My Cardboard Balcony

Look At The Stars by Belinda Roddie Look at the stars! I'd like to catch them with a giant net and take them to the sea where my home sits along the sand. I'll sift through each of them and find one just for me, to hang up in my room like a night light. It cannot be too small, and not too dim, but also, it can't be too big and bright, or else I will be blinded. As I skim my books, the star beam upon each word, guiding me through each story that I read. My mom says taking a star is absurd, saying it must guide others still in need of constellations in their life. I guess I shouldn't put her worries to the test.

"I know the truth!" "You have no proof!" "Man, she's so mad - she's through the roof!" "I know your feelings!" "My head is reeling!" "Your lips are in need of some serious sealing!" "I hate this ride!" "I feel so alive!" Here I am on the railroad, the lonesome bride, while my parents are screaming, my husband is steaming, and I have no sense of pride.

Cynicism, Post-World Series by Belinda Roddie Here in Chicago, we pop the champagne and spray it on the crowd like a bubbly rain. We drink toasts to champions while busy romancing a better world while the apocalypse begins.

No update on the OneWord website today. Oh, well!

Tender To The Touch by Belinda Roddie I hold my arm at an odd angle, to air out the infection. If I'm not careful, it'll grow wings and try to fly, and I'm too heavy for its festering voyage. Two shots of brandy is what the doctor recommends to ease the pain. The fever dreams, she says, are natural, until the people in it become shadows. Once that happens, she tells me it's time for the emergency room. Shadows are bad news. I stand under the shower spray, and I want to become one with the water, flowing effortlessly out to the bay where the foam turns green and the fish somehow still get bigger by the year. Father goes fishing sometimes by the rocky shore, wondering when everything will clear up. Not just my infection, mind you - everything. My illness, his career, Mother's alcoholism, Grandfather's psychosis, Grandmother's shame. The doctor predicted that I'd be able to move my arm fully again in two weeks. I keep a calendar ...

After speaking with Bentley in the office, I decided to relocate the conversation to the local pub, where the cute red-haired girl would be bartending that night. We continued our chat over tall steins of beer and a shot or two of whiskey, but nothing too fancy beyond that. The redhead walked over to me at one point to ask where I was from, due to my accent, and I felt my smile stiffen as I tried to find a proper way to answer her question.

An Inappropriate Halloween Story by Belinda Roddie Pull away the sheet, and the ghost is still there. She's just tired of your shit, and sitting on your couch, drinking your beer and watching the game on your television set. And if you're wondering, "How can a ghost drink beer?" then you need to reprioritize your questioning because there is a goddamn fucking ghost sitting on your goddamn fucking couch watching your goddamn fucking TV. Upstairs, the witches are mixing your shampoo with anti-itch cream in order to make a potion that cures herpes or chlamydia or something, while the Skeleton King is busy pleasuring the Zombie Queen on your bed and hoping her legs don't break off before she climaxes. One spooky orgasm later, you can hear the werewolves howling their approval under the full moon that you swear was hanging in the sky two days ago, a grinning white jack-o-lantern. But it's October 31st, and the bratty trick-or-treaters are n...