My Cardboard Balcony

Sequence by Belinda Roddie black and white photographs juxtaposed with color a neon swathe of color revealing the guts of women who danced better than they fought and sang louder than they screamed you hang each frame by the edge of your bed your pictures like marionettes without guidance or direction memories seldom receive either they've already chosen their paths and can't be forced backward by Time's unsteady hands she can't keep her fingers still like frightened rabbits they skitter into the darkness of her sleeves I hope you find me at your drinking hole where we can dance and snap polaroids that render us white noise temporarily before we assume our old shapes once more if you take me to bed just remember that you don't have to tell your stories to me again I've heard them before they're lodged in my belly creating heat creating color among the black and white

There was a cold wind blowing against the stained glass window of the church, and no birds were singing; their whistling tunes would be drowned out by the organ player, who was practicing on a Monday evening, when only one person was in the confessional. The person in the confessional was young, weeping; in her hands she clasped a crystal rosary, trying to pray away a sinful part of herself.

"Hey. Hey, kid," muttered the homeless woman sitting in her own urine at the bus stop. "You've got something for me to eat? I'm hungry. Starving! I need protein, you hear? And carbs! I'll die of exhaustion without carbs!" The young boy unwrapped his sandwich and handed it to the woman, who devoured it eagerly. A little rush of color rose in her cheeks, and she sighed and lulled her head back against the concrete wall.

by Belinda Roddie Even a hundred miles apart, their hearts beat to the same rhythm. Our hearts. Even a hundred miles apart, their bodies move to the same music. Our bodies. The choreography guides us to beaches and on long hikes among the redwoods. Counting banana slugs. Counting each star that peeks out from beneath its blue security blanket, making sure there are no monsters hidden under its cosmic bed. Even a hundred miles apart, the geography is the same. We see the same kinds of trees outside our bedroom windows. The same moon glows above our heads. The same celestial bodies watch over this little planet that's plagued with ambitious creatures with big dreams to reach new galaxies - or perfect the small galaxies they've created around them, in small towns, in big cities, in villages and skyscrapers. In basements and attics. Beneath sheets. On a computer screen. I know I'll see you again soon, my love, even though your little boat is rudderless and can't s...

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

Well. This is it. Tonight, I finally get to reveal what I've been super vague about. The big update to my life that I hope will lead to a great new adventure full of learning and success and self-fulfillment. Ladies, gentlemen, and non-binary lovelies...I am ridiculously gay. Oh, no, sorry. That part's painfully obvious. Moving on. The real news is: I have a new job! I will be teaching tenth grade English and Yearbook at a public high school in a nearby county. I start in August, and my wife and I will be moving as close as possible to the campus. It's a big change, and I'm very excited. I'm also extremely terrified. For a number of reasons - some legit, some irrational. For starters, I now have to say goodbye to Fusion Academy, where I have taught English and Social Studies for over two years. The time I have spent at this small but mighty school has been invaluable, and I wouldn't change a thing about it. I have grown so much as a teacher and a perso...

Warrior's Duty by Belinda Roddie I shape the dreams of children with a sword and shield.