My Cardboard Balcony

A lot of stuff happened today. This morning, it was bad stuff. This afternoon, it was better stuff. This evening, it was great stuff. Lots of stuff. Stuffy stuff. ...Yeah, I'm going to bed. G'night, everyone!

Up in Flames by Belinda Roddie When the propane truck exploded, I heard the children scream.

There was Samson, scraggly hair and beard, dressed in his best black T-shirt and jeans, standing on the corner. He was passing out pink slips of fragile paper. Flyers for the small metal concert held in the back of the dive bar where he held a dead-end, minimum wage job, fobbing off recycled sheets of advertising to any helpless passerby still twiddling on their phones and borderline sucking their thumbs. His eyes were like black vacuums as he handed out the modern parchment, drawing in every night star like his skull was lifting up two tiny black holes.

November Hearts by Belinda Roddie November hearts are broken when the warmth of sunsets dissipates into their cups of coffee, and the cold is then reborn as a large, overbearing mother, hugs and kisses tattooing each stranger's arms as they mask their disdain beneath black coats. They drive past pastures, hills, and dairy farms where early snow just barely glazes boats left hooked to cars in driveways. I loved you once, you know. You exhaled cinnamon, which I inhaled. Our somber rendezvous was interrupted by the elements, the winds and rain. You left me badly bruised, my frostbitten aorta split in two.

"I say we execute her!" squealed the tiny king, waving his hands around in wide, sweeping motions. His wife shushed him. "Alfred, dear," she coaxed, "that is simply over the top. The poor girl simply wandered in without knowing what was happening. Let's just ask her what she wants before we obviously say no and escort her out, shall we?" So much for a functioning monarchy, I thought to myself.

My Mental Persuasion by Belinda Roddie Feel the crunch when I'm in combat, the gnash of teeth on the back of my neck. I'm sweating stripes, and I'm painted red, like the cider and whiskey going straight to my head. My hands are stripped bare from the stains of your grip, your lipstick, your pains, your patience. I am hot from the cold. My cheeks are on fire. I am way too tired to stop the rampage now. Halfway to the bus stop, I see them waiting. They're drinking black rum straight from the glass. I've passed out before from the stuff, but I won't run this time. There's the chomping again, the jaws clamping down hard, nagging me, "Well, go on, then. Do it." My brain has its own mouth to coax me with. I zoom in on the man who grabbed you from behind, and before he can blink, he's drunkenly reeling from my very first swing.

I felt like a cat, so I arched my back, and I yawned and it turned into a yowl. I was eager for some milk, though, come to think of it, milk would be a lot better with cookies. So I jogged out to my car, drove to the grocery store, and bought a whole pack of peanut butter oreos to dunk into a hefty, majestic glass of dairy goodness. As I was chewing, my real cat, Nibbles, pranced up to me and arched his own back. I meowed at him. He meowed back.