My Cardboard Balcony

Same old, for the most part. Taking classes, going to work, and writing here and there. The difference? Please, please send positive vibes and good luck wishes to my sister, who has been dealt a really bad hand this week. Much love to her from me, and hopefully from you. Have a good night and a great weekend, everyone.

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 Three by Belinda Roddie I bet some of you are rather confused now. This story, I can tell, is bound to bring up a lot of questions. I’ve already demonstrated some earlier. Now, questions may not make the world spin, but they certainly are what the world revolves around. And I’m sure that I can guess what the new harvest of questions you may have is: You didn’t know you had been found in a coffin until you were fifteen? How could that possibly be? Didn’t you mention earlier that you remembered being in t...

Kind of going on an every other day streak with these OneWords, because once again, no new prompt was put up today! Le sadness!

The Trickster Crows by Belinda Roddie The trickster crows - his last, long, ling'ring cry of victory before he drops stone dead among the roses. The garden is dry from lack of rain. The petals are too red. I take his hat from his cold head and pull it across my brow, the brim tight, sticky from the June heat. I've been given a role to act, and a small stage to set my feet upon. I know the stories - I've observed my master work, defying truths, the art of deception, confusion, brightly curved against his elbow, wits close to his heart. I quietly stand by his corpse today - what is the game that I am meant to play?

"Quit stalling!" growled Evelyn, waiting impatiently outside Avi's bedroom. "If you take too long, we'll be late for the show and miss the chance to see the first act!" Avi groaned as he buttoned his vest. He knew how important the play was to Evelyn. He also knew that the reason she was watching it was a stupid one. Ralph, who played the lead, was an alleged studmuffin - but he had never been interested in Evelyn.

Tracks by Belinda Roddie He lights a match and sniffs the flame, tempted to taste it, to scald his tongue and turn it into a poor man's torch as he scans for tracks. The search party is seven people. They are all cold, thirsty, and exhausted. The dogs are restless. One pulls pleadingly against its tired leather lead. Another, baring sharp fangs but rotten molars, whines loudly enough to drop a globule of mucus onto the pine-mixed snow. Its eyes are listless amber, ready to catch evening insects and encase them for a thousand more years. At least, it'll feel like a thousand before they can all go home. When the group disperses, one girl stays with her mother. Both wear heavy coats, their boots dragging across the unwelcoming winter sludge. It has not snowed much this year. Water levels will be low. The missing will not have much to drink tonight, scrounging in the wilderness with a broken stick. Scratching for a hint of sustenance. And then it ge...

Man, OneWord is having quite the hiccups in terms of consistent prompts. We'll see what tomorrow brings!