My Cardboard Balcony

I Vomited Rainbows by Belinda Roddie I vomited rainbows and keeled over the railing of the balcony. I fell a couple feet before I hit the snow that had piled up the night before. The smell of something sweet clogged my nostrils as I recovered from my short descent. I thought I saw a unicorn cavorting by with its horn glittering like gold. "It's not real," I told myself. "None of this is real. It's just the pills I took." I slowly stood, only to hear a red car loudly squeal as it pulled alongside me. It was good, because my sister was driving, and she pulled my drugged ass to some sort of safety.

Samantha knew that the ring had no inherent value, but it had been a gift, and she wanted to keep it. She wore it on the middle finger of her right hand, since it was a little too big for her ring finger, and she loved how the cubic zirconia glittered despite its cheapness. She liked to give cat callers the bird and loved the sparkle she flashed along with the obscene gesture. After all, the little things in life were what really livened up her days.

The Consumer by Belinda Roddie She wore a chunky necklace and ate potstickers by hand - slick and greasy, dyed with soy sauce, leaving a trail behind on her fingers. She was beautiful, but distant. Her eyes were unfocused. A loose smile hung from the corner of her half-open, chewing mouth.

They told me I needed to get my priorities sorted. Told me that if I kept working like this, I'd exhaust myself before ever succeeding at anything I set my mind to. I didn't believe them. Though weary I was, I took great pains to complete each task I began. I managed to add excruciating detail to each piece of art or writing that I undertook. And although I neglected my body sleep or nourishment, my wild brain was all the livelier for the sacrifice, sustaining me with a creative vitality that was sweeter than nectar and more potent than the darkest glass of brandy.

Verbal Miscellany & Oral Oddities by Belinda Roddie The soul of wit is kept in a jar; brevity has nothing to do with it. Maintain its glow, and the fireflies have competition. Your riddles are mine to collect in rows. Take a look at your blackened, greasy fingers. Your words take a sticky form when they slosh against your lips. Little imps lick away at your skin so they can taste a sample of your random intellect. If you unscrew the lid, the language is gone. It dissipates like fog being burned by the sun. Don't be tempted to release newborn ideas before they can walk. A baby bird deserves a nest before its eyes are wide enough to witness stars.

By the time the Council had finished speaking, Arvey could feel the bristling hairs on her neck begin to relax, settling back down against her sweat-moistened nape. Beside her, Barkelee squeezed her hand. Behind her, she could feel Quinoni's fingers massaging her shoulders. It was true that Mistress Kor, wherever she was now, would be held accountable for whatever heinous acts she committed; at least, however, the three of them had been declared innocent.

Let The Paramour Wear Gold by Belinda Roddie Love took the shape of a snake in the bathtub, scaring the color out of an old lady's face. It curled in cursive on a post-it note stuck to a textbook belonging to the college professor. When it got too cold, it wound itself around someone's throat, trying to be a scarf but instead tightening like a noose. And you were there, and you saw how it struggled to take a form that was gentle and elegant and charming and refined, all in the same hour, at the same damn time.