My Cardboard Balcony

I Wrote A Tragedy by Belinda Roddie I wrote a tragedy about a man who killed his wife and then proceeded to marry his stepdaughter, who secretly wanted to run away with a duchess betrothed to a slimeball with lots of cash that had been hoisted from rogue pirates, who now were approaching the quaint, quiet town that served as the typical setting. I could have let the simple lovers join the pirate crew and sail off on their boat. I could have made the sleazy duke poison the wife murderer, and then he would keel over, very dead. That would have been a happier ending. But, no. Not today.

"He's rather easygoing, isn't he?" the professor asked about the dean as the latter leaned his shoulder against the wall, sipping from his glass of cider through one side of his mouth and smiling with the other. "Oh, yes," replied the registrar. "He's just come from another university. Known as 'Mister Chill' by the students. They miss him dearly, but their loss is our gain."

Little Harp by Belinda Roddie It didn't have forty-seven strings, but the strings it did have bounced slightly in the breeze from the bedroom window, so that when Oliver fell asleep, he was soothed by the chorus of several small voices echoing from their thin chambers as the sounds of color began.

"I don't understand. You want me to rewrite the entire essay?" I nodded from behind my desk. The pencil I was trying to sharpen just wasn't being cooperative. "You clearly showed no comprehension of the very book you were reporting on," I remarked. "You didn't even get the setting, or even the protagonist's first name." "Sure I did," my lowest scoring student protested. "He's Bob." "No, he's not. He's Bartleby, and that's not even the protagonist." "Just let it slide!" I sneered. "I would prefer not to."

Destiny Dazzles by Belinda Roddie Destiny dazzles on October nights, the marimba sending sparks to meet the flash of her sequins, dancing up and down her midriff, where the sash begins like a flower and closes at the hip like a heavy, swollen, satisfied bud. She bends her body backwards, revealing the lumpy but gorgeous flesh beneath her half-opened tunic. Beads dangle across her love handles as her thighs open, displaying the blue lights from behind her, bathing her, like a sauna would, in a hot, misty oceanic glow. The audience crawls for her dance, creeps up their skirts and pant legs for her. Her boyfriend bites his lower lip from where he stands in the corner, trying not to be seen by his boss, who sits in the front row, whistling, and waving an embarrassed Franklin in front of Destiny's bare knees. The weird part about that is that this isn't a strip club, and his disrespect is subdued quickly as mesmerized eyes briefly glower at the lewd ...

In between the pines, I could trace the fine, peppery ribbon of smoke that caressed the bark and left wisps of crisp, wooden odor along the dirt path. As I kept walking, I remembered the three most important items on my person: My horn, my knife, and my pendant. And the pendant, of course, was most important of all. As I parted a particularly bushy branch from my way, I could see the amber glow of a fire whimpering in front of me.

Strawberry Jam Machine by Belinda Roddie It may be a bit sticky, and if you're more a fan of blackberry picking on hot summer nights or buying crates of raspberries from a distant relative's stand on the side of the road, then this may not exactly be for you. But for those of you who sampled a little extra sugar from the glass jar as your mother made you your standard sandwich, enjoyed the red delight on buttered homemade muffins, or simply overindulged on toast every morning before heading to your typical nine to five job, the strawberry jam machine costs only a quarter every time your childhood kicks in, and you want to rev up your giggling tongue for another taste of saccharine fruit-processed goo to go with a hefty spoon of peanut butter. Bread unfortunately not included.