My Cardboard Balcony

Flutes by Belinda Roddie Let me take you on a whirlwind ride of woodwinds, where reeds sway in both marshes and mouths, and pipes blend in with the pipes of those who play the pipes. Pipe down, the jig is up, but the jig is also about to begin. Kick your legs high, but not high enough for the skies - that's the Lord's territory, and he prefers to tap dance alone, along the edges of volcanoes and the peaks of mountains. Instead, let's bend the knees to oboes and clarinets, and once the flutes start playing, that's when we can fall in love.

The Reel by Belinda Roddie She didn't recognize the music, but she recognized the dance.

How To Handle A Gadfly by Belinda Roddie Dear Mrs. Johnson-Smith-Raymond- Hyde-Jones-Reynolds-Maguire-Roth (and I assume your daughter's first name is Karen, just like yours, for the sake of family attitude): The board of supervisors has instructed me not to review your complaint, but instead to use it as toilet paper in the men's washroom. I presume you'll desire to refile it, at which point, the women's washroom will have spare tissue as well. And don't forget, we have a unisex restroom, lest you decide that your words of bitchiness somehow linger in our humble little town, where we have to deal with too many assholes like you on a daily basis. And no, you may not see a manager.

Maps by Belinda Roddie The X marks the spot where she buried her wife.

Upgrade by Belinda Roddie This brand new keyboard is fully mechanical and fully fabuloooouuuusssss!

The Dead Man Standing Upright At The Final Roundabout by Belinda Roddie Hunched over the reflecting pool, the stranger in white heaved up sins and was silent. The smell that rose in response to the ejection was not so much rancid as it was overwhelming; the odors of butterscotch, cream, spiced almonds, and personal loathing lingered with all the grace and charm of an unhygienic guest in a bad luck hotel with hidden bodies. Surrounded by walls of names and dates of expiration, the stranger had lost consciousness. While she remained erect, she had slipped away from reality in a temporary coma of despair. Below her, in the once clear and pristine water, swirls of offensive color now mixed in an inopportune oil painting repelled by the very canvas it had been sprayed upon. She had been kneeling in the No Man's Land Memorial site for well over two hours now. It was actually the Joseph Thatcher Memorial, named after a sergeant in the U.S. Army who was held solely responsible for saving ...

No A's by Belinda Roddie I won't type the cursed letter. I won't. I won't.