My Cardboard Balcony

It's A Date by Belinda Roddie We kissed over lukewarm bowls of soup at the tiny bistro that was probably going to close down in the next four months, as the owner was getting old, and her bones were beginning to poke through the folds of her skirt as she creaked her way across the outside dining area. We kissed when it was dark enough so that the spindly lamps glowed orange, because when they did that, you could see our silhouettes moving, but not our faces, and not the idiosyncratic fidgeting of our hands slipping under each other's black coats. We kissed once we knew that our parents wouldn't care anymore about the consequences, and we knew that God had given up on saving us, and we knew that the facade of civil society was pulling off its decaying mask to reveal a decaying laugh on its decaying lips. Theater has a funny way of reminding us of just that: That it's all theater, and the man in charge of drawing the curtain across the sta...

The heatwave was near its end by the time my wife finally acquiesced and purchased an air conditioning unit for our window. As the sun set, however, we could see sheets of fog billowing across the gray lips of the bay. Small sailboats had settled onto the water, and I gave my significant one of my signature "looks." "What?" she snapped. "We'll use it for the next time it gets hot as balls."

The worn down sign no longer told me to beware of the dog; in fact, the text was so worn down that it looked merely like a black smudge from a distance, with no Beware or Dog or Of The to speak of. Still, I could hear the rattling of a chain behind the fence, as well as a low, subtle stream of growling that didn't seem to stop, not even when I was about two houses away.

by Belinda Roddie She felt a cold hand on her shoulder. A large one. Weathered, each wrinkle holding its own ribbon of frost. Brown. Each fingernail short from a long-term biting habit. Torn up cuticles. Scarred knuckles. She knew her grandfather's hand when she felt it. He did not like to be alone anymore, and the fact that his bedroom was downstairs while her office was upstairs was most likely discomforting. Addison straightened her back against her chair before looking up into her grandfather's dark, creased face. "It's late," she said. She reached for the old man's outstretched fingers and gave them a squeeze. "You should be in bed." "What about you?" "The writing demons got me again. Will you be okay?" Addison's grandfather did not respond to that. Instead, he removed his hand from the young woman's grip and maneuvered to an old, red cushioned chair in the corner. It was a piece of furniture that was designat...

"You weren't listening to me!" "I was in the zone." "In the zone?" "Yeah. In the zone." Her hands shook as she set down her pen, but the ink remained on her fingers. "I was focused on my work. C'mon, look at me." Her roommate groaned and sat down on the edge of her bed. "You need to take a break." "Nope. Not now." "I was trying to tell you about the party on Friday." "And that'd also be a nope."

Hi, everyone! So...I've officially moved! Well, almost. While this will be my wife's and my first night staying at the new place, we do still need to get some odds and ends out of our former apartment. But by the end of the week, we'll be able to say we've officially moved out of our apartment into our condo. There's obviously a lot we're still navigating physically and mentally. In terms of physical adjustment, in some ways, the condo is smaller. We don't have as much cabinet space in the kitchen, and the living room is significantly reduced size-wise. However, we did live in our former apartment with my sister for almost two years, and it is nice to be in a home that's cozier (yeah, I know, it's a nicer word for smaller) and has less to clean. Plus, we have a lot more closet space, an outside yard area, and access to a shopping center about a five minute walk away. Also, I can totally walk to work now. The commute to my new job is nothing. ...

Benchin' Sixty Plus Kidneys by Belinda Roddie How many dead bodies can you bench, bro? Twenty? Fifty?