My Cardboard Balcony

Passive Aggressive Note by Belinda Roddie It's okay that you didn't try to leave a goodbye for me when I planned a farewell for you. I'll cope with the lack of verbal beauty from my divan, soaked to its velvet skin with rum and lemon lime soda spilled from an unforgiving glass. I'm fine with the fact that you packed two suitcases instead of one, thereby stealing from my closet, something I could not humbly request back without the typical camaradarie of awkward exchanges over very cold coffee. I'll deal with it. I have no choice. In the end, I'm left with cleaning the couch with a wipe, smelling alcohol in every direction. Praying for sanity. Praying for peace.

No OneWord again! It's getting a little spotty lately. I'd love to see some consistency return to the prompts!

She was a gamer. So was he. But who got respect in the world of first-person shooters, MMORPGs, and gaming communities whether online or in conventions? He did. He was the king. He, with his silvery black soul-patch, twinkling blue eyes, and hair spiked up to the left side like a strange overgrowth of desert thorns. She was a gamer, and she was scoffed off. And when that happened, she pushed her cap away from her forehead, grabbed the nearest control, and growled, "Watch me, motherfuckers."

by Belinda Roddie "I am the queen of this carpet square!" "You sure are." "Aaron." "Well, are you or are you not a queen?" "Just bring me my tiara already! "Why that particular carpet square, though?" "What?" "I said, why that carpet square? I mean, you could not have picked a dirtier spot." "Well, it's a good square. It's soft." "John." "And cozy." "John." "And I can sleep in and dream happy dreams and be a happy little queen kitten." "John." "Just like Zelda." "Yeah, about that...Zelda pissed there earlier, dude." "..." "Yeah, I'm serious. Just outright pissed there. Guess she decided the litter box was her nemesis for the day. "..." "So I am really surprised you did not smell the urine from a mile away before you sat down on it and christene...

We had adapted to the hot bayou in a matter of weeks. We wore boots with soles as thick as tire rubber so we could navigate the deep, sticky swamps more easily. When we fished, we used large bait and prepared ourselves to wrestle with monsters. At night, when the heat didn't cease, we aimed our tent flaps to the closest, smallest breeze, just so the fluttering of canvas cooled us down enough so we could finally go to sleep.

Mur. Classes. Work. Assignments. Tired. Mur. Good night.

This is an untitled, unfinished novel that was technically left alone in late 2008. However, the last time it was modified and checked for errors was 2011, where upon I decided that the absurdity of the plot combined with the sloppy British research was too much for the story to continue. However, seeing as this is Whims of the Time Traveler, it's a perfect example of my first attempt at long fiction, so I've decided to unabashedly display it. Have fun. Untitled: Chapter Two by Belinda Roddie If someone asked me, “What was it like going down that river? Terrifying, am I right?” I wouldn’t be able to give them a straight answer. I don’t remember it very well at all. It’s already bad enough that these random people, after all this time, still ask me about it. Because from what I can tell, not a whole lot of people know or are friends with a girl who was found in a bloody coffin when she was ten years old. Of course, I don’t use it for casual conversation. When I ...