My Cardboard Balcony

I Just Wanted A Pint by Belinda Roddie Little woman, little man drinking from a cider can. One wears brown shoes, one wears black, one's scheduled for a heart attack. Carbonation in a glass, bar brawl 'bout to kick your ass. Still, you'll get a hit or two, enough to make his face turn blue. Little man needs CPR, little woman's in your car. Stop the bleeding from your nose and feel the rubber 'gainst your toes.

No spoonful of ice cream until you eat your carrots and peas. No visit to the park until your bedroom is all cleaned. No vacant stare at the television until you've picked a book to read. And no getting a new toy until you've helped Dad rake the leaves. There are rules to be followed, and I'm sure you don't understand, but you won't get the things you want until you do as I command.

Humidity by Belinda Rodde The rest of the evening, after the funeral, is spent at Old Johnson's Pub, drinking hard cider and chocolate stout, fighting off the late August heat that sticks to our skin even after the sun sets, and reminiscing about the days we got high on our old school's playground, and drunk on the patio of Mister Sipher's condemned house, his cracked white eyes gleaming from between the slats of his shuttered windows. I try to pick up the tab, but my brother snatches the bill before I can even speak. His signature is sloppy, almost amateur. Usually his autograph is so crisp, so formal, even when he has to sign dozens of copies of his newest book at the conventions and stores. He wipes his nose, but he can't stop a bit of water landing right where he dotted the i of his last name. Jennifer is waiting outside for us, smoking a cigar that's fatter than her thumb, her hair still greasy from both the humidity and the pomade tha...

Georgia was one of the only people I knew who actually liked to talk about the weather. Not only was her husband, Ronald, a meteorologist featured on our local news, but she also found everything, from rain to droughts to floods to tornadoes, absolutely fascinating. When she chugged a couple of good-sized beers, she'd rant about how badly the town had handled our latest hurricane, and somehow, she made it all very entertaining.

Enough. I've had enough of the senseless violence. I've had enough of the uniform being tarnished for the sake of brutality. I see the endless slabs of cardboard and white posters screaming for some semblance of humanity among those who are meant to protect us. I've seen too many dead bodies in the street. I've heard too many mothers crying. How many more will have to die until the institution changes? Enough. I've had enough.

by Belinda Roddie "Let's go to Ireland," I said. "We'll go to Cork first. We'll find An Bodhran and have two pints each, black and gold, crisp and smooth down our throats. We'll dip our toes in the river and try not to get caught or carried away by the current. After that, we'll head to Galway. The city is so beautiful in the early spring. If it doesn't rain, we can stay by the Corrib and eat cheese and onion sandwiches until our stomachs ache. I've seen buskers play uilleann pipes for euros. They'll serenade us as we dance across dangerous cobblestone. In Dublin, there will be celebration. The post office will be lit in somber colors, but there might be a parade. We'll ignore the Guinness Factory for another drink at the Old Brazen Head. When it's dark, I'll sneak you into Stephen's Green or Merrion Square, climbing whatever walls or barricades are in our way. And when sunrise touches our lips, I'll kiss you with dew...

I stood ankle deep in the shallow, algae-choked water of the pond, watching as the half-rotten canoe bobbed along in the warm ripples. I didn't know what to make of this place anymore. My brother had drowned after falling out of that canoe, in this very pond. But now I could wade in and not even have the water touch my chin, and it all felt so absurd.