My Cardboard Balcony

There's a lot of emphasis on the abstract telling more than the concrete. However, as I stand in this exhibit, I find myself more drawn to the chair with nails sticking out of its seat than the blur of colors on the canvas nearby. The canvas is called "Somethingus Latinus." The chair? "Chair With Nails." Which one makes me think more? You make the conclusion.

by Belinda Roddie   Johnny realized that the candy he held in his hand was not actually candy. It was, in fact, Formula 91X - a concoction created by scientists to replicate the symptoms of lycanthropy as told by the folk tales. It was a sick, twisted equation of science and corrupted wisdom that could ultimately be manipulated by those with power bristling from their hair to their heels. And Johnny had let his younger brother, Timmy, eat some. Jamming the brightly colored tablets back into his pocket, the boy tried desperately to seek out an antidote. The laboratory he had snuck into was dark and dank, and he was pretty sure his brother was starting to fret outside. And knowing that once the sun set, the full moon would be out, he had to be fast. His fingers brushed against the shelves feverishly, knocking over bottles and jars. One crashed to the ground and oozed red jelly. No peanut butter for that stuff, he thought with a heated head, before reaching for a syringe and st...

Snapping an icicle from the rooftop, she licked away at it until she giggled as her tongue stuck to the frost. She let the ice dangle from her mouth for a moment. Two moments. Three moments. And then it dropped in a wet, soggy lump to the ground below. “You’re silly,” I told her as I wrapped my arms around her. My face was scratchy against her scarf. “You’re sillier,” she retorted before she kissed me.

It's been...quite a week. Quit one job, started another. Been writing, of course. While maybe some days I'll feel too lazy to write the next great novel, I'm writing a lot more productively than I did sometimes as a student or as an unemployed young woman. And honestly, besides reading, watching movies, playing online games, going out for a drink, or just having fun with family and friends - a big chunk of free time I use after school/work/whatever is for writing, songwriting, playing guitar, and performing. Yes, truth be told, I'm writing a decent amount. Brainstorming for a TV show. I restarted my graphic novel scriptwriting. I've been writing poetry. Lots of poetry. As you can see. And tomorrow, of course, will be another Storyteller - a segment I have a love/hate relationship with. But hey...it works. Also, tonight I watched one of my new favorite movies: Beginners, with Ewan McGregor, Christopher Plummer, and Mélanie Laurent. You don't know who she is? ...

I Run Pleasure Island  by Belinda Roddie It’s true! I run Pleasure Island. So many years ago, my grandfather opened this realm of idle dreams where young ruffians do what they please. Yes, they gorge on sweets and meats made by the best of chefs from all parts of the world. My father, you see, was once like those boys, his head detached and floating, no plans ahead. Instead he played each day until he was put in a single file line. His high was gone, replaced with sweat, low pay, and later a helpless scream when he lost all but his wedding ring as the blades tore at what became a useless reminder of what he could have become. So with a beard gone white by pitying tears, my grandpa hatched a plan. Just as my father became a jackass, all boys like him would do the same. And so they do, guzzling beer, belching anthems of rebellion until they begin to bray. Yes, that very night they fall, they cry one last time for their mothers. The fools! They cry for those beautiful women, whose ...

In the beginning...there was cheese. At least, there should have been. At least, that's what my boyfriend John's father said. He had not only been a cheese artisan in his youth, but he had tasted almost every cheese in the world. All, he said, but the mystical ones. "Let me guess...you're planning to fly to the moon, aren't you?" John asked his dad. His dad winked and grinned. "I've got the rocket already built."

I'm Sorry That I Died by Belinda Roddie " I'm sorry that I died," said Roger, "but you still have to admit that it was time. The awful fits of coughing, blood like rust escaping from my lips - the horrid grime that coated the back of my throat! It parched me so that no drink could satisfy me. The way my legs gave out and how I lurched about the house and stumbled to my knees. I was quite old, my dear, and very gray - I did not have the strength to laugh or walk or even please you in cold night, hot day, or warmer afternoons. I could not talk, or smile, or love the way I'd done in youth. You'll die soon, too, and then you'll see the truth."