My Cardboard Balcony

Escape From The Inevitable by Belinda Roddie Now hot, now cold, I see the sun's fluctuations, its stumbles and bows, its somber smile dripping like waxen gold from its burning lips. This is not the end, but the beginning; in due time, the oceans will be slurped up like scalding soup, salt lingering on our tongues as our skin chars against our mortal grills. We'll flee in ships round as baseballs, and stitched like such, but made with steel instead of leather, and run with circuits instead of cork. We'll make new homes among other dying stars and eat from square tins, all while we still sing, still write, still speak with one another on our enclosed balconies, watching a shooting star dissolve again and again and again, disappearing into the darkness that will push our galaxy farther and further away from us, swirling like milk into the black coffee of the cosmos.

The Jones triplets all liked to do different things: Martin was a jazz trumpeter, Jasmine was an accountant, and Kaitlyn was a brazen activist fighting for both the trans community and the Black Lives Matter movement. All of them sported similar physical features, however, with wild thatches of curly black hair and rich chocolate skin. Martin was married to a woman who was whiter than milk, while Jasmine and Kaitlyn preferred to be single.

"I know you're angry, Chris," my mother said, watching my fingers turn white as I gripped the bedpost. "I know how much you want to hurt him. How much you want to kill him. But you can't. You know that." I didn't respond to her - not verbally, anyway. I could hear my breaths assaulting my ribcage, bursts of guttural notes playing xylophone on my bones. "What I need you to do," my mother continued, unperturbed by my hyperventilation, "is channel that anger into something else, okay?"

by Belinda Roddie "Okay, so I know what eggs are, but what the heck is nog?" "I certainly hope you know what eggs are!" "No, but seriously, what is nog? Why 'nog?' It doesn't make sense." "You're really obsessing over this, aren't you?" "It's racking my brain, man! I don't get it!" "..." "..." "...Did you try Wikipedia?" "...Dude." "Yeah." "Dude. " "Yeah?" " Dude." " Yeah?" "...You're a genius." "I know." "...Hmmm. Okay." "What?" "Weird." "What's weird?" "I mean, the page says the word may have come from the word noggin..." "Noggin? Like your head?" "Nah, man, it's Middle English. Noggins were these little carved mugs that they served alcohol in." ...

Can't we just go back to the way things were, and everything returns to normal? No. We can't. Because we weren't normal in the first place. We had dreams that didn't fit right in boxes, hopes that had to be tied down by strings and ropes or else they would drift away. We sang songs where the words trailed off into non-sequiturs, and the prayers we made weren't to any gods, but to ourselves. We can't go back to the way things were because if we tried, it'd be forced and hackneyed. This is who we are now. We are normal.

Here's the thing: Halloween might be my favorite holiday. I may gush about it. But one thing I truly love is the Christmas season. Christmas is #2 on my list of favorite holidays (Thanksgiving is #3), and what makes Christmas so special to me are the little things that come with the twenty-five days I pay attention it (You will not see me celebrate Christmas until December 1st; end of story). Yes, the tree and the lights and the presents and the decorations are all wonderful. To me, they create warmth and spirit and positive feelings overall, regardless of whether or not you're a pagan or Christian. But I want to mention, in quick succession, some of the nuances of the Christmas season that I adore. I love Christmas music; Christmas carols are great, but I'm partial to Celtic music and to Vince Guaraldi's A Charlie Brown Christmas. I love advent calendars; the chocolates are not that tasty, but the concept of it is just fun to me. I love being able to put on green a...

Or Maybe They're Just Broke by Belinda Roddie I find out who my real friends are on Christmas.