My Cardboard Balcony

Today was my last day working as a summer instructional assistant. While of course getting time off seems fun, it's obviously not realistic of me to live on my own with brief, temporary gigs of work (or work with very few hours a day). For now, I've snagged three interviews for educational jobs that provide far more hours than my current one. As much as I'd like to keep the job I have in order to show off more months of consistent tenure on my résumé, I know that I have to move forward and do what's best for my economic situation. Obviously, I am good at this job. I am good at teaching, I am good at assisting, and I am good at supervising. And that's something I can thrive on. Of course, who knows if these interviews will be fruitful. But I'm an adult now. This are the challenges I have to face daily. Since this summer job, despite not being any more than seven hours a day, was pretty darn stressful, I'm going to use this time to job hunt and also to r...

A Cup of Tea (Story With No Verbs) by Belinda Roddie “Hot enough?” A taste of mint and early spring. A bit of lemon, warm sunshine on my tongue. The variety, a pleasure, a privilege, a gift. More tea, please. A whistling kettle. Just one more cup of tea. Still no sleep, though. No helping drink, no pill, no lullaby. Only nightmares tonight, the toss and turn of my fragile body under the covers, heavy as a fresh blanket of snow. Dreams of winter, of a dreadful blizzard, shivers up and down at the thought. Not well. An echo of Not well. A falter in my routine, a call for the doctor, the bed more familiar every day. No movement, no laughter, just hoarse coughs and deep breaths. Then blood in an empty bowl, a deep crimson shade, the shade of roses and sunset skies. A cup of tea for my throat, for my lungs. Just one cup. But no, the doctor, a stethoscope like a coiled serpent around his neck. No biting, please. But a negative response. “No hope.” No hope! A dismal utterance, no rep...

"Mad props to you, sis," Quincy muttered between sips of chocolate milkshake. "I thought that jerk would never leave." Kathy nodded and chewed on a French fry. Out of the corner of her eye, she could still see her ex-boyfriend sitting in his car in the fast food restaurant's parking lot. He had punched the steering wheel twice now. "You were right about him, Quincy," she said. "You're usually right."