My Cardboard Balcony

Our Eyes, Our Ways by Belinda Roddie We don't see green the same way, and we have different memories of puce and chartreuse, of vermilion and viridian. You saw my sweater and pictured more of a seaweed streaming ocean rather than the untamed beard of sagebrush. The argument lulls in time for the evening show, but it starts up again in good fun in the office, where you claim your vision to be superior to mine, until, at least, we settle on the fact that our gazes hold perspectives that don't fully mesh on the silly string of the color spectrum. In the meantime, we both eat cake, lemon and chocolate massaging our tongues, countering the apple beer we've prescribed ourselves after a long evening. And I don't have to work tomorrow, and we can sleep in as late as we want, but for now, we listen to our own preferred stories, leaving invisible finger paintings on our keyboards, bringing all the hues together into a glorious fucking rainbow.

Stay alert. Stay informed. Keep a knife under your pillow. Store a chainsaw beneath your bed. Sew your eyes shut to get better sleep. Then undo the stitches in order to see the morning light again. Get your news from the bottom of a teacup. The seers know better than the journalists do. Then sharpen each blade and kiss them softly. If the beasts come again tonight, you are ready.

Let's Not Work Today by Belinda Roddie There's a nosebleed by the computers, a teacher passed out across the hall. There's an inappropriate game being played by student and mentor alike. The rules have been changed periodically to catch the powers that be off guard. The smoke from the never ending northwestern infernos makes it hard to breathe, and the sweat clings to the bridge of one's nose because the air conditioner has gone to sleep for now, and everything is very, very quiet.

I have a special announcement, my friends! Starting next week, you are all entitled to spend at least one hour a week with me, basking in the awesome glow of my presence at least for one fraction of your otherwise abysmal day. Just doing my service as a truly miraculous individual whom this community just couldn't manage without! Just don't call or text me - I only enjoy human contact when I plan it, and I just don't like some of you.

Monday In The North Bay by Belinda Roddie I remember the days when the world wasn't literally on fire, and the grass rose in hairy tufts without fear of angry embers settling their twisted, aching bodies into the creases of the earth's dry skin. There was plenty of rain to soak up Mother's palate, and if you were lucky, you got to drink the bay breeze without ribbons of ash getting caught in your mouth - a most unwelcome garnish atop the natural cocktail you were served. I thought about all the things I would throw into my car if given the time, if given the moment, just in case the embers decided to greet me at my front door. Photos in frames and albums, a cloudy chest filled with sentimental values and past dreams. The books would stay. Most of the clothes would, too. Elsewhere, further north and west, the stranded didn't have time to think about their options. All while the vineyards and stores and houses burned down and left people with nothi...

I was the writer, the editor, and the publisher in this world. I ran the companies and the distributors and all of the bookstores. I used every single pseudonym I could think of to cram the shelves with tomes all of my own. And no one reading them - no devourer of words, no so-called scholar or pendant of literature - would be able to tell the difference. They said that books were a lost art. I had revived them. And now I brought every existing page to life.

I got a haircut just for my anniversary. I took her out to a nice dinner and ate enough for three. Sweet cake and champagne to make the night that much better. Top it off with city life with really nice weather. I am stronger from the marriage that I have with my wifey, and I hope she'll stick with me for the rest of my lifey! Happy Anniversary, babe. Love ya!