My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "I've never been sure of pants," quipped the old man wearing a green kilt, his fingers collecting the icy condensation of his whiskey glass. "Never been fond of them, either. I like the breeze around my thighs these days. Beats the heat, makes me feel pretty." He went back to drinking his scotch like what he had said was equivalent to talking about the weather, or the latest football match - as if it had been a matter-of-fact statement that everyone needed to be familiar with. The bartender, petite and red-haired and freckled, ducked down under the counter and came back up with a bottle of butterscotch schnapps. Though I assume half the reason she disappeared was so the kilt man couldn't hear her laugh. It was eleven forty-seven PM on a Sunday night, and the tavern was still open for another hour or so. Ainsley, halfway to spending the next morning on the couch with an ice pack against her skull, was finishing her fourth pint of stout...

The estimate for the wedding budget was around twenty-five thousand dollars, and we had gotten about twenty thousand of it from our parents so far. Now it was a matter of us saving. I held off on buying the standard six-pack of cider, while she managed to cut back on coffee outings. We cooked more meals at home, we found cheaper alternatives for our dates, and we spent nights in instead of out when we could. We saved five thousand dollars in about six months, which was pretty damn impressive.

Well. It's happening. I am now becoming a busy person. Let me explain. While I am still working at the bookstore, I just started a part-time teaching job as well. I've finished up training for that and will be subbing for another teacher next week. I also have a transcription job underway, as well as the oncoming developments of my student teaching and my potential school site. In the meantime, I have been working on wedding stuff, including catering and budgeting, and maintaining this blog. At night, I read unpublished books and later write reviews about them and email them to publishing reps. I'm not sure how much I like being this busy. And my brain, all the while, is trying to tell me I've bitten off more than I chew. It's terrifying to have this much work now, and more work ahead of me. But God damn, is it exciting. It's such an adrenaline rush. I am so stoked to be moving forward and trying new things and building new bridges. I love being an ed...

A Formal Introduction by Belinda Roddie This is my wife. She's dead. Care to bury her?

This was the moment when I wanted to disintegrate, to dissolve into a great salty puddle and slip through the slats of the air vent, trickling down to whatever lay beneath. But I wasn't dissolving. I was still solid and tangible and staring at the red-faced teacher in front of me, holding my phone in his hand. No one in the class snickered. They were all eerily silent.

My Alibi by Belinda Roddie My alibi is this: I was not at the club last night because I was taking care of an old friend, crazy as a bat and terminally ill. He was breaking everything in his house when I arrived at exactly ten thirty-two at night. I'm surprised that I managed to survive his period of rage. I set things right, calmed him down, and reminded him that I was there to help him. He fell asleep just before eleven, and I left him by the TV, snoring on the couch. I trust in you, so I'd wish you could trust in me, instead of these weird rumors you believe.

I always enjoyed watching the figure skaters whenever my sister and I went to the ice rink. I never liked skating myself when I was younger, and of course, now it wasn't even feasible. I sat comfortably in my wheelchair as my sister twirled across the rink's glistening surface, growing whiter and whiter with each graze of the blades strapped to her feet. Nearby, a male skater was approaching her, wide-eyed and curious.