My Cardboard Balcony

A Secret Guest by Belinda Roddie Come see me once the men in black armor have left for the night in their barbed wire carriages, forming stitches and breaking jaws on the previously pristine cobblestone. I will be in my room at nine o'clock, and I will be cutting my hair link by golden link, like brass and bronzed chains that I've been keen on snapping with a blade. Come kiss me after my father's guards have drunk too much of his homemade mead, and therefore, their eyes are too glazed over to tell the difference between lips and bricks. I want to hear your stories one more time, read off papyrus and summer reeds, sung by swans and spun into tiny beads. I collect each word and save them in a broken music box. That way, the song is silent, but your lyrics remind me of the draconian word: Freedom.

You cannot beat me - I am unstoppable. I am invincible and impenetrable. My armor is forged from metals from parts of the galaxy you've never explored. My sword can slay even the most powerful of leviathans. I am the Goliath to your Goliath. You cannot defeat me with stones. And you cannot usurp my hard earned throne.

There was nothing radical about Sam's dissertation, but she sure as Hell acted like it was. She seriously seemed to believe that what she had written was cutting edge - extreme - full of shocking new information. It wasn't. It was simply a slanted perspective of a controversial topic we were all familiar with - and over half of our classmates agreed with her. I sighed and lowered my head against my desk as she verbally patted herself on the back in indulgent praise of her own work.

by Belinda Roddie We didn't have much in common in fifth grade, but one thing we always bonded over was cheese puffs. I think it started after I finished up a soccer game, and since her parents and my parents were mutual friends, they dragged me over to her piano recital on the same night. I remember sitting in the front row with grass stained knees and dirty cleats and a fraying jersey, wishing I could be anywhere else. And I'm sure she played well - I mean, I know she's a brilliant musician now - but I wasn't exactly paying attention. Anyway, after the recital, we were waiting by our parents' cars as they talked about grown-up things and what not, and I remember her ripping open a huge bag of cheese puffs. Just a ginormous bag - not a personal helping, but a feast. I felt my ten-year-old mouth salivate; after all, I hadn't eaten anything since that stale granola bar during halftime of my game. She noticed and smiled. "My dad always lets me have chee...

Dear Madison, Please disregard that last message I sent you. Truth be told, I wasn't in my office when I wrote it. I was, in fact, at the Teddy Bear Tavern downtown, and I had drunk one too many Moscow mules, and quite frankly, I'm embarrassed by the entire thing. You deserve better than to have a lovesick, inebriated moron spill her guts out to you like in such a horrific, unprofessional way that causes discomfort or confusion. Sincerely, the Village Idiot

So. Here we are on another Friday. Three more weeks left of school. One more week before my wife and I have been dating for seven years. A month and three days before my twenty-ninth birthday. Guys. I am exhausted. But I had a fun day today! I got to have fun with my students, help them out with their argumentative essays, play some fun music (Thanks, Commodores and Talking Heads!), and overall be jokey and fun with that. I love it when I can just be the fun teacher in my job, instead of always the strict and annoyed teacher. It was also National Pizza Party Day, so Arden and I bought grocery store pizza and celebrated. Because...you know...stuff in the United States sucks right now, and pizza is a temporary fix to our lingering problems. Thanks, Orange Man. I also loved being able to give an online friend advice on writing, while simultaneously cutting people down for being self-entitled snots. What can I say? I speak my mind a lot. And I try to help in any way I can - even if...