My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "I always told you not to take phone calls when you didn't know who it was coming from." "Uh-huh." "But noooooo. You just had to pick up the phone anyway." "Uh-huh." "Twice." "Yep." " For the same number." "Dude, chill. It's not like he was a Nigerian prince." " He was a scammer!" "Yeah, and it was fucking hilarious." "John." "I mean, c'mon, man! It was like he forgot he called me the first time! 'Excuse me, sir, did you know that there is a virus in your Windows?'" "Yeah, and you made the same joke to him, too. Both times." "He didn't seem to get it, though." "How in the world do you think that's fun?" "Because I love making people squirm! You know that, Aaron!" "Oh, I do. All too well." "I think if t...

When Grandpa got the call from my father that he would be visiting in the next few days, he was furious. I could tell even though he kept his voice level, simply by how he aggressively stirred his coffee and how his hands shook when he clutched the mug. I tried to ask him about it - whether or not we could just tell my dad to stay away, especially after what he had done to my mom - but he refused to respond to any of my questions. So I left him alone, until the day came.

Is it bad that, essentially, tonight's introspection echoes that of last week's introspection? I don't happen to think so. Ergo, I have nothing else to add. G'night!

Dream Sequence by Belinda Roddie It seems to happen the same way every night – the moment your cheeks begin to tingle on the pillow, and the air that stirs in your lungs melts away and becomes helium, and your feet feel like two balloons with the static buzzing and crackling on your dry skin. Floating, unable to run, unable to stop the flurry of pins and needles stabbing at your ripe calves. A 101 degree temperature that fuses the sheets together in a sticky kiss and turns sights, sounds, smells, and tastes all into colors. You smoke green and you see red, and you watch the world go yellow.Your veins stain orange while your lips turn blue, and you taste peach and nectarine, light and frothy, and you’re floating again. When a man closes a brown suitcase, it congeals, turns gooey, like a chocolate truffle with a foamy handle. Gray becomes coffee cup steam. Black is a misnomer. Egg white is not white. A lump of gold is a slab of butter. Silver eyes ...

"Well, at least no one stole the TV," remarked Hal as we surveyed the damage, from the broken window to the missing silverware. Still, his brother Alan was not pleased. "They took the damn china!" he snarled. "The china! That was a gift from our grandparents, Hal! How can you be cool about this?" "I'm not cool about anything," snapped Hal. "I'm just saying, at least they didn't take everything. And the dog's safe, too! I have to remain optimistic, or else I'll crack just like you are!"

My Father's Mustache by Belinda Roddie My father's mustache drooped over his lip, a shaggy mop of sadness covering his quiv'ring mouth. Silent, he dared not slip a word of sorrow to us, lest he bring a shade of worry across the faces of his children. However, I knew that his days within his study, hardly dressed, were indicative of an inner spat between his mind and his heart. Such a mood was not contagious to me, but it did spur me to spend time with him. Though he'd brood, I'd hold his hand and cope with it. I hid all my pains from him - it was the most I could do for my father, who'd never cry.

If I stay, will you hold me closer instead of backing away? Will you let my share your drink, spare a sip of your straw, instead of pour half into a distant vessel? Will you tell me that my eyes are beautiful today - crystal clear, free of tears, bright enough to send the room spinning in a rainbow - rather than looking down, averting your gaze, wondering when the monster will force me out again?