even the blind witness my defiance. And yet I refuse to take it all back. And you will have to live with that.

“You two make a really good couple,” the old lady said to me and my fiancée, and my spirits were instantly lifted. I found myself enjoying my hot chocolate more, walking with a larger skip in my step, and feeling the dimples in my cheeks stretch as my smile became more natural than forced. My fiancée definitely noticed. “You are just glowing,” she remarked, squeezing my hand and kissing me on the cheek. But I was more than just glowing. I was radiant

Like A Chimney by Belinda Roddie Yes, sir. No, sir. I told you so, sir. There he sits, sticking two cigars up his nose, sir. One in each nostril, that ossified fossil lights up like a smoke stack, clouded like a cataract. Wore a cap today, sir. Don't have cash to pay, sir. He won't hand a penny over 'til he's dead and gray, sir. I'd prefer a chimney to the pleasure of his company. He'll be burned to ash one night, but we'll just have to wait and see.

He claimed that my arguments were unfounded, but I pressed on, I packed two suitcases. I grabbed my keys. I drove the truck all the way to the nearest hotel, which was, on a quarter tank of gas, an impressive feat - the closest stop to rest was a good fifty or so miles away from our very, very remote cottage. I checked into a shabby room. I turned on the TV. Most importantly, I ignored any and all calls from him, setting my phone to silent.

Addict by Belinda Roddie Reluctant intoxication leads to damp sheets, crazed dreams, the bridge to nowhere rotting as soon as you set your foot into the ether, the vapors rising around you, changing the color of your hair. The bottle grows hot in your hand, the music hostile, aggressive, each note a fist sinking into your soft abdomen, bending you over like a plastic straw, sadly drooping from its half-melted glass. But she hoists you up as you begin to fall, kisses you ten times, four on each cheek, two on your lips. The math is difficult in your addled brain, the air rough against your teeth. She sets about undressing you, cleansing you, carrying you to bed, as the fumes of the night's temptations wear away, and you hope that tomorrow, you won't be so drawn to the drink.