My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie The air smelled of a familiar mix of cinnamon and adrenaline. Of ginger ale and sweat. Of Bengal Spice tea and unbridled rage. The scents all attacked my nostrils with the same velocity and viciousness as the fist that left a dent in the concave part of my stomach. He had always been big and strong, and tonight, he made it very clear how big of a mistake I had made in telling him the truth. I could see the froth around his bearded lips like he was a rabid animal, the tension in his muscles as he set down the mug that he was going to fill with hot water. He tried to dump the scalding stuff from the kettle onto my body, but I evaded it just enough so that it only singed my toes after it splashed across the old linoleum. But he knew how to throw a punch. And he threw several at me, like an angry pitcher attempting to bean a batter with a sloppy fastball. The cinnamon that plagued my nose was from the toast he ate that morning. The ginger ale, a beverage I had chose...

All I ever wanted was to be the tallest person in my class. Not exactly sure why - I guess because I felt inferior as a writer, and as an artist, and as a mathematician, and as an athlete - you see where I'm going with this. I figured being at least six foot three could give me a bit of confidence to look past my obvious deficits and flaws. Stupid, I know. But Rodrigo wound up being two inches taller than me. God damn it, Rodrigo.

Guys, I am so tired. I finished up my second week back at my teaching job. I'm training my students to properly use cameras, and some have a long way to go. But some are doing great! It's definitely a mix. I want my Yearbook staff to finalize the God forsaken cover design already, but some students are at each other's throats and there's drama and I don't want iiiiiiiiiit Also, I was on campus from 7:30 AM to 10:30 PM because of both my classes and a football game. Guys. I need to go to sleep. At least I get an extended weekend! Have a great night, everyone.

Flesh and Blood by Belinda Roddie Did you just say that Zombie Max was your uncle?

Our Baby Turtles by Belinda Roddie Our baby turtles wanted treasure, so they dove deep into our personal bay beside our waterfront house. They found gold and precious gems beneath the sand and clay and brought them back to us, caught in their mouths. We never knew such creatures could embark on such an expedition in the south and discover such fortune on a lark. Needless to say, we told no one of this, collecting precious metal by the crate and letting our reptiles partake in bliss as they scrounged up the profits that would sate the financial woes of our family. We donated a lot to charity!

We counted thirteen boats bobbing like planets along an endless watery cosmic sea. Seven of them were sailboats. They moved in a straight line, like a poor man's armada, before circling the dusty black rocks that made up the town's shoreline. I couldn't see the faces of the people steering the vessels, but I could see how brown their skin was - baked like caramelized sugar on a summer afternoon.