My Cardboard Balcony

In Inverness by Belinda Roddie In Inverness, I drank beside a Scot who voted for his land's independence. It all seemed grim, as we watched each ballot counted. Being foreign, I rode the fence about the issue, admitting the fact that I had too little knowledge to weigh in. I told the man this, attempting tact, and he just sighed and hummed, scratching the gray parts of his beard. "You know, lass," he then said, "I've dreamed for years of Scotland being freed from Britain's brazen chokehold. I have read the writing on the wall - change is our creed." He drank his pint, adding, "If all the 'ayes' aren't worth the 'nays,' at least an old Scot tries."

"You're going to be an aunt," I told my sister, my face flush with excitement, one hand pressed against the belly of my wife who stood beside me. My sister blinked, sat down, and picked up a mug to sip from. When realizing the mug was empty, she exhaled - slowly. Very, very slowly. Then, when there had been silence among us for a good ten or so seconds, she finally spoke. "Forgive me," she said with a small smile. "I'm just a little disoriented."

Frayed Wires by Belinda Roddie Don't tinker with the circuitry that holds my sepulcher together and keeps it lit on cold, Midwestern nights. Flip the switch, and the mummified remains of my previous identity glow with flecks of gold and silver. One last ditch effort to glorify my lackluster past, my half- hearted smile still glued to my skull beneath the folds of electrical tape.

The old oak by the school was where they kissed for the first time. When her finger lingered on a loose button, tugging at the threads, wondering if, mid-smooch, something would change or be taken back. Words, pledges, feelings - they all felt so fragile even beside something as sturdy as that tree, which had been around for as long as she remembered.

I glanced at the book with a bushy frown, scratching at the scarred side of my face. This couldn't be right. The cover, the book jacket, the pages - this couldn't be my book. My book, which was filled to the brim with all the gritty, grungy detail of any abused spouse - my national story taking flight. And the cover was nothing like the design I had requested. It was gaudy. It was tawdry. It was despicable.

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.