My Cardboard Balcony

Lots of Pockets by Belinda Roddie Here is a pack of cigarettes, and here is a dead lighter. This lottery ticket won me two dollars, and this one won me nothing. I wish these pockets were dusted with gold, lined with words of wisdom replacing the lint. Instead, there is mostly empty space. And heartache. And anger. And peace.

Was she supposed to be grateful, after all this time? Was she meant to thank him for the efforts he had made? The efforts, namely, to abandon her for the sake of bringing food to the table? What was an extra ham or gallon of ice cream compared to his holding her at night when she cried herself to sleep? Or his smile from behind a newspaper? Or the roughness of his hands as he caressed her cheeks on their wedding night?

That's My Closet, Brother by Belinda Roddie The clock's whiskers have spun like a whirlwind. I've nearly bitten my fingers off from the tension. You stand close enough to hear my heartbeat. There is no alcohol on your breath. Just skepticism, the staunch, pungent aroma of incredulity. In another hour, I will be off in my time machine, praying that perhaps the era I land in will treat me kinder. I am trying to wash the blood out of my cuticles. You do not understand how much you have frightened me. It's getting late - sleep awaits. The sting will leave your veins soon. It will be easier to drink the medicine I have offered you when you have settled your stomach a bit. It will dull the sharpened peaks of your mountainous teeth, behind which you hid your stash of verbal venom like questioning capsules of cyanide. But, in the end, they are only words. Though they are still honed enough to cut my already short hair. Aimed adequately enough to p...

"Wow," Alex murmured. "I never would have imagined this happening in a hundred years." Leslie shrugged and ran her fork around the edges of her plate. She knew that the chow mein she had bought at the food court was probably ice cold by now. Still, her appetite was almost nonexistent, and Alex was starting to look more and more imposing across from her at the table. "Maybe not," she said. "But I'm standing by it. I'm sorry."

A Formal Break-Up Letter by Belinda Roddie Dear Sir or Madam: We deeply regret to inform you that your mental state is deteriorating, and your "love" no longer needed. This decision was made after some months of deliberation, pertaining to various factors of efficiency, personal needs, and the weighing of risk factors in continuing a relationship that no longer benefits either party, no matter how misguided one party's opinion might be. What you should know: You are no longer deemed a good fit for the position, which may or may not remain vacant in the near future. There is a surplus of genuine inner passion that will easily surpass your skill set and work ethic. No longer do we require your imploring orations, "sincere" perspectives, or physical "prowess" when it comes to everything romance. This letter also dismisses the following: Pizza crumbs in the sofa that you refuse to clean; offhanded comments regarding our sister...

Was I in love with him? Hardly. He seemed to think I was, though. He'd primp himself in the rearview mirror of his car whenever I passed by the driver's side on my way home from work. One time, when he was chatting me up at the counter, I could smell the cologne seeping from the sweaty folds of his jacket. And even when I wasn't looking, I could tell he was leering. He may have been into me, but I was far, far from being into him.

"Are you hurt?" Lesley asked. "Anything broken?" "Nah," grunted Shane as she pushed herself to her feet. "Well, one thing. My dignity. But it was already cracked to begin with." Lesley patted Shane on the back in a half-hearted display of sympathy, but the scores would do more than she did to lighten Shane's mood. Despite her tumble during the game, she had gotten second place in terms of sportsmanship and skill. Only Gordon had topped her.