My Cardboard Balcony

Fin by Belinda Roddie All things must, eventually, come to an end. Whether by curtain fall, or waterfall. By knifepoint or viewpoint. By tidal wave or brain wave. All things must come to an end.

by Belinda Roddie Save the bees. Save the bees. Save the bees. Save the bees. Save the bees. Save the bees. Save the bees. Save the bees. I don't know what else to write today. Just save the bees. Thanks for the prompt, wifey.

by Belinda Roddie In her cupped hands, there are either lily petals or white rose petals. I cannot tell from a distance. It's too dark in this misty forest. Why is it always misty? The residents here play the drums only when the shadows come. They do not dance. They plod. They march. They memorize their dirges. Somewhere, the mouth of a yew opens, and a unicorn drinks from it, and you are ready to sing: I LIKE TO PRETEND THAT I AM ONE OF THEM. Moss has always smelled like my mother's hair. She never dances. Her boots are just like what the shadows wear. THIS IS NOT FATE, she reminds me when the sun finally weaves its fingers through the canopy. IT IS REPETITION. This week's Storyteller was based off a poem I wrote while modeling image banks for my sophomore students. Credits for the photograph go to Tyler Flint.

by Belinda Roddie My dream job is to be the person who writes elaborate descriptions on the backs of wine bottles. I mean, do I have to explain it again? This is the third time! We're at Trilogy Level, homies! Okay, here we go! Summer Blast (White Blend) An aromatic journey into your nearest valley, this wine will make you want to pull on the white polo and khaki shorts, head out to the patio, and sip some citrus-y goodness while watching your neighbors play bocce ball. Experience the delicate hints of orange, lemon zest, and lavender if you can taste it. Just don't forget to wear sunscreen, or else your pasty butt will look like a beaten up football in then years. Uncommon (Verdejo) Let's be real: You probably have never heard of Verdejo before until you looked at this bottle. Well, today's your lucky day, Gary! Spice up your otherwise boring office cubicle experience with flavor profiles like lime, grapefruit, or fennel! Just be sure to put your mask back on after you...

Didn't write a Storyteller. Starting in person teaching again on Monday. Sorry.

Nameless by Belinda Roddie I don't have a name by choice. None truly fit me. Not even Nemo feels appropriate. Don't call me anything. Don't address me. I am not here. I'm at a bar, drinking tequila, and pretending the world isn't on fire. This week's prompt was provided by a video call with friends.

Flagon by Belinda Roddie She had made a potion for Ilva, and she had poured it into the tarnished iron vessel that the goblin always used to drink ale and other elixirs. It wasn't too potent of a mixture - an herbal concotion meant to relax the muscles and release tension in the body. Something to "take the edge off," for lack of a better term. As Ilva drank, Breole watched over the lip of her own tankard, her amber eyes slightly twitching as she attempted to tune out the noise from the tavern downstairs. The innkeeper had been kind enough to allow the two ladies to stay in a room for free. It was a modest space, with two beds and not much else, but that was all they needed for the night before they set out again. After a brief silence, Ilva sighed, set down her flagon, and curled up on her bed, knees close to her chin. Her gray-green skin somehow radiated in the sparse light of the oil lantern. "Feel better?" asked Breole. "The best," replied her comp...

No Dice by Belinda Roddie Jack rolled a nat 20 thinking he'd score that night at the club. What he wasn't prepared for, however, was the high DC and skill modifier - a negative in the eyes of Sadie, Tracey, and Erika. The trio, in fact, was already trying to wind down after a long day of work at the game shop they owned together, and they were not in the mood for the "nice guy's" shenanigans. "No means no," they reminded him, as they called over the waiter and asked politely for second rounds of mudslides. This week's prompt was inspired by the altered comic below.

Biscuits & Gravy by Belinda Roddie It was a staple of Roger's Diner, and something that Maggie always got when she went there for breakfast with Harley. Sure, the French toast was to die for, and the waffles even more "lethal" by comparison. But the biscuits were a comfort to her. She ordered it so much that the servers even added extra lumps of sausage to the gravy as a treat. "Thank you kindly," she trilled to Bert, the eldest waiter there, who nodded and smiled with the most pristine teeth she had ever seen in anyone's mouth, young or old. As they ate, Maggie noticed as quiet Harley was, the only distinct sound from her being the way she sawed her French toast into bite-sized pieces. Harley was not much of a conversationalist, but even so, she hadn't said a word since they had entered the establishment. So naturally, Maggie decided to investigate. "What's up, beautiful?" Harley said nothing. Maggie swallowed a lump of congealed gravy...

This week, I am not focusing on my stories, but on the stories of those whose land was stolen from them. Read these Miwok stories and legends. Then read these Wintu stories and legends. Research what native land you live on. Listen to indigenous people's stories. Keep them alive.

32 by Belinda Roddie I'm thirty-two years old now, so here are thirty-two people and things I'm grateful for: 1. My wife. 2. My cats. 3. My parents. 4. My twin sister. 5. My friends. 6. Storytelling. 7. The Internet. 8. DnD. 9. Chocolate. 10. Baseball. 11. Bicycles. 12. Music. 13. Nintendo. 14. Sushi. 15. My guitar. 16. My singing voice. 17. Yellow roses. 18. Suits. 19. Books. 20. My students. 21. My health. 22. Dogs. 23. Swords. 24. Cosplaying. 25. Grilling. 26. Dad jokes. 27. The LGBTQ+ community. 28. The BLM movement. 29. Tea. 30. Lexapro. 31. Hard cider. 32. My house.

Aurora by Belinda Roddie I can't Storyteller right now. I'm doing hot Colorado shit.

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Spike by Belinda Roddie He is our new boy, and he is one of the goodest boys. The other goodest boy is, of course, Binx. That's it. That's my short story ode. Now I'm gonna snuggle my gentle giant maine coon friend. Welcome to the family.

All I Have Are Words Now by Belinda Roddie For God's sake, people, look: Here's me. I'm non-binary and use they/them pronouns. I'm gay and married and monogamous. And I'm happy as fuck, no matter who tries to stop me. And look: There's her. She's fucking fab. She's bisexual and polyamorous. She has so much love that she gives it to multiple people - a spouse, a boyfriend, a girlfriend, what have you. And she's happy as fuck, no matter who tries to stop her. We are not hurting anyone with our colors. We will build families who know unconditional love. We will raise children who are unafraid to be themselves. Because we are only a problem if you decide we are a problem. We are only dangerous if you haphazardly slap a HAZARD sticker on our foreheads (which we'll fucking rip off our skin, by the way). We are not hurting the youth - you are by stigmatizing us. And more queer teenagers die. And more queer teenagers think about it. I have seen both side...

Vacation House by Belinda Roddie You don't know about me, but you think it's high time we went on another adventure. Therefore, you propose the following amenities for whichever vacation house we rent: 1. Gargoyles. 2. A Hobbit hole exterior. 3. Trap doors. 4. A sparkling wine bar that is reachable from a jacuzzi. 5. Secret bookcases. 6. Secret rooms that lead to those secret bookcases. 7. Secret messages and codes written in those secret books that lead to more secret bookcases. 8. Ten ghosts. 9. A chandelier in every room. 10. Animatronic suits of armor that actually fence each other. 11. A wise old man who asks you to answer a riddle every time you want to open the refrigerator. 12. Eleven ghosts is fine, too, but twelve is too many. 13. Dragons. 14. Just dragons. 15. Dragon fountains are fine, too. Somehow, you're still surprised that we haven't traveled for over five years. Perhaps, you muse aloud, you should slightly lower your expectations. But only slightly. Can...

Blueprints by Belinda Roddie My dreams have prophesied, perhaps, my future stories. Whether or not I write them is an entirely different matter altogether. A friendship through cosplay gone wrong. A strange play that, once a smash hit, tanks with each revival - until a new director enters the fray. All REM enterprises, somehow, weaving a coherent thread. Now it's up to me to somehow build a tapestry from these strings. Wish me luck. I'm gonna need it.

by Belinda Roddie I've had this bath towel for fifty-two years. It's pretty fucking threadbare, and it's seen a lot of shit. And I mean living with three lesbians, going to multiple beaches, used during a pregnancy shit. But you know what? It means something to me, and it sure worked as a beach towel when I was six. I've gotten a lot taller since then, though. See, I hope you can enjoy those things for years, too. Looks like you've got a crocheted dragon shawl - nice. Keep it clean and pretty. How about that stuffed cat your uncle's mom made ya? Pretty swell; have you ever given it a name? And just wait until you dig through your own attic and find little goodies and memories by the handful. They could even fit right in your pocket. I know you have a blue chest in your bedroom with journals and trinkets - don't lose 'em. See, nothing's permanent, least of all material shit. But what we keep - it means something. Call us wannabe hoarders all you want....

Communion by Belinda Roddie I followed my directions my whole life, dressed in pastels for Easter and noble reds on Christmas. But now, my knees still ache from the lack of cushions in the pews, and I still taste the sacrament every time I have a glass of wine. I didn't want to fight back, but I did. The bruises are permanent now. Tattoos without a needle. Symbols without the beautiful symbolism. I am not a work of art. I am blood on a canvas that can't be scrubbed out. I taste the wafers. I taste the body. And so I taste death.

Nimbostratus by Belinda Roddie Watch me: I'm holding a cloud in the palm of my hand. See, it dances. It's light. Surprisingly warm. If it's going to rain, it will only drench my fingers. Nothing else. See her: I view her like a little sister. I see that light. The cloud I hold doesn't get close. But there may be shadows. Light always comes with shadows. Why must I take the onus of others' potential darknesses? My expectations may very well fall like rain. Trust soaked in sewage. Silent treatment the only option. Because if I didn't do that, I would just scream. Two people in love. Maybe three. Maybe four. Maybe more. Is it mutual? Is it consensual? Is there communication? Is there patience? We cannot dance with each others' demons if we don't try to practice the choreography. I don't dance. I just stand there, watching the gala. Palming the little cloud. Waiting for it to burst. To inundate me. And I'll learn to breathe in the storm.