My Cardboard Balcony

Yes, This Is Madness by Belinda Roddie Yes, this is madness: Rich and brimming from the cup of life, encrusted with bright gems all pulled from rings, the bands left on each thumb and forefinger of kings whose fickle dreams keep them still longing for treasures of old. I wrinkle up each letter to my wife, and though I know her heart is built from gold, it grows too heavy to carry in life, and so I shall discard it soon enough. Do not think me a failure in marriage, but instead a scarecrow that has been stuffed with mud and salt that's far too thick to dredge. I waver in the field of my own mind, forgetting all the loves I left behind.

People try to tell you it's a lifestyle you've chosen. It's an option that you've taken as if the other one was inferior. They say that all your kisses are forced by some sort of hidden agenda that you've never seen published, or in a book on your nightstand. Best you can do is ignore them. That's what I do, anyway. What do they know about the way we love? It's as natural as breathing; we can't shut our lungs off.

Night Terrors by Belinda Roddie you stitched a tiny scream into your pink pillow perfect for when the bad dreams take off their hats and let their hair fall forward in a tapestry of spider webs and ruptured capillaries you kiss the knife you keep beneath the sheets good night but it doesn't kiss you back it waits for the inevitable plunge into your husband's heart when you awake then everything will be red red red then everything will be red

When the man in the blue wide-brimmed hat is asked for directions to the train station, he doesn't hesitate. He points toward a small, squat yellow building and spits out of the corner of his mouth. The group of tourists lug their bags across street, their black boots blending in with the black asphalt, and appear to melt into the air once they get far away enough. They become shadows, while the man in the blue hat sticks another wedge of tobacco into his maw.

Being The Weatherman by Belinda Roddie I just hate it when the rain gets in my nose and inside my sinuses grows a pity party where all my exes drink and sing along to sad music while I try to sleep. Same with when the sun gets caught in my hair, and every stranger on the bus stares as I try to claw the gift of gold from my angry follicles. Take it, Midas - I don't fucking want it. And now, with the winds roaring, I know that if I step outside, the gusts will incorrectly assume that I'm ready to fly, and I'm not interested in hurtling two hundred miles through the air just to land in a heap on your doorstep, while you won't give an iota of a care.

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

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...