My Cardboard Balcony

After about twenty days, I was able to write another chapter of The Authoritarian Auction. It's like I figured - you start a new project that's somewhat different, and it sometimes is a little slow-going. Also, does anything know of any tricks to differentiate two women in the third person without overly repeating their names? I swear, the names themselves take up ten percent of the word count! Lot of things coming up in my life that are pretty big. Next week, I'll be officially turning in paperwork for a new job. After that, I'll be working and searching for a place to live with my sister and my girlfriend. It's scary being an adult, but it's kind of a requirement now to bite the bullet and go with it. In the meantime, I'll write. Writing's a good way for me to center, focus, and relax. Which is kind of ironic, given that I write a lot about really stressful shit. Yaaaay, literary displacement! Time for me to go to bed. Writer's Quotatio

Dogma by Belinda Roddie If there were a God would you build Him a house? Would you give Him somewhere to sleep on the planks on the splinters of a criss-crossed criss-crossed pattern? Do not disturb our guest Recite your hymns in your head He is dreaming of a little cottage where He drinks tea and people Pray The work you see here was originally written in the fall of 2010. It was last edited on May 10th, 2011.

All four of his son and all seven of his daughters buried their mother in a shallow grave, just on the outskirts of their property, where the blue daffodils grew in enormous and majestic clumps and the sun kissed the hill just right so the mark of golden lips remained on the grass. The oldest brother, Ernie, helped Cindy, four years his senior, put away the shovels while their father fetched himself a beer.