My Cardboard Balcony

It could be a flimsy product of a very tired mind, but for this week's introspection, I've decided I should rhyme. You may as well put your brain through Hell just to try poetic craft, and if this doesn't end up deep, maybe it'll make the few of you laugh. So my work is super daunting and takes a lot of time out of my day. I didn't think I'd say this, but I kind of like it that way. Nine hours of being at a school may seem like major deja vu, but with the progress of my job, I'm feeling far from blue. Because some of it is serious and some of it is fun, from the good old CPS training to legos in the sun. And the thirteen girls I teach each day to become better readers have a long year ahead of them, but I'm sure I can make them leaders. With my novel done, my blog's number one in sporadic creative shrapnel, though I finally joined the Tumblr, which serves as another cyber grapnel,* so that's Blogger, Facebook, Tumblr, Myspace, Yo...

Untitled by Belinda Roddie She looked like a twelve-year-old ghost. Her deadpan, hardened face and her glazed eyes looked like they belonged to a shadow, a completely different entity, haunting the world. We were staring at each other, eyes locked, not moving or speaking.  I wanted to shut her out. Even if I closed my eyes and opened them again, she was still looking at me. Go away, I ordered. Please go away. I began to scream at her, trying to scare her off, trying to shatter the glass between us into a million pieces with my fists so I could reach her and slam her face into the dirt, hit her until the color came back into her cheeks so she could look normal again. But I didn’t break the glass. I could only let my fists unclench, my knees shuddering beneath me as I sank to the floor. Down there, I couldn’t see her staring. I couldn’t see her mouth move with silent screams, arms flailing as she tried to reach me. Seven years later, I know I was better off without the ba...

Heather was going to be put on trial. She knew that as soon as she was whisked away in the cramped police car, whirling down main street with several onlookers lifting their heads from their shopping bags and their fancy convertibles and their children’s fallen ice cream cones to watch the display. She would be charged with murder. Not just any murder. The murder of a bastard who tried to ruin her life. Why couldn’t ruining one’s life be a felony or federal offense?