My Cardboard Balcony

This introspection is certainly written far earlier than the evening, but starting from early Friday afternoon, I will be without internet until Sunday. I will be celebrating the new year up north with my family, friend, and girlfriend where there are no computers or TV. Which is nice. As a result, there will be no OneWord blog entries for Friday and Saturday. Storyteller will be a day late. I know I intended to post every day, but sometimes life demands a break or vacation from even creative outlets. So once I'm back and provided that my house hasn't been broken into during our trip (yay, irrational worrying), I will be back to posting on Sunday. A lot of things sort of blew up in my face this week. As a result, I'm back to square one in multiple ways. It's injured me mentally and emotionally, and the sting may not go away for some time. Ultimately, however, it'll make me stronger, and I'll take a step forward and continue doing what I'm good at while i...

Wit by Belinda Roddie The man with the silver tongue is growing old And jealous of the man with the tongue of gold But even more so of the girl whose wit Desires no precious metal in her mouth He reads his books and lets the silver flutter Words, words, smooth and thick like butter But they slip away into dust upon the table The man is by far out of practice And then he hears the news: The gold-witted man died while singing the blues He pissed off a thug with sharp and petty lashes He deserved his thrashes The girl has heard the story, too She rises from her chair to the window Lets the breeze enter the room And says, "Life is good." The work you see here has only been slightly modified for mechanics and errors since February 7th, 2007.

A Pillow Made of Ice by Belinda Roddie A pillow made of ice was brought to me for my slumber within the grand palace. It turned to icicles against my face while somber morning fiercely broke upon my frozen brow. The blankets on my back became the snow outside, and I shivered as my prince stumbled through the door, drunk as can be, with a fair maiden clinging to his belt. His eyes were melting brown and gold. Their gaze did not focus on me at all. He snored against a pillow stuffed with fine feathers, while I turned into winter mist. A pillow made of ice was brought to me so I would not smother the king-to-be.

The cacti grew in the winter snow. The bears were lumbering in the tundra. Dry grass growing red roses in autumn. Leaves falling in the blazing heat. I filled a mug with cocoa and sat on the porch, watching the rainbow in the sky melt the frost away. My skin had grown tough and very, very dark. My eyes were dusted silver instead of river blue. This was the way life worked now.

The Nile by Belinda Roddie On the Nile one day, a majestic ship of white princesses with their hair frizzed and lips red careened across the currents kicking algae to the rocks and the voice of the Nile said, go forth, and paid no heed to the wreckage of life and broken shore the princesses left behind. Then a little boat teetered across the troubled foam where a girl in boys' clothing asked for safe passage but the Nile coiled up like a snake and refused to hear her, sealing its watery ears to pleas and honest cries. And as the boat crashed, the girl fled and took the weary road instead.

Daniel had packed a dessert for his trip to the desert. He brought along a case of water and a bottle of bourbon. He set up a picnic with no one to eat with. He read a Hemingway book. He fell asleep in the sand. When he woke up, he had a Rip Van Winkle beard and the desert was now a valley, with clear running streams. And when he drank from it, it tasted like mud and sand and the parched sensation of a dead man.

Post-Holiday by Belinda Roddie When you wrap the lights around you, I get an eerie sense of déjà vu. All the colors taste the same on my memory's tongue - sweet, but with an uncomfortable afterthought. You made brioche for Christmas again, and pluck-it bread for Easter, and I dipped two fingers into your coffee mug and spread the charcoal residue around my mouth like lipstick. There are some things I care to remember, things that aren't so sugary, as I briskly sweep the needles away.