My Cardboard Balcony

Valentinus by Belinda Roddie You all know me: I am worthy of your attention. My grave is plastered over with paper hearts and doilies. My power comes from mystery; no one knows if there was only one of me. My name is scrawled on every Hallmark card and banner glued to the glass teeth of a storefront's mouth, sealing each transaction with a kiss. I am Valentinus - a saint, let me remind you, a man of God who slapped his palms across a girl's eyes and forced her to see her surroundings again. Asterius was impressed. He smashed his idols for me, fasted until his stomach caved in, and I sated the spirit of his belly with holy water, baptized him while his disorders growled for sustenance. Claudius, not so thrilled. He saw how I tied lovers' hands into Christian knots so husbands wouldn't go to war - or maybe I was just bitchslapping the concept of persecution, I don't know - and so he stripped me of my own grip on mortality. I bear the bruise...

No OneWord update on Valentine's Day? This saddens me.

Foreclosure by Belinda Roddie This house is the last true home where I stayed before the tyrant walked in with a stick and summoned me away. His crown sat lopsided on his broken head; no jewels, but he claimed it was made of gold. I can count the number of bricks that hadn't cracked under the strain of the elements on one hand - with three fingers. Jealous of such a ramshackle haven, he cast me into the street corner, shoved shards of asphalt under my nails, and expected me to laugh through the pain. His authority was faded ink on a deed. This house is where I last sang to my wife before she left for a personal planet that was easier to fit in her pocket than my anxieties. When my job grew legs and ran away from me, she remembered that she already had two good ones to help her do the same. The tyrant wore a suit with his circlet. It was stained with mocha nightmares and ketchup that escaped the follicles of stale French fries. He kept his face buried in...

Well, then, pretty lady. I guess I have to run into you again at this quaint little coffeehouse. I guess we'll have to both endure the boy in the beret beating on the bongos - like my alliteration there? Who knows if either of us are exactly that into poetry - I have mixed feelings myself. They make a good mocha here, so if you want, pretty lady, you can have a couple on me. It's entirely your call.

Cocktail Menu by Belinda Roddie The truth is, I need that girl like I need a shot of whiskey - burning all the way down, leaving ulcers in my gut that somehow bring on good pains. Coating my throat in sparks that numb after they're done with their flight. I need that girl like three rounds of tequila and lime, with just enough salt. If I feel dizzy, then I ought to thank her for the vertigo. Her body makes my head spin like a carnival ride. As long as I don't puke after the high I get, I'm good. I need that girl like an Irish Carbomb slammed into my jaw. The shot glass quivers like a loose tooth against my own incisors. I feel the impact of the brim of the stein more than the bite of the alcohol at first, and the tremors don't stop; my heart beats out angry earthquakes that crush the Richter scale with steel-toed boots. I get the urge to down another one despite the fact that 1. Irish Carbombs don't really taste that good, anyway, except for...

"Why do you think he's here?" whispered Anya, her eyes narrowed above the brim of her beer stein. "I don't know," I muttered. "Maybe he's waiting for a friend?" "Pfft. Doubt it. I'm sure there's some girl he's planning to stalk or whatever." I stared at Anya. It wasn't like her to be so accusatory. What had Marshall done to her to make her so suspicious of him and his actions? Besides, this was the best bar in town - he didn't need to ask for permission to frequent it.

I couldn't tell if the last remaining strands of hair on Grandma's head were white or gold - if the sun hit them right, you could see a flaxen sheen, though again, I wasn't sure if that was the natural color or not. Still, it was strange to see my grandmother balding while my grandfather had a full head of hair. She covered it up most of the time, wearing a scarf around her head or one of the hats she had knitted over the past four months.