My Cardboard Balcony

Alas! The Algorithm by Belinda Roddie Alas! The algorithm has been changed, altered, mutated so that my sweet works of fiction do meet as wide a range of readers as they once did. Aye, the jerks of social media have put an end to my monthly average, thousands of views, sliced it in half - nay, more than that! Amend this, I think they will not. It's all been skewed - chronology be damned, order revoked, and formula converted into ruin. I know that any irritation stoked by this shall be ignored, so I am doomed to have my poetry bless no one's eye - unless I'm forced to - gulp! - diversify.

It's finally November, so I want to be direct with you: I don't want to come see your in-laws for Thanksgiving. I know that might frustrate you just a little bit, but I'm tired of seeing your mother's red "MAGA" hat, and I hate listening to hearing your father chew loudly with his mouth open. And for the love of God, don't even get me started on your sister, who's decided that she needs to scream at the TV every time the Pikachu float shows up during the Macy's parade.

An Ode To Arthropods by Belinda Roddie I kind of feel bad for spiders when it comes to Halloween; we tear down their actual homes and replace them with artificial webs that they certainly don't see artistic value in. And we definitely don't respect them for the high-value work they do for us pitiful humans. Say goodbye to flies and mosquitoes thanks to these arachnid bad boys. They eat the bad stuff so you don't have to! All I'm saying is, maybe don't attack the next spider you see. Especially when you're out trick-or-treating. Who knows, they might be a goddess protecting you from vampires. Or werewolves. Or unspeakable horrors playing tic tac toe in their graves before the dark moon rises.

Someone told me that candy corn was better than chocolate, and that is just wrong, you know? Like, hit the hammer with the nail, pour milk in before the cereal, deliver the mail to the mailman wrong. I mean, I dunno what sort of trick or treating nightmare escapades some folks have been on, but I'll take chocolate peanut butter, chocolate caramel, chocolate nuts, chocolate and anything over some pseudo-candy wax cones.

Pumpkin Face by Belinda Roddie My cheeks ache as if they've been carved to bits by something serrated. You try to call me beautiful, but I think that word's negated. My molars are sunken like orange pulp; my eyes droop like the dickens. I may as well be left to rot and pecked away by chickens. They call me Jack, but I suppose that Joke is more appropriate. In the late October evening heat, I guess that I'll just acclimate. You stick a small fire in my jaw and let me glow in twilight. My job is to entertain the kids whom to your door you still invite. Their teeth will fall from their heads, too, after all the sweets and candy. So if they end up looking like me, well, that'd be fine and dandy!

Oral Oddities by Belinda Roddie Look at me! I collect teeth! I was a dentist once, you see. I pulled out molars with utter glee and kept them in a jar meant for cookies. I like the canines and incisors the best, arranging them so I don't make a mess. I shine a light behind the glass so it glows at night like pearly brass. My mother is afraid of me, and my dad, to forget, drinks heavily. But I don't mind being considered eerie; I'll always collect every skeleton's teeth.