My Cardboard Balcony

The beach was as quiet as the graveyard near my house. Not even the wind, though I could feel it on my face, seem to whisper or sing or howl as it bristled the cuffs of my dress shirt and scattered sand across my jeans. I found a rock to perch on, opened up the ziploc bag that my father had given me, and emptied its contents out into the dune. They were funny to look at, all clumped together in patches. Pearls and rubies and sapphires, all once belonging to my mother.

by Belinda Roddie Look at you, shakin' the sugar out of your shoes. You shared a funnel cake with me, and some of the sparkling cinnamon was lapped up by the leather tongues protecting your weak ankles. You walked out onto the grass, stripped your feet bare, and waved your socks in the air like streamers. Clouds of sweet dust occupied the remaining bubbles blown from a nameless child's plastic magic wand. Before the funnel cake, you held me when we watched the fireworks at the fair. Look at you, clinging to me like sugar to your shoes. Hair lit up by distant golds and reds and purples and greens and blues. You got to watch the explosive confetti in person and from the glowing lens of my camera. I kept your whooping quieter for the sake of my ears. I could see your smile without even turning around. Before the fireworks, we walked together in the fine arts building. Every painting, photograph, sculpture, and mixed media had a different story to tell. Some stories, of cours...

We wanted to be rebels so badly. Break the rules. Cheat the system. Hack our way through the conventional expectations of the world we lived in. We thought shoplifting candy bars and individual cans of beer was edgy, and we were certain that climbing over steel wire fences with large black "NO TRESPASSING" signs meant we defied the boundaries and borders set around us. Then we all went to college. Got jobs. Raised families. Until the system itself grew fangs and began to devour us, we moved with it like molasses down a pipe.

Another June come and gone. I'm twenty-seven years old. I'm still working at the same private school job. I officially got my preliminary single subject teaching credential in English. I went to Pride again. I'm a little more than three months away from my wedding. There's a lot happening. Obviously, there are things I can work on. My anxiety. My self-image. My energy when it comes to writing itself. It's no secret that, while my poetry has been okay, my fiction writing has deteriorated as of late. I know that it's tough to write a short story every week, but come on - I wrote an entire novel in eight days. I guess I just haven't had as much inspiration for longer creative projects. It's been a while since I finished my latest script, come to think of it. I know that it all ebbs and flows. Things get better, things get worse. For now, I'm trying really hard to focus on the present while also being mindful of how I'm forging my path. I have ...

The Perfect Mask by Belinda Roddie When I put on makeup, I look like someone else.

No update on the OneWord website today. Happy first day of July!

You May Not Think by Belinda Roddie You may not think I'm pretty, but I shine like rubies on the stage under the lights. I dance and spin through all the swing and rhyme of music that rejuvenates long nights when people drink and worry about death and crave for love that's empty like a glass that hasn't been filled yet. I take the breath away from the club's patrons, hear them gasp and try to get their air back. And I think I made a man fall in love with me. He gave me a kiss and offered me a drink once my routine was done. The reverie I put him in was beautiful, so there. You may not think I'm pretty - I don't care!