My Cardboard Balcony

Wow. It's already almost June. June this year means a lot of things to me. It means the end of my time as an AmeriCorps instructor at my elementary school site (though I'll still be working with AmeriCorps until July 13th). It means my girlfriend's graduation from university with a B.A. in Drama (I get to see some good friends when I go down for her ceremony, too, which is a plus). It means Father's Day (Thanks for everything, Dad). And it means my twenty-fourth birthday on the 21st. Twenty-four is kind of an interesting age to be at. Not an awkward one, mind you. Yes, twenty-four doesn't open up anything new for you like sixteen, eighteen, and twenty-one did, but then again, twenty-three isn't meant to be a society-approved landmark year, either. Twenty-four's not quite at twenty-five, which is a nice, solid age number to be at, and hey, you get to legally rent a car! But twenty-four is still an interesting age. It's at least the same number as the ...

NOTE: This is going to be a slightly different presentation of "Whims of the Time Traveler" than usual. The initial draft was written back in the fall of 2006, as a high school project for an English class literally called "Myth and Fantasy." The assignment was to create a completely original creation story, for the universe, Earth, and humanity. Many people wrote small origin myths. I, however, took it to the extreme. The last modified version of this was January 8th, 2008. This is Part Two. Earthe Maeliz by Belinda Roddie Part Two: The Balance Rejoice and blow the trumpets loud For Firrah, our glorious queen! And praise the ground we trod upon, For Tumen, our glorious king! For they at last are bound in love While breaking our nourishing bread; Rejoice and blow the trumpets loud For Tumen and Firrah are wed! The wedding was attended by all creations that ...

When people think "barren," they immediately draw their imaginations toward a wasteland. When we think "wasteland," we think of a vast, empty space where nothing lives and nothing has enough energy to actually die. We view it as a desert, or a tundra, with nothing but a faint, warm breeze blowing dust into our eyes as we pass the no man's zone. But I live in a Wasteland. And it is far different than you would ever predict.

If You Seek Foghorn Swamp by Belinda Roddie If you seek Foghorn Swamp, then find a frog with golden scales; she'll lead you through the mire and help you dodge the deepest of the bog with croaks, should the situation grow dire. Then the amphibian will show you slime trailing in ribbons from her friend, the slug, whose florescent purple color sublime will shine upon the elusive Mad Bug. The Mad Bug, with bio-luminescent eyes, rules over Foghorn Swamp, the muck warmed beneath your boots, the odor putrescent in your nostrils as you view this deformed self-proclaimed monarch. He's quite odious, but he'll sing secrets so melodious. This sonnet contains rhyming word endings provided by Daniel Bulone as part of a small writing experiment.

Many people stay secluded not because they want to be alone, but because they feel like they deserve to be alone. The corner, with all of its slants and constricting edges, seems like a place of safety because it is the farthest one can back away from the conflict of the real world and the social cues within it. Certain critics like to downplay introversion as being picky, or misunderstanding of others, and they downplay something as crucial as human caution.

God's Wolf by Belinda Roddie Edging into the trajectory of a very literal death star; the radiation lingering long after the desire to die, gamma pulse leading to the glittering snout of a celestial double-barreled shotgun. This is how the cosmos collapse - by taking the rest of the ocean with it. The death of nebulae at the cost of a red giant's fall, and a supernova's attempt to swallow dark matter whole, completely whole, without even chewing, because God knows it's got big enough teeth to munch with, red hot pinwheels locked behind an astronomical jaw, and on our orb of travesty, we struggle not to fear anything, and we work hard to create, to commence, to produce a mini-beginning of a new universe, the particle accelerator palpitating as the atoms collide. And when our tiny experiments bring us little comfort, or concept of safety, against the tyrannical essence of our own fragile anatomy, the stardust gathers on our hands, l...

The neon sign in front of the cellar door flickered "Ha Sum" instead of "Half Summer," so that's what we called our hideout: Ha Sum. We drank sake in Ha Sum, flicking poppers at the door, making enough noises to disturb our father but never get him storming downstairs. When we got hungry, we stored candy bars, and they were still good and tasty six months after being in the war chest.