My Cardboard Balcony

Night At The Excalibur by Belinda Roddie We hustle and bustle to the street corner, while the moon still hangs like our personal talisman, to wave down a taxi. We carry heavy stomachs, betrayed by pancakes and cold coffee at a quarter past ten. "Take us anywhere that has a jacuzzi, free wi-fi, and a full fucking bar," says Milo, tossing back his hair, his beautiful androgyny on full display. He wants the cabbie to take us to the best hotel in town, in short. The lights are a frozen white above our heads, but the warmth is still radiating. Milo kisses my hand as he walks me to the pool below our luxury suite. We submerge, letting the weight of our cheap diner meals slide off us as easily as the water we float in. We lift like bubbles in the spray. There is champagne next to our bed, and we take our time drinking it. We are only famished for each other.

I held her body in my arms as I knelt in the thick, brown brush, the whimpering wind finally subsiding into a cold stillness that did nothing to thaw the chill that had settled in my bones. Quickly, I planned where to bury her, and with the holes in my boots growing ever larger with each step, I pushed my way out of the foliage and waded into the nearby creek until the water kissed the bulge of my knees.

Our Five AM Mass by Belinda Roddie The lights are still on in the church when the sun comes up, and if you look through the stained glass windows, you can see the halos shining from the head of every flower child swaying to the hypnotizing trill of the choir. Glasses of sacramental wine, unblessed, are served to anyone who wants to taste the facade of redemption. In the corner, two men wearing lipstick kiss while counting their rosaries. The odor of the incense mingles with the perfume worn by the priest. There is God in this holy house still, and he is the one at the organ. His fingers light up with each skip across the keys. He dances, and his robes catch the colors like a prism and reflect them back into space, which is big and grand and all knowing, all loving, all enveloping, all.

Don't say hello the gardener, the one wearing the cap so red. He'll squirt you with his hose and stick flowers up your nose and he'll slam his rake on top on your head. Don't say hello to the gardener, with the droopy jowl and permanent frown. If he had only caught a train or a just ascending plane to a new life in a brand new town.

The book talked about lovers meeting on a "fateful night," but all I could see were endless cliché, paper-thin character development, and a whole lot of sloppy writing. I tossed the sad-looking paperbook onto the growing stack of personally rejected novels and picked up another one. "Oh, this is different," I said to myself, flipping it open. The author's name was bizarre: Baskar Crypt. It sounded like a weird character out of a bad Star Wars fanfiction.

by Belinda Roddie It wasn't my fault. I tell myself that over and over. Half-buried in the bleached sheets, the pillow muffling all sound threatening to rattle my skull, the curtains drawn so tightly across the window that there was no such thing as daylight. Outside, the clatter of the wind against the masts of nearby sailboats sounded too much like dry bones clinking together. I'm all too familiar with the sound. It wasn't my fault, it wasn't my fault, it wasn't my fault. I know that I had been drinking that night, almost three weeks ago. I remember the way she ripped the car keys away from my hand. I had walked home in the cold, bitter dark, my thin jacket hardly protecting me from the elements. She had told me to do that. She had told me it was the only way I could be safe. There were bubbles on her breath, too. My parents stopped asking me to leave my room about three days ago. They still knock, though. They leave plates of food outside that I hardly ...

Deep in the jungle, the survivors huddle over the wreckage of a plane that once knew how to fly. They cook up animal entrails in a bucket over a primitive, whimpering fire. As they serve the congealed intestines in scoops, they're put off by the smell - an odor that reminds them of something, strangely enough, from their homes. An odor of smoke and charred flesh and what used to be alive now decaying in the spoons that they bring to their mouths.