My Cardboard Balcony

An Idyllic Scene by Belinda Roddie Last time I checked, all the mouth-breathing, tobacco-gnawing, squirrel-faced flat-Earthers were at the local alley, bowling hambones and drinking bad sangria out of plastic pitchers, wearing red baseball caps with slogans that were tailored toward the fat men with fat pockets. They slurped up their lukewarm booze and relinquished their bodies to the primordial soup being served to those who evolved quickly enough to stomach it. And they weren't planning on leaving the facilities any time soon - not before a game of billiards and a shitty round of pinball with that little silver ball dinging to the beat of their own congestive heart failure.

"Well?" growled Toby. " Well? Now you understand what we're dealing with?" Henry frowned. He scratched at his grizzled gray beard, looking increasingly more uncomfortable in his tailored blue suit. "Okay," he confessed. "So maybe I didn't understand the exact scope of the incident..." "Scope...? Motherfucker, we're doomed! Our airline's never gonna recover from this!"

Morning After by Belinda Roddie I thought about mixing my drink with melatonin so I could sleep with laughter turning into gray froth on my cold, swollen lips. I thought about driving my cousin to the train station and leaving him concussed on a bench so he could wake up to the sound of travel. I thought about making pancakes for three, but eating enough for two, and you would have the rest, all fluffy and compounded with the sweetness of a day with the sweetness of a story with the sweetness of a scream

How many times will you always say how in shock you are of the kings today? As they wade to their knees in the angry seas that they brewed up themselves, you're in shock and in awe? Don't make me laugh; I am sick to my stomach, and the monarchs of tomorrow are ruining today. They drink beer from old buckets and tuck money in their pockets before blowing the kingdom sky high.

Home Team by Belinda Roddie a smoke, a pack a box of Cracker Jacks a sharp blow to the noggin with a baseball bat!

We ate cherry pie first and roasted chicken later, drinking wine in between intervals of gorging and gluttony, smoking old cigarettes found in the attic by Timothy when he started scavenging for hidden treasures. It all tasted like resin and sap in the end - even the fruit seemed aged and trapped in blobs of amber in our mouths.

Watch the cars spin and swerve on a wet country road. Their dance is deadly. Their faces are scratched and bleeding. Oil and rainbows. Oil and rainbows. Oil and rainbows! Their buck-toothed  smiles go clickety-clack as they slow against the damp rails. Stand at your window and sip your late night decaf as the build-up grows. The sirens whimper more than scream. Even the police cars are dragged into the choreography - they spin and they swerve and they dance.