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Showing posts from July 4, 2014

Tonight's Poet Corner: Introspection

Tonight, I'm not going to use the Fourth of July as a shameless opportunity to analyze my role as an American in a world that is far from perfect. I'm not going to take a bunch of time and text in order to emphasize my appreciation for my country while also acknowledging its many problems. I'm not going to indulge too much in any remote patriotism, nor in any over-the-top cynicism regarding the nation where I reside. It's not necessary. And do you know why? Because it's late, I had an amazing day with my family, and I am now exhausted. Introspection, ironically, can wait for another day. Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 47.1: October 7th, 2011

This is an untitled, unfinished novel that was technically left alone in late 2008. However, the last time it was modified and checked for errors was 2011, where upon I decided that the absurdity of the plot combined with the sloppy British research was too much for the story to continue. However, seeing as this is Whims of the Time Traveler, it's a perfect example of my first attempt at long fiction, so I've decided to unabashedly display it. Have fun. Untitled: Chapter Seven by Belinda Roddie Traveling through England with only a bag full of clothes and basic bathroom supplies, as well as about two hundred and thirty pounds in your pocket, is not a joy ride. While I may not have had to succumb to a pure survivalist’s strategy, I as well, as any other Brit, were aware of the consequences of simply wandering through such an expansive, populated country. There was no peaceful journey music, no fade-ins and fade-outs like in the cinema. Granted, I was lucky to do most of my

Today's OneWord: Oven

The ham was in the oven, the firecrackers were set on the table, and I could faintly hear Sousa on the cheap radio that my uncle kept on the patio. It was hot, humid, and sticky, and I pushed the already short sleeves of my blue shirt up higher, exposing raw flesh yet to be chewed on by mosquitos. My mother handed me a sparkler, patting me on the shoulder. "Your father's favorite holiday," she reminded me. I rolled my eyes.