My Cardboard Balcony

I Met Her by Belinda Roddie I met her in a laboratory, her fingers gloved and her shoulders clothed in white. She held a petri dish in one hand, and a magnifier in the other. I was just an intern - I knew little to nothing about science or medicine. All I did was the errand work, and yet I could not take my eyes off her, the great scientist, the experimenter, the master of chemistry. One night, I thought I'd ask her out, but she said, "I don't date anyone. I am in love with my job, and with my studies." I was left alone, the genius having chilled me to the bone.

In just ten hours, Larry had used Samantha's toothbrush, made an enormous mess in the shower, eaten half of a box of cereal that was plainly designated not for him, and was now making a blanket fort in the middle of the living room where he could play his video games - using the TV that Samantha had wanted to watch her stories on, no less. It took all of her willpower not to throw something sharp and heavy at Larry's head.

Content Warning by Belinda Roddie Spare me the confusion of my contusions. You claim I deserve the red spreading across my skin. You swerve your truck into the bushes that rise from the ground like the devil's curls. He is laughing. I am abused You are simply amused.

She wore a bracelet on each arm, both seeming to be woven from leather, with stark Celtic knot patterns. I could see a serpentine tattoo coil up to her shoulder, encircling her left elbow like a strange god's desperate grip. As she carried in another bale of hay, I had to idle my tractor and watch her. She was more than just a farm girl. She was a farm queen.

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.