My Cardboard Balcony

The Man Who Hid by Belinda Roddie The man who hid behind a tree wore shades and bore stubble like dark and somber roots growing across a volley. Kids in spades wandered down the street in sandals and boots, the Farmer's Market lively. Yet he stood staring at the gray bark as if to bore a hole through the old trunk. It took a good two minutes or so 'til he moved some more, leaning on his cane, head jerking back and forth from one side of the tree and then to the other. Was he hiding from a friend or foe? Was he surveilling crowds and crews and gaggles of townsfolk? I'll never know, since his story is not mine to be told.

Man, that joke was so good that you left me in stitches. I mean, literally. I laughed so fucking hard, I fell off my stool and took my half full pint of lager with me. Wound up breaking the damn glass and leaving gashes large enough to land flying saucers in. Fucking grand canyons, those wounds. So I got all knitted and crocheted up at the ER. Still, though, fan-fucking-tastic joke. Well worth the steep medical bills I got now.

Gaming Gone Too Far by Belinda Roddie Tell me, sir - are you a medic, or a bruiser, or a werewolf, or a crusader, or a tank? Can you smite the devils living in my ears, my eyes, and my nostrils, where they give me tinnitis and cause me tears and make me snore so my poor wife can't sleep? How many margaritas and glasses of rosé must I drink before the prisoners of war are freed? Or the punishers are released from their shrines? Or the dragon knight destroys another keep, belching flame from the spicy burrito he ate while biding his time? Meet me at your camp, and I shall bring my sword collection. Some of it is sharp, though none of it is durable. Seeing all your ranks ready for battle provides hope, despite the cackling in my ears and the brimstone making me sneeze. I'll need you to get me armor; in exchange, I'll give you faith.

Well, Then by Belinda Roddie This is an exclusive look at the crumbling of my productivity - like a flaky candy bar, it erodes and becomes delicious, sweet dust.

Iota by Belinda Roddie Little by little, I scribble the steps I've taken on a scrap of tissue paper. Then once the ink has faded or run, I plaster the mess onto my forehead for safekeeping.