My Cardboard Balcony

Sal's Red Pajamas by Belinda Roddie Sal's red pajamas were tucked in a drawer, and when she put them on, it was like she was wearing a second layer of skin. She went downstairs to get some cocoa and spotted her husband on the couch, watching something on the TV. But he was not alone - in fact, someone was there with him, her face buried into the curve of his shoulder. Sal couldn't breathe. Suddenly, her pajamas felt like foreign clothes to her. She thumped back upstairs, loud enough for them to hear, and fell face first upon the bed. She did not want them to hear her loud cries, but soon her pajamas' hue matched her eyes.

My grandfather had fought in two wars: World War II and the Korean War. After that, he was never exactly the same. Not in a bad way, though; somehow, being a soldier had opened him up in a lot of ways, so instead of trying to appear aloof and macho, he was emotional, sympathetic, and quite the storyteller. Of course, there were nights when my grandmother would catch him awake very late, staring out the window, singing a song to himself from way back.

Reunion at the Pub by Belinda Roddie She hadn't been outside her home for seven years, and he hadn't drunk beer for two of those. When the bartender poured them sizable pints, they weren't sure how it was going to taste. In the end, the flavor reminded them of horse rides, folk music, and railroads left to rust in the rain.

"Do you just call everything adorable?" grumbled Martin. " 'Ooh, that puppy is adorable! Ooh, that dress is just adorable! Ooh, the way that couple's holding hands is just sooooo adorable!' I mean, couldn't you extend your vocabulary a bit." After a brief silence, Emily giggled. "Oh, Martin," she mused. "You're so worked up over this. It's just adorable."

Exodus by Belinda Roddie No more jugs of happiness to pour into your bloodstream. We've gone down this road too many times. The asphalt's cracked and wearing thin, like aging bone too brittle to fossilize properly. I'd like to stay, but the vertigo is no longer digestible. I've eaten enough spinach and chicken to get me through the desert like a bedraggled Moses. My people were let go, but I was never free. They told me I should've broken these suburban chains long ago. Now I have the strength to split the white picket fence with a hatchet. You stock your fridge with drinkable shame. Take a sip, and the iron gets thicker and heavier around your ankles. I'm miles from you, in a truck on a repaved freeway. You're drunk on artificial satisfaction. I'm breathing fresh, rural air again.

So we were at a mixer the other night, and there were two girls just staring at us the whole time. Like, non-blinking, eyes-bugging, legitimate, bona fide staring. I remember we went to the bar to get ourselves some martinis, and one of the girls with the never ending gaze just tapped me on the shoulder - right on the sore spot, too, where I had just gotten a fresh tetanus shot - and she asked me: "Do you like your women like you like your martinis?" I didn't know how to answer. "Uh, you mean dry and with olives?"

Hoedown by Belinda Roddie The bales of hay are stacked, and the bonfire's roaring high. Let's share a kiss as our beer bottles hiss an anthem for you and I.