My Cardboard Balcony

We Make Camp by Belinda Roddie The fish are leaping in stark crescent moons over the night sky pool of incandescent past lives. There are plenty of bugs to feast upon, to swallow in great, gasping gulps, before glistening, scaly bodies descend back into darker, unfathomable depths. I offer a flask of something stronger than stars, for you to suckle on as the trees hum their lengthy, ages-old lullabies. The wind is light, but our hearts are heavy, while the canopy of our tent bristles like the feathers of sleeping birds, and the fires of dawn are itching to burst through the curtains blocking their celestial stage.

I could see the glint of a falcon's wings as it dipped past the end of the cliff, blending in with the white, angular rocks. I heard its shriek, its battle cry. I remembered the sword at my side, which I unsheathed and used to cut the remaining meat from last night's meal into easily chewable strips. When I began to feed the jerky to my injured friend, she coughed and spluttered but did not fight me.

If This Is Love by Belinda Roddie If this is love, give me a bottle so that I may cork it and keep it safe in a dusty cabinet, where no one can take it from me. Let me steal a sip from the glassy lip each month when the air is dry. There will be traces of passion in it, as rich as blackberry jam and yet as subtle as a peach aroma in a summer orchard. The smell of oak will bring me back to swing sets by old churches, where I find a kiss to be sweeter than lemonade while the sun is extra hot. I will find someone to drink this love with me, so long as they have the stomach for it. Then, when the bottle is empty, we will fetch another dose from the aging barrel, where it grows fuller with each passing year.

No update on the OneWord website. Oh, well. Happy Presidents Day!

"I don't want to go through this again," my mom grumbled. "If you're not going to eat with us, then you can get out of this house for the night." That was fine by me. I had twenty dollars to get myself a burger, and I could easily walk to whatever cheap eatery I desired. I grabbed my jacket, marched outside, and slammed the door behind me. My bigoted family could choke on their overcooked pork chops and lumpy mashed potatoes, for all I cared.

by Belinda Roddie "Really, that's the best you can come up with?" asked Mrs. Timber sourly. The tapping of her red pen against her desk was like the unwanted ticking of a doomsday clock. Grace was frozen. She had told the truth, and it was as if she had offered a sloppy saga instead. She wasn't sure how to respond to her teacher except, "But that's what happened. I'm not joking." Mrs. Timber was not amused. "Miss Farraway," she murmured, "I do not tolerate lies. Especially not elaborate lies. If I had a doctor's note, a parent's e-mail, then perhaps this conversation would be going differently. But as it is, I am not going to accept this far-fetched tale as an excuse to turn your essay in late." This was not good. The paper was worth thirty percent of the grade, and Grace only had it half-finished. She didn't know what else to do. At this rate, she could have easily said, "The dog ate my computer," an...

"I can't go back to that camp! I'll die out there!" Tanya's mother sighed. "Honestly, dear, you are so hyperbolic." "You think I'm kidding?" shrieked Tanya, her mouth agape and partially filled with peanut butter. "Last time I went, I almost drowned while canoeing, nearly got mauled by a bear when I went to the bathroom at night, and got poison oak so bad that I nearly went into shock! I will definitely  die!"