My Cardboard Balcony

The Customer by Belinda Roddie The customer wanted a block of cheese, a loaf of bread, and some cider for a rather modest gathering. She wore green shorts, a blue T-shirt, and some tattered gray sneakers, as if she had gone out jogging. When she went up to pay, her face went red, the once bright light in her eyes now fogging up. "I don't have enough money," she said. "I should've known. My ex-wife took me for all that I had." An older man replied, "I'll pay for it. Don't worry anymore, and don't give me a cent back." As she cried, the woman thanked the stranger profusely, as faith was restored in humanity.

"Looks like you could use a trainer," Vanessa commented to the man in the corner, struggling to lift a twenty-pound dumbbell. "Screw off," the man grumbled, his scrawny arm visibly shaking as he tried to lift the weight. Vanessa reached over and took it away from him. "You don't have to be embarrassed. I once didn't have biceps, either." She readjusted the sleeves of her gym shirt and beckoned him to a set of dumbbells. "C'mon. I'll start you off easy."

And Honey by Belinda Roddie You drink milk from a stream to the east of a warmer, starrier night. It is sweet and filling. You do not hunger for wheat.

Violet had wrapped herself up in the blanket as if it were a cocoon, and I could do was lift her up like a bundle and carry her to bed. She was fast asleep before I even placed her on top of the mattress. When I went back to my room, I did my best to clean up everything. Plastic bags were everywhere, and I kept my hands under cold water for a good half hour. It took ages to finally rub the rusty stains off.

Comrade by Belinda Roddie I swim in a giant lake of frozen fishbones and Marxist dreams. The sickle tears my ribcage to shreds, but I am still serene.

"Is this really so pressing of an issue that we need to organize a whole separate meeting for it?" "Yes! You know how important this is to the club!" "No...I really don't, obviously. I mean, what could this news possibly do to upset anyone?" "Max, I know you're not taking this seriously..." "You're right. I'm not. And do you know why? Because I don't think it compromises anything, anything , about our group, okay?!"

My Gift by Belinda Roddie The first time I heard music, I saw color. Green for F, blue for G, with the chromatic blurring in dark purples and grays when I could not comprehend the delicate skeleton of sound. As I got older, it became clearer: Everything was absolute. Caress the piano, and I could identify each separate sigh perfectly without looking at where the fingers of my accompanist lay. The flats and the sharps, the majors and the minors. Vinegar and oil, water and salt. The seasonings of melodies. I did not need a starting tone to get the pitch I wanted. When I turned twenty-five, things became slightly distorted. It was as if a knife already with a bite had been needlessly sharpened further. Every step on the staircase started to blend together. Flats were naturals; naturals were sharps. The congestion in my ears led to an unwanted, "heightened" state of being. It wasn't always noticeable, no - most of the time, all was well, and I ...