My Cardboard Balcony

We are masters of our own fates, yet we’re not really good at following our own scripts. We write, but the penmanship is illegible. We plan, but we sleep in when the time of action is now. We get drunk and tired and hungover when we should be taking action. And the crushing capitalist goliath is bearing down on us, snorting loudly, cocaine residue lingering on his enormous nostrils.

by Belinda Roddie Holy shit, you're terrifying. You drink smoke. You breathe fire. You stomp on castles until they're as fine as baking powder. You eat children. You snort cocaine. You find ways to make every mother in the village sad. You make their sons useless. They can't go to work this way. They're morons. And morons can't even lift, bro. You destroy chimneys. You rest at midnight. You opt for LSD in the dead of dawn. Once you're tripping, you rampage through Tokyo, just like Godzilla. The Japanese just wanna catch a break, man. They've been through enough. So has the Middle East. You scare me, bro. You break glass. You ruin churches. You make priests cry. You often hope for an apocalypse. When you don't get one, you throw a tantrum. It causes earthquakes. It flattens houses. It freaks out children. The children you haven't eaten. It panics parents. It creates tension. You are alone. You are lonely. And you frighten me. Stop frightenin...

The water was crisp and cool, and I drank as much as I could before my stomach ached. Then, I lay across the flat stone beneath me, letting the wind settle like an invisible blanket against my knees and chest. It was just another lukewarm autumn day at the family cabin, and from what I could tell, my family was inside, playing board games and listening to records. My brother was blackberry picking, and my kid sister was catching waterdogs along the creek.

Man. I'm exhausted. Three days of training and orientation. Got to meet new peers of mine. Ran into former students at the Farmer's Market. Now we're in my wife's hometown, and we're going to a friend's wedding tomorrow. ...Yeah, I'll have more to say next week. Cardboard Wifey, you got anything to add? *** BAAAAAAAAAA *** Sounds about right, wifey. Sounds about right. Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

How Sweet by Belinda Roddie No matter what, my wife thinks I always deserve cupcakes.

The Prancing, Dancing, Singing by Belinda Roddie The prancing, dancing, singing kitty cats could not carry a tune in a bucket, but still they carried on, their furry spats on full display as they mewed a duet. Then, with a tap and scurry, they progressed to a ballet, their tiny pirouettes goofy, yet adorable. My wife dressed the kittens up in ties and little hats so we could all put on a proper show. But alas, when the curtain rose, the damn felines were off frolicking down the road, seeking out a chorus and a sharp dram of nip mixed with warm milk - the little brats. They could never be celebrity cats!