My Cardboard Balcony

Oh, my God. Guys. Guys. Guys. Someone get me out of my town for a bit. Someone take me to the beach or to a national park so we can hike or just to a café in the middle of nowhere for a chai tea or a hot cocoa. Someone grab a guitar while I play mandolin so we can just improvise and sing adlibbed lyrics that may or may not be nonsensical. Someone cook a meal with me. Someone go on a day-long road trip with me to the coast. Someone get me to try a food or beverage I've never tried or I swear I hate but maybe need to try again. Someone get me to explore. Someone encourage me to do a reading of my work. Someone dare me to go to a thrift shop and blindly pick an outfit to wear because why not it's adventurous isn't it?! Someone just please, please force me out of this bubble of stress and craziness and ridiculously high expectations and drama and frustration because look. I like my job. I like teaching. I like working on projects. I like writing. But I feel like I...

Not Sparkly When Wet by Belinda Roddie If you spray me, I shall lose my natural luster.

The maiden was chosen for the sacrifice for allegedly one thing: Her purity. It all seemed so cruel to me. She was led up to the hellmouth with her hands tied behind her hand. Her feet were bare, the soles already scorched from the heat. And the town elders, bless their shriveled hearts, had dressed her in white. I watched her raise her eyes to the heavens, her chest heaving with hidden sobs.

Blink Once by Belinda Roddie Blink once, and I will still be standing there; blink twice, and, well, I might just disappear. We're alone in this room, an awkward pair, with frantic eyes and anxious, perked up ears, as if we're to be ambushed by a swarm of skeptics and false prophets wielding tomes as heavy as wind ripping through a storm. They'd scream and holler at us, torching bones, branding us with the letters S-I-N. They'll never make much sense of our affair, which is so much more than a simple fling. So if I touch your hand or stroke your hair, don't blink too much in case I fade away; keeping your eyes open blocks out the gray.

My Person by Belinda Roddie This is my person: She takes good care of me. She provides the daily emotional support that I desperately need. She sometimes cooks me dinner; in return, I brew her tea. I love my person very much, and she thinks I'm lovely.

I could feel her fingernails on my back. Racing against each ridge, attempting to probe my spine as if she were trying to extract something from my bones. The sensation set my teeth on the brink, made the stuff in my veins turn into a personal arctic ocean. I felt shriveled up and petrified like an old tree. But the worst was the noise they made. Like my body was, indeed, an outdated, makeshift chalkboard.