My Cardboard Balcony

Whiskeys For Two by Belinda Roddie Whiskeys for two, please! Let the glasses spill because we're young and we are so in love. We'll drink two toasts to both calm and good will, until the music provokes us to move across the floor like gliding seraphim - holy, but flawed, our wings outstretched and bright in the small space. We'll feed on every whim like salty appetizers and a flight of brimming beers. This country is a mess, and our freedoms are waning, but for now, we still have a right to dance and caress each other on the lips and nose and brow without a right-wing maniac to break the permanent pact that we aim to make.

I met Tracey on her porch, fondly gazing at her as she walked out wearing quite the ensemble. I knew she could pull off red, but this was giving the Scarlet Pimpernel a run for his money - or moniker, for that matter. Her outfit was crimson embroidery and maroon ascot and burgundy boots, the only exception, color wise, being the brass buttons on her coat.

Before Bombardment by Belinda Roddie Details, scrawled out in militant rows, with dirty uniforms, dead guns, and snakes made of ammo hissing at the sunset. Numbers in a computer that only runs when you plug it into the source. In the trench, I pull you toward me. The brass buttons on your jacket are sticky. Your braided cap hides the crescent moons of your eyes. Here, we huddle and heat each other up with our bodies, our fragile bodies, our shaking, stuttering bodies. Words tremble in our stomachs; they threaten to rise up like yellow bile. Here, for a while, we do not hear the rockets or the bombs. The dragons are sleeping, and so we simply breathe on one another's faces instead of reciting our prayers. Beyond the front line, the generals meet again. Their suits are clean, and they wear no hats. Their heads shine brighter than the smile of a warhead's heat shield. They do not laugh, but they think about mirth filling their champagne glasses and t...

I had been sleeping in until ten o'clock for days now; I knew that, and my family knew that. Therefore, I was startled when, one chilly morning, I felt awake and alive around six AM. I don't know what spurred me on, but a sudden heat that almost felt like it was crackling in my bones rocketed me out of bed. I pulled on my clothes, tied on some hiking boots, and without thinking much on it, found myself hiking up the hill near my parents' house.

The Overwhelm by Belinda Roddie I'll set a timer and see how long you hold me until your arms get tired or I start sweating too much and cannot stop the shaking. Beads form across my nose: the warmth is there, but fleeting, and, once felt, it hardly leaves a mark. When wiped away, its shadow dies. Across the water, boats somehow keep floating in the storm. You press your face against the window, the glass shielding you from the rain. I stay rigid on the mattress, knees bent, toes curled like talons, hands hugging my own chest. I cannot feel my own heart beating, but I know the rhythm is, strangely, constant. I do not hear the timer go off. You say you want to put your arms around me again. You want to protect me from the barrage of information streaming from the outside world. Text, code imprinted on my skin like tattoos. Once read, it's remembered - nothing less. I feel a pinch between my shoulders and think I might die sooner than expected. B...

Let me weave you a tapestry that has colors you never imagined before. A purple we would not call purple, a blue different from blue. The sunrise on the fabric will warm your room faster than the emerging heat outside. Morning leaves you covered in threads and frayed ends. I'll pick up a needle and stitch you up if you're falling apart. And you are falling apart, my love, at the seams.

Meanwhile, Downstairs... by Belinda Roddie Sarah clung to Rachel's hips and dipped her in front of the mirror, kissing her hard on the lips and slipping her fingers under the hem of her skirt. Above their heads, the dancing had commenced in the ballroom bedecked with gaudy, pretentious charm, where boys twirled girls and girls twirled boys, all dripping pearls and bowties. The champagne was popped, and a toast was drunk, while onto the bed the two girls dropped, their mouths seeking a target and finding just the right, warm spots. Both wore red, but they burst the buttons and stripped away the fabric that held back heated red bodies. Sarah sang, and Rachel shrieked, and once it was over, they both plummeted into an electrified, humming sleep.