My Cardboard Balcony

A Poem's Symmetry by Belinda Roddie I am made of the bubbles floating from children's bottles, the soapy essence of laughter and lightness, my frame as crisp and airy as an autumn leaf fighting fruitlessly to travel in a straight line. I move in curves - no corners, no edges, no beginnings and no ends, the shape of the world and the density of a book's page, still fluttering beneath a weight of words. It is easy to get lost in language, but if you fit your dreams neatly into a balloon, or a beach ball, or simply a bubble - whether or not you can tie a string to them and carry them with you - you are lifted into a different dimension, given new laws of gravity. The text becomes the tail of a kite, and you are listless, reckless, and free.

"Impressive sweep," remarked the coach as the team sat down for beer and pizza. "I certainly didn't expect all of you to step up so high. Granted, I know how good you are, but...four games won with high scores against the same team ain't nothing to sneeze at." I rolled my eyes and drank deeply from my pint. Coach Keaton always had a hard time dealing with the fact that running a girls' team didn't mean extra coddling was involved. I flexed my bicep at my teammate, and she grinned a goofy grin.

My so-called worldly views are few, my scope narrow and limited. There is only so much light I can see at the end of the tunnel. And what I do see is hazy and scattered - overly filtered by the pretense of hope we inundate our clotted brains with. Do not give me credit for things I do not know, not even when I seem to understand them at first glance.

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 ...