My Cardboard Balcony

Monterey by Belinda Roddie The wharf is filled with yammering tonight, from tourists and restless sea lions alike. They are covered in lights. The radicchio on my tongue is harsh, but the bourbon in my baked apple cocktail is smooth. Instead of a punch, it's a caress on my tongue. We are close to the sea, so close that I can smell it. I can taste it and feel it absorbed in my skin. I could swim in it, dive in with all my clothes on, but the water is cold, and the clouds are still heavy, and my stomach is filled to the brim with delights, and your lips are so warm, so very warm, on my distended and unyielding flesh.

Every illness is terminal here. Every breath you struggle to obtain curtails your life second by second, hour by hour, day by day. The Order of the Clocks keep each member's pockets filled to the brim with broken minute hands. Their mustaches flick and swish as capably as a time bomb scraping away the last moments of the dying stars.

Four Nights With In-Laws by Belinda Roddie Seders, Easter eggs, and birthday cakes - what a lovely stay this is! Theories over glasses of cider and half cuts of rib-eye steak. I no longer have to worry about first impressions (God knows how bad the first impression was). I'll hold you in my arms each night when the movie is over and the wine is drained, dreaming of gazebo weddings and car rides to the coast, waiting for a visit to aquariums and hotels. Past, present, and future colliding all at once, time slowing just enough for us to savor it - in all its bitter, salty, fishy, and fruit tart glory.

The freckles in your complexion form constellations that burn when I touch them. Orion's belt is made of ice. It freezes the skin around my cuticles, to the point in which I am afraid of frostbite. There is a pattern to the contours of your face - the dips create valleys, the peaks your own personal mountains. There is no snow on those slopes, but they are smooth enough to let me descend without tumbling and bruising my knees.

"Who's the owner of this store?" the crotchety old man demanded, placing his gloved hands on his hips. I sighed and turned away from the Easter display that I was beginning to take down. "That would be me," I declared. The man frowned. "You?" he asked. "Can't be. You're young, and...and feminine." I blinked. "So by your logic, only people of your age and gender can own a shop?" He said nothing. I silently pointed toward the door. "Get out."

by Belinda Roddie Sherman, how many times have I told you not to do that? It's a rhetorical question, kid. Sixteen. Sixteen times over the past two months. And yet you won't listen. I know you feel your most comfortable when you do this, but you know I don't like explaining it to the neighbors. They see you from their windows, you know. Singing along to your iPod as you wash the dishes or cook, sashaying your hips while you wear that frilly floral apron. My apron. I just might gain twenty pounds so you can't fit into my dresses anymore. I'll buy clothes that are too big for you, so you can't wear them. I'll throw away all my good jewelry so you don't steal my pearls anymore. You remember Harriet, your next door neighbor? She goes by Harry now. It's awful. She's starting to grow stubble. She smokes. She drinks! She looks more masculine than your own father. And now you're going in the exact opposite direction. Like an uncooperat...

I could see the copper bristling from the broken cord, threatening to electrocute anyone who touched it. It was a live wire - no doubt about it. Now it was a matter of turning off the machine without getting everyone involved angry. Yes, ladies and gentleman - I had to turn off the most popular game in the arcade because some properly sized rodent had gnawed on the cord and exposed the raw, vulnerable metals underneath. This was going to be "fun."