My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie There is something to be said for sex as a method of negotiation. At the end of the night, I had gotten the diplomat to offer me military assistance in the war, an extra one billion dollars in funding for the missile program, and a free meal at any restaurant of my choice in the region. In exchange, I gave him a good romp and a free voucher for a sandwich shop. I think I won out the most in the end. This week's prompt was provided by José García.

I loved the way she smiled at me when I scanned her books. I loved the way her fingers drummed against the wooden counter in a blessed rhythm, the timing succinct and the humming from the back of her throat harmonious. I loved the way she rubbed her thumb across her credit card as she handed it to me, the glorious grin never fading as I punched in the appropriate numbers. "Have a good day," I told her. "Thanks," she replied. "Have a better one than I will."

Ladies and gentleman - my very small group of loyal readers - I have a problem. No, it's not one of the multitude of issues and conflicts I've addressed in previous introspections or blog entries. It is not about my financial status, my education's future, or my family dynamics. It isn't even about my occasional bouts of creative ennui. It is, in fact, the opposite. What I've implied, perhaps incorrectly, over the years in my introspections is that my writer's block is mostly a result of not having good enough ideas or not knowing how to get from point A to point B in a plot, outline, or script. While that sounds like a valid reason for a hindrance in writing, it is only responsible about ten to fifteen percent of the time when I cannot seem to get anything on paper or screen. The truth is, the other eighty-five to ninety percent of the time, I am so bloated with ideas that I can almost feel them leaking out of both ears. I have novel ideas, series ideas, sc...

"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 Twenty-Three by Belinda Roddie I started attending grad school a month before my twenty-fourth birthday. Emma and I had moved into a bigger apartment in Petaluma after I had worked long summer nights for my teaching credential, so I could take classes during the day and teach similar classes at night. And with that, my schedule became more hectic, but my income had dou...

The meaning that Charlie derived from the book was simple: Its antithesis, meaninglessness. She had read countless interviews on how the author had stated he wasn't trying to be like Camus, or Kafka, or even Joyce. He wasn't trying to make a statement or wave around a flag with the words "Life is a void" stamped across it. He claimed he wasn't an absurdist or even an atheist. And yet, there it was. An excellent novel about meaninglessness. Charlie would have to recommend it to Sam.

They Found A Shoe by Belinda Roddie They found a shoe, half-chewed, inside a man's stomach. They couldn't figure out how he had even shoved the damn thing in his mouth and down his throat. It was a mystery, but now they had to cut him open. It took the whole day, but they extracted the mess of a loafer and sewed him back up, the nurses towing the guy into his room while he was high as a kite on just enough drugs to tranquilize a mammoth. Later, they asked him what had inspired him to eat a shoe. He said he thought because it was leather, it'd taste like cow. He bit his tongue hard when the doc said, "Idiot."

"Well, I guess asking for a heartfelt apology was too much for him to handle," Maria scoffed as I handed her the martini glass. She watched me carefully as I wiped a spot of dampness off my uniform with a spare towel. "You can't expect much from him. Once a douchebag, always a douchebag." "Yeah, but I mean..." she sighed. "After dedicating two years to the betterment of his soul, you'd think somehow he'd walk off less of an asshole, not more."