My Cardboard Balcony

Afternoon Party by Belinda Roddie It all tastes so petty, and pettiness does not go well with honey or nutmeg, or cinnamon or tea. I'd rather drink myself silly, indulge in whiskey or molasses, the kind of flavor that clings to you. Your teeth ache just from the memory of the tang. If we were all a little less focused on our miniaturized vendettas, we could settle for miniaturized cupcakes and sandwiches instead. This sugar mixed with cream is gentler and more appealing for civilized conversation. Though the aroma of almonds is suspicious.

They told us that regulation wasn't necessary for the economy to flourish. They chided us about profits and bottom lines and quarterly expectations. I guess they were okay with the children getting poisoned by their own toys laced with lead. Or they didn't mind our pets choking on their own food. Or they shrugged as norovirus spread like wildfire across restaurant chains. Or they didn't care that the pristine lakes in our country gradually mutated into toxic sludge.

The Swamp by Belinda Roddie Here in the swamp, we wade in the mud until all of the skin up to our knees is coated in green and brown and black. We dip our fingers into the bayou and feel the fishes and critters wriggles against our cuticles. Sometimes, we see the glittering beady eyes of alligators, their snouts protruding from the seemingly endless waters. When we are done covering ourselves in mud, we then rinse off in the shower provided by our tiny lodge, and we settle for sweet potatoes and rice for lunch. My brother and I like to hitch a ride from Big Janice around three, and we drive all the way out to where the salt water is swallowing up islands that used to protrude from the shore like pearly kneecaps. She lets us eat shrimp sandwiches at the Old Man's Bucket before making us walk all the way home. She says it's good for us. There aren't too many people who live where we live now. Papa's always told to move us out before the hurricanes get bad again - o...

Behold, my friends! Here upon the wall, you will see the emblem of the Dolfhagen Clan. See the crossed swords representing the might of this ancient family. Admire the golden ram's head, its horns proud and tall, for the Dolfhagens need no lion's head to display their strength and power. Nay, it is the symbol of stubbornness, for we have endured so much in all these years, and yet we refuse to turn away from the onslaught.

I hate making mistakes. I hate making mistakes. I hate making mistakes. I hate making mistakes. I hate making mistakes. I hate making mistakes. Mistakes that cost money and make me look bad in front of my boss are more than a nuisance. They're a goddamn nightmare. Mistakes that could potentially ruin a good reputation I've worked my ass off to build and maintain come straight from the devil's hot and sweaty bowels. I hate them. I'd like to boil all the mistakes I've made in a cauldron of acid. I'd like to take all the mistakes I've made outside when it's dark and beat 'em all with a stick. I'd like to cut all the mistakes I've made into little tiny pieces with a very sharp knife, salt them, butter them, and serve them as dinner for my imaginary dogs. I hate making mistakes. I hate making mistakes. I HATE MAKING MISTAKES. I hate making mistakes. Have a great night and a great weekend, everyo...

Gravity by Belinda Roddie Push me off a cliff: I'll fly before I fall.