My Cardboard Balcony

Another Coffee by Belinda Roddie Another coffee for my weary friend here, please. She can't keep her eyes open long enough to look at me, or comprehend the words I'm speaking. Make it extra strong, pure black. Spoon it into her mouth if you have to. I worry for her. She spends all her time at work, or cleaning up after her lazy husband and two children. Call in for some energy shots if the joe doesn't work properly. How exhausted she is! How she can't just enjoy the day without yearning for sleep in a cold bed, or freedom. Maybe I'll send her to France to wake her and give her a second chance.

'Tis a pity, really, to bury the king. A king that was burly and bearded and strong. A king that could part the oceans with his naval fleets. A king who used his scepter to break open skulls. The skulls of his enemies. The skulls of his friends. The jawbones of women and children. Come to think of it, this king sounds like a right bastard. You know what...f*** him. Bury him. Bury him and make sure no one can dig him up in case he's possibly still alive.

Bees? by Belinda Roddie Honey dredged from the bottom of a dead queen's hive is not easy to digest on angry summer nights.

The essay looked as if it had been hastily thrown together, and I could tell. From the random Wikipedia segments to the occasional blue links to barely readable "literature" sites, the paper was nothing short of a catastrophe. I was ready to draw a fat red D onto the sheet when Leslie walked into the room. "So," she said, short of breath, "I was thinking...bowling for my birthday?"

Wailing of the Walls by Belinda Roddie The patchwork girl, she sits and spins the cobwebs in the corners. Dust is dust, and tiny legs leave tiny prints across the wood, as rotten as an overly ripe fruit. Not even the termites will find a hearty meal in the cellar tonight. Your hair splits both ways, gray as Zeus's lightning. It's lost its luster; he is old now, and tired. Even his beard has lost its static beauty. The broken clock you left behind is wet with loose wine. Earthquakes have depleted your supply of happiness. Stale pills are not a good substitute in the dark. The bottle's dry. The hearth has burnt out. There is no warmth. There is only the distant keening of widows in black shawls, trapped between the splinters of your walls. Frayed postcards. Rusted souvenirs. Going, going, gone.

"To call you my accomplice," I grumbled as I pressed my back against the door of the prison cell, "would be too complimentary. Moronic minion? Maybe. Doofus drone? Even better. But definitely not accomplice. That implies actual success." "You keep insulting me, miss," grumbled Chuck from the corner, "and you're not getting anything from this bowl of gruel tonight. Or the pisswater, for that matter."

The Rich Man's Delusion by Belinda Roddie My pewter house is melting in the volcanic inferno. I have sacrificed my sons for sanctity. If this is the end, pluck the rings from my swollen thumbs and sell them to the highest bidders. Not because I have any kin to bequeath them to, but because I have a delicate reputation to uphold.