My Cardboard Balcony

Not So Distant by Belinda Roddie In the not so distant future, we will sing our songs in ancient tongues, bathe our bodies in amber, clothe ourselves in scraps of kings' old robes. In the not so distant future, we will drink from pots and iron bowls, kill our fathers with sharpened stones, and eat the bones with homemade gravy. In the not so distant future, we will name our daughters Rage. And our sons will be called War. And our mothers will always cry. Keep the faith for the not so distant future, where our mouths are dry, where the winds keep track of time, where we scream before we die.

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

Nothing Is by Belinda Roddie Nothing is comparable to the heat of a hand against an exposed belly that rises like the city on a hill, and all the colors drip from window panes to the window sill. The sun bathes in the canal. Our dreams are spun from silk.

Do not set fire to the ballot box. Do not tear down the protesters' signs. Leave your engines running, but your cars idle. Do not mark a martyr's body with tire treads. Be mindful of who interferes with what. A dictator is only friends for a day. Then the champagne you drink from the flute is poisoned, and you sleep while the republic withers away.

A Cup, A Cup For Me by Belinda Roddie Should you make your way to the headlands, you will find the reservoir of dreams. Drink from it, and save a sip for your wife. Share a kiss, and sleep with smiles. Try to find the good in everyone, and if you find none, direct them to the reservoir, for they will surely drown, or drink themselves sick. Dip both hands into the water; you will wash the past away. The present is in turmoil, and the future is always an uncertain guest. It may balk at your invitation, but do not worry that it won't come. Make your way into the headlands, and stay there until the next winter's rain.

She drew me to her, and she yanked the cliché out of my mind: The tired trope of the moth, fluttering aimlessly toward the perilous flickering flame. She was dressed in blue and had painted her nails green. Her hair was blonde. The only red was the glow exposed when she opened her mouth to speak. "I heard you're quite the fan of rum," she said to me, and before I could answer, a glass of the stuff was passed to me.

Terry and Larry loved the great outdoors. They hiked, they biked, they went fishing, and they went hunting. They camped out and they climbed mountains and they settled in deep, sweltering valleys, beating the heat with songs and stories. They appreciated every aspect that Mother Nature had to offer, and so, as they traveled, no harm came to them, not even in the form of natural disasters. That is, until an avalanche caught Terry off guard, and he disappeared into a torrent of snow as he skied along the white-crowned pines.