My Cardboard Balcony

Putting up this post a little early because I'll be dogsitting later tonight. So not so much computer time for me in that regard. A lot of what happened this week is in line with what I talked about last week. My paycheck was smaller than hoped, so my girlfriend forgave me for half the rent (goes back to the whole "partnership" idea that I was talking about last introspection. My writing's still been at sort of a status quo (not so much long term project work, mostly poetry and blogging). I have some ideas bouncing around in my head, but they haven't exactly found footing in terms of actual storytelling structure. I still play music, but I still haven't completed another original song since late 2012. I guess my priority right now is finding another outlet for income and keeping my head above water as I think about a teaching credential. So...I guess the most I can say is keep wishing me luck, guys. Writer's Quotation of the Night: Good fiction cre...

"Caramel Kisses" is an unfinished novel I began to write back in 2009 and stopped working on in 2010. The two main characters - Adriana Maguire Reynard and Emma Burking - would ultimately be revised for my later completed novella, "The Liffey Is Half-Asleep," in 2011. Several elements of "Liffey" can be found in their original forms in "Caramel Kisses," such as the characters' names, the haiku scene, and Adriana's penchant for writing. Because of its influence on my later writing, I figured that this story, though incomplete, was worth sharing. Caramel Kisses: Chapter Nine by Belinda Roddie I had an idea for a new play. It was a good one, more comedic than my last ones. It detailed a simplistic scene, but with a spiritual background. And that was all you were going to get out of me at the time I started writing it. I didn’t like giving away too much. Fingers against the dirty keyboard, the same plate being re-used beside...

None of us were allowed a firearm on our person when we entered the boss's headquarters. Whether or not it was due to security or paranoia or both was up for interpretation. Even so, the guards were particularly hesitant to even allow me my decorative war knife, which I always carried on me. "Relax," I told them, waving my left hand more coaxingly than dismissively. "What do you think I'm going to do with this blunt thing, poke him with it?"

The Votes Were In by Belinda Roddie The votes were in, and Caitlin was the new class president, though her rival, Marshall, was so unhappy that he nearly threw a hissy fit once he heard the results. Caitlin had work to do, but Marshall's friends tried as hard as they could to undermine her ideas and efforts to amend some school policies. They even designed a propaganda smear campaign. At last, the principal stepped in and almost bit the boys' heads off with his verbal whiplash. "Caitlin deserves to be president. It is immature to bully her. Marshall, this hate is why you didn't win at all."

It was an atrocious odor of biblical proportions, and Arvey had to hold her nose as she stepped around the bayou. The territory was nothing like the terrain the group had crossed before - while travels prior had been rattled by wind, ice, and snow, this swampland was sickeningly warm, and Barkelee was visibly perspiring. Quinoni, of course, didn't seem perturbed by the heat at all.

The Noise Upstairs by Belinda Roddie It was a twelve-string guitar, grunting out the entire Dave Matthews discography, accompanied by the cough syrup-clotted rasp of a stranger with his brain on fire. Said stranger had strung his limbs up on straps as thick as Twizzlers, their needles slurping insulin and fury beneath his bulging clavicle, but still his fingers were free, and his calluses rose in ridges against the thin, intestinal steel. Pulled from the guts of salvation, he stayed alive so he could sing and pick, for another twenty years. As Matthews intended, the ants started marching to the music, and the man as a boy played under the table and dreamed big dreams, and all rhyme and reason dissolved like a giant gel tablet into a glass of whiskey. All homage. All dedication. All breathing below the satellite.

You believed I was doing more harm than good, throwing away my education, in your words, for an RV and a video camera. And that was fine; you could believe anything you wanted. In the end, I was the one editing fragment upon fragment of documentary, reliving the local stops, bars, and laughs with strangers. I was the one baking my heart in the desert of Arizona while cooling my brain along the Atlantic.