My Cardboard Balcony

I'm Feeling by Belinda Roddie I'm feeling all the pressure on my back and shoulders, tightening up into knots. I fear that I'll have a panic attack, or cough so much that soon, I'm seeing spots in my vision. The dread has slowly crept its way into my brain and nested there, keeping me awake when I should have slept and making my better judgment impaired. Everyone's worried about me, I know, but what am I supposed to say? I try to hard to beat the fear and vertigo that makes me sway and shake and laugh and cry and put me through the roller coaster ride. There's not much more of this that I can hide.

I had a problem. A big one. I had been designing a game for six years now. I had coded it. I had illustrated it. I had written the story. Everything was falling into place. And then I told my friend to try downloading it from my computer. She had no luck. "It won't install," she informed me. "What? Why?" "It says it's corrupt?" I stared. "How the Hell can the game be corrupt? I've been demo-ing it for the past week."

The Loiterer by Belinda Roddie Well, stick a rose behind my ear, dress me all in purple, and dip my fingers in rainbow sprinkles. Just make sure my new suit doesn't have any stubborn wrinkles. The sugar on my skin is a perfect rival to the salt, the perspiration clinging to my hair as I begin my solo waltz. I'm hoping that you'll notice me outside the grocery store, where I'm radiating sunlight like a human prism. You never really liked me, but maybe we can mend this schism. Take off the woolen gloves, and soon, the chill will turn to heat. My dancing might be wild, but my smile may just have you beat.

Watch him pretend to be cunning like a fox, or listen to him howl like he's trying to be a wolf. I have no respect for a man who acts more like a rabid animal than a composed civilian. I have no respect for a man who drinks from the gutter and snarls at women who don't respond to his whistles. He doesn't have enough breath left in his body to blow down a straw house, but that's due to all the years he's smoked his brains out.

Dipped In All The Colors by Belinda Roddie These shadows on the walls want me to snap myself in half. I'm trying to stay ahead, but still, my brain is understaffed. I'm running graveyard shifts, but I might be digging my own grave. Who needs to spare a soul when they say mine needs to be saved? They're calling me depraved because they think I've misbehaved, but shadows don't know shit beyond a simple silhouette. They like to claim they gamble when they've never placed a bet. I've bet my fucking livelihood on things they've never felt, just trying every single goddamn day to be myself.  I'm dressed all dapper, suit's a snapper, but my eyes are neon. They glow brighter than signatures all written out in crayon. You like to be all vintage, but I'm meant for this new eon. I'll warm you up and chill you down; I'm made of fucking freon. I'm built out of the bricks thrown by the great ...

The children were all hungry. The children were all tired. The children were all angry. The children were all wired. The children couldn't sleep despite how sleepy they all were. They couldn't keep their food down, even though their stomachs purred. The children cried, the children wailed, the children spat and screamed. And when they all at last dozed off, they never really dreamed. The children all stayed hungry, and yes, they all stayed tired. And not a moment's rest for us, who drove on all the while.

Unearthed by Belinda Roddie When I pull you into bed, your clothes still dangling from your supple frame, I do everything gently, and tastefully, as I strip you bare of every shroud of shame. When you kiss me and it stings, I feel embers in my gut, collected in ashen piles, rejuvenating me before I think about what to do with you now. What to do with us now. Now is the time for action. Now is the time to take me somewhere warmer than the vapors of our synchronous breathing. Be steady, and I'll be the one to row you back over to shore. But you'll need to lead me to the ocean first, seal the sores on my skin with salt, so that when I swim, I float. I never sink, not until you grab my arm and pull me into depths unexplored. Just do it all gently, and tastefully, please. I'd like to drown in your bucket of thrills with just a little bit of class.