My Cardboard Balcony

We Are Open by Belinda Roddie bathrobe half open sash lying still like a snake struck dead by unexpected gravity you nestle between me and the blue cushions of my mother's couch door half open leading to the outside where the fingers of flowers gasp for cooler air and more copious water the thirst never ends at the beginning of summer especially not now we are here we are here tonight when the heat has dissipated into mirages of morning we are here we are here tonight and we are open

You forget to close your blinds, and suddenly the light of a thousand suns is blazing through your window. Tearing your eyes open. Flinging you from your sheets with its sheer glare. You try to hide from it, but you see that now hundreds of your shadows are cast along the walls. And this morning, they all want to dance.

Midnight Walks by Belinda Roddie When the moon's wax drips onto my sweater sleeve, I feel the burn of celestial beings, of stars desperate to retain their shape despite their pseudo-eternal heat. There are gods and goddesses somewhere, I'm sure - suspended in a faint sunbeam, cradled in the arms of a galaxy, its veil drawn over its head, its fingerprints staining their skin. I'm frightened of the end, when I'll become dust in the vacuum of space. My psychology will not last long on that ethereal plane. There will be no sandwiches to eat, no bicycles to ride, no midnight walks to greet you at the street lamp, where fireflies light up their own universe, and spiders hide planets in their webs. The jets overhead take us only so far; when we touch the sidewalk, we are limited, but the moon melts above us. And when day arrives, we pretend that we're actually free.

She was supposed to be my greatest rival. The one person I could counter in the fighting ring. The challenge of my day. The brutal might against my steady endurance. And yet, there she was, sleeping half-naked in my bed, the room already heating up around our bodies. Why had I invited her in? And why had I been so enticed by her? How had it come down to this?

It's a hot pre-summer day, and once again, no update on the OneWord website. I miss the consistency, people!

Abandoned Car Wash by Belinda Roddie It's seven o'clock on a Monday night, and the place is dead. It's always dead. Sure, some cars whiz by from time to time, always heading east to a baseball game or west to an all-you-can-eat buffet on its last economically sound legs. But the drivers never stop here. No one's around to wash their beaten-up jalopies, anyway. Even five years after it closed, Old Ben's Car Wash still smells like bleach. The strong kind, too - not the flowery detergent type that makes all your laundry as fragrant as a middle-aged lady's rose garden. I'm talking about formaldehyde-level bleach, the kind you use when you need to clean up secrets. The pungent odor gets in your nose, and it burns, like every hair in your nostrils is set on fire. The inside of the car wash is gutted, but the whole area still smells like it's been embalmed and preserved. Like a plaster and steel mummy. Old Ben's Car Wash used to have a staff of thirt...

I was sweating profusely after the round, my hands shaking as I tried to steady myself against the floor. My opponent was already approaching me - his head was shaved, his jaw gleaming and free of stubble, a thin ribbon of blood still dangling from his nose. I stared at him and somehow managed to laugh. "I thought we were still in training mode," I joked. "Are we going to do more than spar now?" He didn't laugh. But he did return my smile. "Perhaps."