My Cardboard Balcony

We all have our challenges. Physically, mentally, emotionally. I have plenty of mental and emotional challenges on a daily basis. Which makes physical challenges that much more of an "AHHHHHHH" button for me. I am currently combating a very tough physical ailment. I'm not going to disclose any further information on it. My health is my private business, so I'm going to keep it that way. What I do know, however, is that I'm going to be okay. I'm not dying. I'm not super sick. These past five days have been absolutely awful health-wise, but I'm going to pull through. For those of you who combat illness regularly or at least more frequently than I do, don't follow my example on a lot of things. I look stuff up when I shouldn't - getting freaked out over the worst case scenarios is the pits. Be sure to keep clean, and if you spread an illness to someone, it's not the end of the world - they'll recover, too, and they won't hate you f

The Melody by Belinda Roddie "Maestro, if you please," the girl with golden curls warmly teased the man. His face softened in grace. As he struck his baton upon the stand, his hand quivered very long, and one single note rose to form a lump in every throat. Then all at once, a wondrous melody caressed each flounce of movement on the wing and maestro moved like water as if entranced in a Grecian dance, and caused each man to stir and each girl like a cat to purr. "Maestro, if you please," asked the girl with golden curls, "what does it mean?" The man resumed his dance, his face bright with a laugh, but did not hesitate to answer what she asked: "It doesn't mean a thing." The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since July 19th, 2007.

Max was the only little boy in school who wanted a pony. He wanted to brush it, groom it, even braid its mane with ribbons and flowers. Max's father didn't like the idea at all, and for Christmas he got him a BB gun and plenty of G.I. Joe action figures. "I don't want those," Max had bawled, such a tiny boy amidst all the wrapping paper. "You do want them," his father had replied, nostrils flaring. "You want them and you like them!"