My Cardboard Balcony

Making Dinner by Belinda Roddie Mama has a scar on her chin about the length of a cemetery - every mole and wart's a tombstone signifying each year of her life. She is a goddess, but she is aging like a mortal in the Mexican desert, the hot winds whittling away at her youth. She stirs rice and beans in a pot, and when the steam hits her face, she almost looks sixteen again. A fiesta in her childhood backyard, her father serving handmade enchiladas at a white plastic picnic table. A unicorn piñata lies half-mangled in the grass. One of its paper eyes is missing from its severed head. Mama tells me that story all the time, about how my little tío   shrieked in terror at the sight, and had to be taken to his room. Her arm pops and cracks with each swivel of her wooden spoon. I am standing at the kitchen table, halfway done with setting down the silverware, when I count the permanent runes on my own skin. One scar is from falling off my motorcycle, chasi...

"I'm just resting!" I tried to complain, but already I was being hoisted out of bed, thrown into a stiff, unyielding suit, and practically wheeled out of the room. I knew that this family reunion was important to my father, but that was the main problem I had: It was important only to my father. As I was sandwiched between my brother and sister in the backseat of my parents' Volvo, I was becoming convinced that the only way to get through this day was begging my grandfather to let me sneak sips of port from his glass when my mother wasn't looking.

My First Bar Brawl by Belinda Roddie I remember the blood streaking my lower lip after my father pulled a rotten tooth out of my mouth with an aggressive pair of alligator forceps. The taste of rust now is not so different than it was so many years ago. She remembers the day I made pancakes for her when she was coming back to reality after a migraine that pummeled her like an angry god's bronzed fists. I was good with a pan and spatula, and she was good at kissing me. They tell me that I shouldn't have stepped in, even after she began to scream. They tell me that it wasn't worth the spilled drink, or the stained shirt, or the punch in the jaw, a strong enough blow to knock two of my molars askew, like ivory splintering in a collapsed piano. But I had been playing a jingle on the bar's old organ before the bastard put his hands on her, and although he may have brought me back to childhood flavors, I relish in the fact that I hit him harder,...

You win the game if you cheat the system. But if you cheat the system, you automatically lose. So, in essence, there is no possible win. There is no feasible success. No triumph. No victory. You lose, or you lose. Simple as that. Unless you find the loophole. There is always a loophole. Sometimes it's hidden. Sometimes it's in plain sight, and you're looking too hard for it when it's right in front of you. Read the rule book. Doublecheck each second letter of each word. Then, begin the process of total annihilation.

But Then the Street Lamps by Belinda Roddie When I've got my black hoodie and khakis on, it's like I'm invisible in the dirtiest part of the city. I keep a blade against my hip and courage in a drawn out thread across my chest - tattooed, scribbled, scarred. When I go to the store for a six pack and a bag of Doritos, the clerk doesn't question me. He speaks English, bad English, but it's enough for the transaction to go smoothly. When he asks for ten bucks, I give him eleven, and drop the loose Washington into the "donation" jar like a cheap smile on a full moon night. When I meet my gang on the corner of Ravine and Tower, there's already been a shitstorm. I give them a can of beer each and a crunch of artificial cheese dust. They wipe blood from their noses and off the frayed collars of their white T-shirts. Why wear white when the fabric can get so red? I have no idea. And when the cheap booze is drained, we chase each ot...

We are surrounded by the power of franchise, of bright neon labels and soul-breaking guarantees. We have remote controls buried under the flesh of our arms so when we try to mash the mute button while watching the news, we risk bruising or internal bleeding. When our eyes are strained, we are still reprimanded for turning our eyes away from the gladiatorial spectacle. But unlike what the older members of society may believe, we are not apathetic. We are simply exhausted.

My kingdom crumbled under the growing heat of a swelling sun. All the gold in the castle's bricks melted in glorious streams, like honeycomb dripping from a toxic hive. I watched from a distance, as safe as I could be beneath the shade of a dying tree. I knew, however, that I would not survive much longer. Bit by bit, my body was shutting down. All royal stature had, by now, shriveled into nothingness.