My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "...This is going to end in an orgy, isn't it?" Robert Finch, a gray-bearded millionaire, lit a cigarette and grinned through the smoke stream. The dame before him was of course referring to the cluster of young men and women swarming around the chocolate fondue fountain, giggling and spilling wine all over the place. He smirked. "No, not tonight," he said. "I only have orgies on Thursdays, after tea." Mrs. Gertrude Dreyfuss arched an eyebrow, but she at least seemed satisfied by Robert's joking retort. More often than not, he felt as if her sardonic sense of humor was taken far too seriously, like she was being dry and stuffy and even paranoid. And since the death of her husband Alvin, who had owned a large jewelry company in New York, she hadn't slowed down in that regard. The two of them maneuvered around the Finch nieces and nephews and cousins, who had nestled themselves with the Shermans and the Harveys and al...

So I have to write this piece about - what? No, I gotta work on dinner first. That mushroom and shrimp risotto isn't going to make itself. And then I - no, first I need to walk the dog before I can go out and get milk. Milk, that's right - that's what I need for breakfast cereal tomorrow. And then - wait, what was I writing about again?

Another week ends, and I find it kind of funny how my mindset can change in a matter of a few days. However, one thing continually lingers in the air: Uncertainty. And let me tell you, humanity's uncertainty and irrationality about everything gives me all the fodder I need to write. So first off, a big update this week: I have a job now. ...Well, I don't have the job quite yet, but I was offered the job. I just finished up the drug test and they'll be doing the background check on me and then I'll have a job. ...Well, not a permanent job, but a seasonal one, and hey, best to start somewhere. Lord knows whether or not it'll become permanent. What's the most interesting about my reaction to this chain of events is that - really - I'm not changing my routine much. Yes, my schedule will be riddled with day or evening shifts (most likely both), but I'll still be doing the things I regularly do. That includes my writing routine. That's not changing any...

Meaningless by Belinda Roddie He can't drink coffee unless a piano Is playing in the background. He writes in a little book when someone smokes on the corner; the smell is pleasant. He watches drunk fights while he listens to Succulent love vows, and all at once he wonders Where on Earth the point lies here, And he finds nothing. He must have lost it When it roamed into his mind's realm And was never seen since. The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since April of 2005.

A convict was convinced that the crook in a cell close by was not criminal. He coughed out a column of complaints to a colonel coming by to visit. That column was copied for the common crowd, and they all came to the conclusion that the convict was correctly convinced.

Lazy Limerick by Belinda Roddie   When evenings grow tiring and long and you feel like you just can't go on, read a book or hear music before you go and you lose it - Try schnapps with a loud Irish song!

“What year is this?” He looked down at the glass in his hand, the port staring back at him with a muddled reflection. He frowned. “Um, last year, I think.” “It’s good,” said his date for the night, and she sipped her glass delicately. “Mah-velous. You have good tastes.” He didn’t really try to have good tastes. But then again, he always seemed to pick up snooty girls.