My Cardboard Balcony

So guess what, my handful of readers? Guess what, guess what, guess whaaaat? I don't have to work at a large retail store anymore. I'm going to be working at a bookstore! Yep, a bookstore that has six other locations in my state is opening in the city just south of my hometown, and I happened to be hired as a bookseller. While the job for now is temporary, my new boss told me he liked me from the start and got nothing but positive vibes from me during the interview. In short, I'm pumped. This means a better schedule, an easier place to commute to by bus, and of course, a chance to work with books and promoting reading to children. It may not be a teaching job, but my God, it's totally up my alley. In the matter of a week, my girlfriend, my sister, and I are all employed. We've been looking at apartments and finding some gorgeous places to apply to. Things are looking up, and it's one of the most awesome feelings I've had in a long time. Oh, and one

Writing Exercise #5 by Belinda Roddie Story #1 - A Motor/Engine Starting Up  - 200 words The phone rings twice. Pick it up. Pick it up, damn you. Pick up the phone. “Who is it?” “It’s Jane.” Damn it. “What do you want?” “I want to talk to you.” “Oh, is that why you called? What a shock.” “Just bear with me.” “What do you want? Tell me the truth.” “I want Sam.” “What?” “I want my son back.” Damn it. Why did I have to pick up the phone? Why was I so dense? Why? For the love of God, why? “You can’t have him.” “What?” “The judge was on my side. You can’t have Sam back.” “I’ll take you back to court.” “Try me.” “I’ll win this time.” “Try me.” There’s a pause on her side. No words. I don’t hear her breathe. Talk, damn it. Say at least one word, Jane! “I’ll see you in court, then.” “I won’t come.” “You’ll have to come.” “I won’t.” “Bye, Glenn.” She hangs up on me. I wish I had not picked up. I get some wine and fill a

"How many songwriters you got hired?" "None," I replied, spitting a half-dissolved Altoid into the garbage can because it was too strong. My soon-to-be productor stared at me. My agent smirked. "So who writes your songs?" he inquired stupidly. I arched an eyebrow. "Guess." My agent couldn't help letting out a giggle. I reached toward the bowl of butterscotch candies on the producer's desk. He hardly blinked.