My Cardboard Balcony

Ode To Brains by Belinda Roddie Babe, I'd shoot a zombie in the back with a white hot shotgun for you. Let the dead man die again as I swoop you up in my bruised and super buff arms. This apocalyptic horrorscape will provide champagne for two - or at least some Twinkies and Mountain Dew - while we celebrate another day alive.

The wheelchair ramp to the grocery store had been blocked by some redneck, neckbeared douchenozzle who felt like his enormous, tiny-dick-compensating hummer deserved to take up all the space. So we left the guy screaming at the top of his lungs after discovering that the entire hood of his giant vehicular beast had been coated with silly string, and his two front tires slashed, as my paraplegic friend raised a middle finger to the sky at him from the safety of our own car, which was tucked in the corner of the parking lot, far away from the hillbilly banshee.

2.5 Petabytes by Belinda Roddie Pull the plug right out of my skull, and watch me bleed out code. The old man sits with the head of his son in his lap. The jaw is solid steel. His daughter knits her father a scarf. Outside, the wind screeches like a data transfer. I want to be disconnected from the world that has been built from wires and computer chips and motherboards, all of them deprived of actual mothers. They will never feel the heat of milk simmering in their cooled, metallic bellies. And helium is a poor substitute for Mama's nourishment. If I send a letter to a friend, how long before they write back in the cold tundra of a fascist regime? Perhaps it will return to me with entire sentences blocked out in black. My heart is censored so it only beats so many times per minute - any faster, they tell me, and I risk death. My brain can only hold so much memory; they tell me that soon, everything else will catch up. But I am ready to die before my body...

Two women played golf in the blazing summer heat, while their husbands kicked back with drinks and reminisced over the good old days of wrestling in the school gymnasium and hunting for squirrels in the backyard and finding new ways to sneak beer out of grocery stores without getting caught. And while the ladies scored holes in one, the gentlemen scored each other on belches and laughed as their stomachs gurgled beneath the weight of their coats.

Things used to be simple - clear, concise, and single dimensions. Time moved forward, and people grew older and got gray hair. The population grew and mortality rates shrank. We drank champagne during every meal, and the bubbles renewed our youth. We swam in the ocean and ate oysters and read stories to each other. We even made up some of our own.

by Belinda Roddie "And this little eggy goes in my mouthhole!" "Uh-huh." "And this little eggy goes in your mouthhole." "No, thanks." "Then this little eggy will go up your a - " "No. No. Do not finish that sentence." "What's the matter, man? Not a fan?" "I don't like deviled eggs." "Aaron!" "It's the mayonnaise! I'm not a fan!" " Treason!" "Mayo's gross, dude. Did you know some sushi places put mayo on their rolls now? It's disgusting." "Um. That's aioli, my good sir." "John, what is aioli made out of?" "...Garlic and love?" "It's mayo. It's egg and cream.  Mayo." "Oh." "Yeah." "...Huh." "Yeah." "...Yeah, I knew that." "I was wondering." "I still think love is a key ingredient."...

Let's a build a fortress, you and me, tall enough for the entire world to see. Its golden spires will pierce the sky, bringing brilliant light to every eye. There'll be dozens of rooms, windows of stained glass, and its looming height will spook all who pass.