My Cardboard Balcony

My Hands Are Cold by Belinda Roddie My hands are cold despite the summer heat, and I cannot find someone to warm them, to kiss them when they tremble, to rub them dry when a humid rain has soaked them through. My fingers usually are numb, so I can't feel much when I hold things or brush the surfaces of things. When I touched your face for the first time, I thought at last I knew what warmth was like. I thought that color would flood into my palms, reddening my skin and making me as sanguine as a child, hot and giggly and sweltering in June. Alas, you left me even colder still. Not even scorchers take away the chill.

You begin to falter in your orations, your ankles shaking beneath your bold, black boots. The crowds are waiting, fists still raised. They're waiting to chant your name. But to do that, they must hear of the Great Truth. And what is the Great Truth? That you control the seas like Poseidon with his trident. And your New Order shall form an empire that will not sink like Atlantis. But you are realizing, with the microphone squeaking from your hesitant breaths, that the tide is already pulling you and your regime in.

Cereal Musician by Belinda Roddie They'll catch you in the corner, halfway through a bowl of Captain Crunch, mid-chew. They'll ask you to write a song to rival the crooning of the sirens caught in salt storms. You'll pluck a tune from a guitar as sleek as a gutted fish, and yet they'll growl at the fact that there is no "powerful message" gurgling from the frothy pit of your time signature. But words that overpower music are worth no more than an old man's rant, a tired sailor who foams with condescension, and whom no one wants to listen to anymore.

There was a subtle shade of elegance to Maxi's attire, from the ruby brooch below her ascot to the wine-hued suit jacket. She did not drink any wine, instead resolving to focus on the small hard liquor table instead. I watched as she poured herself yet another glass of gin, the smell of juniper masking any other aromas of food or drink nearby.

No Trouble by Belinda Roddie I can squeeze you into my schedule no problem - your name in between the baseball game at six PM and the existential crisis at twelve AM. I've got obligations, sure, but a stranger with lime and juniper on his breath can sway me just fine when my mind's not pulsing like the hurricane tide, Hawaiian sands bristling beneath my disturbed skin. I'll take you in, and after the screaming's done, I'll be sure to give you a good time.

"How many stitches did you get?" I showed him the lower side of my jaw. "Three," I said. "You?" He shook his head. "I got off easy." His hand was trembling against my arm. He was looking out the window, his legs propped haphazardly against the stool that served as his ottoman. "Do you think Amy will be okay?" I wasn't sure what to tell him. She had been cut up badly, and if nothing else, she would be scarred permanently.

The Freest by Belinda Roddie Three children bounce up and down happily in the bus seats, blue cushions and red faces, big smiles and small fingers, groping at the cords that signal for the next requested stop. Their mother is tired, frustrated. She grips the stroller with whitened knuckles, looking out the window once in a while to see if they are any closer - any closer - to seeing the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Or, more accurately, a pot of something savory on the edge of a hot stove. One of the children, with dark curls and bright eyes, screams, "Monkey! Monkey!" over and over again, and perhaps I should be annoyed, but instead, I smile as I prop my poetry journal against my knee, remembering the time when I was their age and had no filter. I said words, words, words, what was on my mind, in an endless stream of youthful consciousness, all excitement when it came to the world around me, without worrying that someone, in the corn...