My Cardboard Balcony

Six days from now, I will be turning twenty-three. Twenty-three is what I like to consider a "comfortable" age. There are no significant turning points - no rites of passage, no lifting of past taboos, no celebration that you can drive, vote, or drink (the third of which people seem to be most passionate about, which I've never gotten). It's still a young age, not something to complain about. Twenty-three is also the age in which I have been out of school for a year, have worked official jobs the entire year, have had an amazing girlfriend for over a year, and now have a future to work toward. Since the start of 2012, I have received three rejection letters, and all of them have been tacked onto my wall (my little Hall of Fame, if you will). I have written over five hundred different pieces of work on this blog, and while none of them will ever be "officially" published, I don't mind. This blog is serving the exact purpose I wanted it to - as a way to ...

Eight Ball by Belinda Roddie He plays pool in a crowded billiard room. There are cobwebs in his hair. There is dust dancing on his lips. The sign outside the building reads “Condemned.” It is surrounded by barbed wire and steel fences. One sneering watcher offers him a cigarette. He lights it and aims for the corner pocket. The eight ball bounces. It always bounces back to him. Those who watch laugh and bear their teeth. They do not see that he is grinning too. They do not hear the crack of his pool cue against the felt that’s faded from green to gray. They do not smell the smoke from his cigarette. They do not taste the dust in the stifling air. They feel nothing. All they do is laugh. The broken noose still hangs limply around his neck. He cannot remove it. He aims for the corner pocket. The eight ball bounces. It will always bounce back to him. The game will never end. Some day in this eternity, he will learn not to care. The work you see here has not been edited nor alter...

The mayor of New Hagenbergersteinbeckersmith was pleased to see the erection of the new statue idolizing the great German pioneer who had founded the town. Nestled right between the tiny post office and the grandiose hot dog and bratwurst restaurant, it was meant to gleam in a great bronze glory over the town. It didn't help, therefore, when vandals painted penises on its face and sent the mustached politician into a murderous frenzy.

A Seed Planted in August by Belinda Roddie A seed planted in August grew to be a huge sunflower until autumn ripped all its grandiose petals from its face and left it shaved of beauty while the leaves in all their colors took its place. My dear daughter, who had taken great care to make that flaxen darling blossom in tough soil and shine like gold amid a small, modest garden, was disappointed to see how it shriveled and wilted, stooped as if with age. I told her when summer came around again, she could use a fallen seed from the ground to plant it right where the last one stood, so it could get the perfect dose of sun.

Inside the dank cathedral, two children prayed. In the courtyard along the sinister turrets, a gardener planted roses. Beneath his feet in the basement, a ceremony was starting. The vicar was dressed in blacks and reds. The deacons all in whites. They would wear the dark stains of those who felt the dagger in the colossal man's hands.

Burger Stack by Belinda Roddie burger stack rack of lamb ham and cheese please, on rye buy a coke broke for shit hit the spot hot dog ketchuped get up for sauce gloss the pork chop lop the meat off got grease dripping slipping down T-shirts hurts on the tongue lungs heave for more more

This was the last straw. First, it had been the three pubescent boys stealing potato chips from the deli area. Then, it was a middle-aged woman opening a cupcake container just to eat one of the chocolate puffed pastries. And now, two giggly high school girls were opening up cans of soda and drinking them. The security guard had no choice. He had to save the day.