My Cardboard Balcony

Musk by Belinda Roddie   Musk and pipe tobacco strung his whiskers amd played him like a marionette, twisting the tassels of his fancy mustache on his fancy upper lip. He poured himself a Cognac and watched as it turned silver in the light as the chandelier dropped like a pretty stone in the ballroom downstairs and killed three dancers.

The orchestra played Gustav Mahler's Symphony No. 1 with grace and gusto, and the minor intonations of a horrifying "Frere Jacques" crept into my ears to sleep. That night, I drank beer on the apartment balcony, with my brother curled up in a ball beside me. He was five years old and too tall for his age. He had cried during the third movement. I didn't blame him.

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 ...