My Cardboard Balcony

A Plate of Cheese by Belinda Roddie A plate of cheese was what I had for lunch before savoring wine from a tall glass. My friends had abandoned me for some brunch at the local café, so I was left to fend for myself, raiding the worn down refrigerator for leftover Swiss, scraps of cheddar, dill jack, and other chunks of dairy delicacy. I cleaned up the platter quite nicely, using a fork to bring the last crumbs to my trembling lips, and when at last the deed was done, I flopped onto the couch and slept for a good hour or two. When my friends returned, they wondered why all the cheese was gone. "All mine," I purred.

"Well, I have to say, Mitch," my boss remarked, "I am impressed. You've certainly come a long way in your work since we first hired you." I smiled. Every step I had taken forward was indeed intentional. I wanted to succeed, and I wanted to get kudos. However, I could feel my grin melt from my face as my boss continued. "However," she added, "we still feel as if it would be best if you relocated to a different department."

The Creativity of Childhood by Belinda Roddie We built our own mini-Stonehenge in our eucalyptus-littered backyard, each stone a mark of mystery that only we knew the solution to. We ate roast beef sandwiches with peanut butter, making bets as to who would retch first, or who would beat the other to the sink to spit out a gooey mouthful. If we could both finish, we treated ourselves to the ice cream bars that my father thought he was good at hiding from us. And when it got close to bedtime, we told each other stories in order to stay awake for as long as possible, so we could make as many wishes as we could think of on the rare shooting stars that left cosmic paint on the canvas of the endless sky. Above our heads were the mysteries that we only dreamed of knowing the solutions to. We wanted to be druids, chefs, and astronauts. Building, creating, and exploring all at once, the terrain sculpted from our own idiosyncrasies, a smudge of each of us remaining...

The ship was sinking, but I still stood by the bow, the wheel warm against my hands. My first mate screamed out to me, waving her arms frantically - I could see her from the edge of my peripheral vision. But the longboats were filled to the brim, and there was no room for me to board without casting others of my crew aside. I was not changing my mind. I was going down with my lady. "That a girl," I whispered. "Let's explore the deepest level of the sea together."

Our Last August Picnic by Belinda Roddie Pretty dame, serve me up a hefty slice of that summertime butterfly pie. It warms me up good, so when I smile, my teeth are sunset gold, the molars capped with a residual, yellow pollen glow. There's enough blue in the sky to turn the sea into sapphire. There's a breeze soft enough to fluff my hair like a pillow. Carefree swimming pool days are finally leaving, but I won't cry in autumn as long as you're still with me. Pretty dame, serve me up a glass of wine to go with that summertime butterfly pie. I am aching with nostalgia, but I'll do just fine with your arm around my shoulder and your hip against my thigh, guzzling sunlight before the season dies.

The dry terrain was unwelcoming to the soles of my boots, parched earth scraping against the once pristine leather. It had not rained in this area for over ten years. All of the water that the handful of residents used, by this point, was recycled. However, it did mean that the land's once beautiful grassy landscapes were, for now, perpetually brown and lifeless.

A gust of wind pressed against my shoulders like a puff of hot breath, and I actually spun around to see if anyone was behind me. No one. The city had never felt so empty. I knew that most likely, everyone was staying indoors because of the sweltering heat. Not me. I found enjoyment in walking beneath the heavy sun, the sweat cooling off my face as it leaked from beneath the rim of my sunglasses and dripped down the bridge of my nose.