My Cardboard Balcony

So is it possible for me to resort to a cop-out again for this introspection because it's sort of same old, same old right now? Because it really is. I'm sure within the next couple of weeks, it'll be more exciting, since I'll actually be restarting my teaching credential program, and I'm sure I'll have a lot more to chew on. For now, however, it's my teaching job and my bookstore job and my blog writing. Not doing a whole lot of other writing at the moment; no projects that I'm really hellbent on finishing. But that's to be expected. I've been doing a lot of reading, though. One of my reviews of a new debut novel actually got published. Pretty awesome. All right, I'm tired. I really didn't get a lot of sleep last night. Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

No Regrets by Belinda Roddie This time, I let the bullet hit home. Dead center.

She wanted to tame the lion, but the lion would not come near her. She began to wonder if, oddly enough, the beast was more afraid of her than she was of it. For days at a time, she followed the animal around at a short distance, doing her best not to let the engine of her Jeep putter too loudly, or the grass crunch too sharply beneath its massive tires. When night fell, she would turn off her car and simply observe the lion in the starlight. She never moved close to it, nor did it move close to her.

They Held Me Back by Belinda Roddie They held me back, pinning my arms against my sides, so I couldn't strike the bastard who had tried to assault my fiancée. Although I struggled and tried very hard to free myself, my friends would not let go; they were much stronger than I was. My love tried to tell me it was okay, that I would not make things better by attacking the monster who had hurt her. I snarled and I spat, I frothed and I seethed, yet I knew that she was right, and all my friends were right to stop me from doing something that I'd regret. I drove home, and I bit my lip to stop angry words as they dared to slip.

"How's the soup?" "Bland." Sara made a face. "And slightly burnt, too. Seriously, who made this?" I sighed. "My mother's always wanted to be a better cook than my dad was," I explained, hiding my lips behind the lip of a beer tankard. The ale was the only thing adding flavor to this hapless meal. "After he died, she kept trying new recipes. All of them failures. I admire her for making the attempt, but..." "It's something, at least. Food is something," said Sara, inhaling sharply as she reached for her glass of wine.

Religion's A Drug by Belinda Toddie People say if I pray hard enough, a wafer will save my life, a sip of grape juice will rejuvenate my sinful veins, and a loud enough hymn will make the birds squawk and drown out the cacophony of the damned outside. And you know what, I believe them. I believe them hardcore. People who think they don't see God are cute. He's everywhere. He's in the fucking heroin you're injecting into your bent up arm, coiled like Satan's snake around a tree in the garden as withered as my father's dick when he was about to beat my mother senseless. The hard-on he got from that was extraordinary. Nothing made him happier. Me, I'm Christ's chosen prophet. No guns to spread my gospel, but a hoodie and a solid pair of sneakers keep me walking from sodomistic San Francisco to boozed up Kentucky. Pour me a bourbon, and I'll show you how its burn can rival Hell itself. Its gates have been open to me for...

Be brave, Be strong. Be without a single flaw. Be kind. Be smart. Be the epitome of the law. Be a role model. Be an idol. Be a ruler or a king. Wield a scepter. Swing a sabre. Bask in glories that wars bring. Be proud. Be frank. Don't mince words with peasant fools. They aren't brave or strong or kind or smart - they are merely idols' tools.