My Cardboard Balcony

Okay. by Belinda Roddie so i'm sitting at the downtown café at half past three, smoking something cheap and drinking something cheaper, when she rips open the sky like a curtain, comes drifting down, and lands right on the stool across from mine. she asks, "is there anyone who likes to dance anymore?" and i tell her no, because music was banned throughout the country after the president's daughter wrecked an ankle while pirouetting, could never dance again, and threw herself into the Hudson in shame. so i'm puffing and sipping and she's sighing and spitting out of the corner of her red mouth, all moaning and groaning about the WORLD TODAY. and the WORLD TODAY is full of hiccups over champagne and tattoos hidden under long sleeves, and underground movements where knees wobble on platform shoes as shadows sway, back and forth, back and forth, and back when the cops come to break the party up. she won't leave me alone, u...

"Don't!" Arvey screamed, grabbing Quinoni's arm. "It's just an illusion! It's not there!" Quinoni did not seem to hear her, or see her. She continued to walk toward the ever distorting, ever frightening mirage. Arvey could see it, too, all too vividly. Whatever had been slipped into their goblets was potent. All around them, people were laughing. "Qui!" Arvey shrieked.

Cruelty, Thy Name Is Royalty by Belinda Roddie The prince demands an audience at a certain quarter past. He wishes to see dancers and have jesters make him laugh. He wants cold wine and hot biscuits with butter streaming down their sides. Then he'll suck the grease off his dirty fingers and sentence nine men to die. They'll be lined up in the barley fields outside the castle town, and they'll pray to a god that doesn't exist while the knives are passed around. One will scream, "I plead for Heaven!" but the heaven is inside, where the monarch grows fat on grapes and dough and reveals a portly smile.

"Well," remarked Sadie. "That was...eventful." "You're telling me?" I scoffed, refilling my glass. Whiskey never tasted so good to me. And normally, I hated the stuff. "Yeah, I'm telling you," replied my wife with a sly smile. "First, your mother decides the best birthday present for me is a King James version of the Bible. Next, your brother gets himself a broken toe from kicking the table in his anger. After that, the stereotypical uncle showed up..."

I tried to offer my class different perspectives on the shooting that occurred the night before in our town, but none of my students were budging. They all had the same opinion: That the police officer ought to be locked up for life. Not that I didn't agree with them; it was just my job, as their teacher, to offer them contrasting viewpoints. "I don't even think he should just be put in jail," quipped my straight A student Barney. "I think he ought to be put to death by firing squad, just to see how it feels!"

by Belinda Roddie "His rhymes are so safe he should be called Bubble Rap." "No." "Seriously, I mean, he doesn't even throw a jab. Let's call him No Punchline." "No." "Oh, no, wait! How about this? His rhymes are so dull, we'll call him Mister Blunt." " No." "Get it? 'Cause he smokes weed, too!" "If you think your cousin is such a shitty rapper, why the Hell are we going to his gigs?" "Gee, I dunno, Aaron - 'cause I love him and stuff?" "I just don't get it." "Hey, man. I get you're not a rap fan." "What?" "You're not a rap fan. Obviously. I mean, my cousin? Rap's his life. I'll make fun of him, but - " "What makes you think I'm not a rap fan?" "I-I dunno. I've never heard you listen to rap?" "Is it because I'm Asian?" "What?" "...

The foreign ambassador said nothing as she sat at the conference table, listening to every word of the negotiations. She wasn't sure if anyone else there realized that she could understand every language being spoken. There was the smooth, yet pompous, French ambassador, trilling and trumpeting about his nation's upcoming election. The sharp and deliberate German ambassador, stroking his thin mustache as he spoke about more personal matters. And of course, the rough Russian, who with every element of his tone sounded like he did not want to be there.