My Cardboard Balcony

Scratching by Belinda Roddie scratching at the peeling calluses on my weeping feet, I was drinking a bourbon melting on my lips while watching Saturday Night Live laughing at its own jokes, when knocking on the door was a sobbing brown-haired girl clutching a teddy bear drooping stuffing from its beading eyes. After calming her down by feeding her a cookie, I got to asking her why she was crying. To which she said, "begging your pardon, sir, but being abandoned, I'm lonely and itching all over my arms and legs, and I can't stop scratching."

She wear the gold speckled earring in her left lobe, her right one singed off by a fire at her small cottage in York. She had not bothered to get a new patch of skin attached, and she preferred to wear her wound like it was a war injury. In a way, however, it was - she had not been foolish and caused a cooking accident. She had really been the victim of arson, and a very angry husband.

Professor Bertram kept a small container of snuff within the lowest drawer of his old, oaken desk. The inhalation of the drug calmed him, the tremor in his right hand dissipating as he settled himself down in his chair to correct papers. The seven-page essay written out by one of his star pupils immediately enticed him, and he shuffled other leaves aside to read the particularly pounded out text.

by Belinda Roddie Marv noticed that something was terribly wrong with the baby. It started with the diaper changing. Or, more accurately, the lack thereof. The baby could eat and eat and eat and nothing could come out. No massive stains or stink. While that perhaps was a minor relief for Marv, his wife reminded him that this could be something much more dangerous. So he took the baby to the hospital, where Doctor Oswald told him that all was normal and didn't seem to take the situation too seriously. The couple went through everything - scans, X-rays, even a look into the baby's intestines for blockage. But the lack of negative symptoms alone were enough to make the doctor say that perhaps the two were overreacting. They weren't overreacting. But no doctor in all of Sonoma County seemed to want to listen. A week after the initial anomaly, Marv was doing his usual midnight check-in on the baby when he noticed the bumps on his head. They were perfectly symmetrical -...

The smell of warm chocolate chip scones enticed Freddy as she traipsed her way into the small Irish bakery. Within glass display cabinets, she could see sausage rolls, curry pie, and Irish brown bread. It all made her mouth water as she traced her fingers along the glass, not noticing the shopkeeper approaching her with alarming speed.

Random creative idea of the day: Mockumentary novel. That is all. Writer's Quotation of the Night: When something can be read without effort, great effort has gone into its writing. - Enrique Jardiel Poncela Have great night and a great weekend, everyone.

Midnight Telephone by Belinda Roddie   He called me one night while I was sitting on the couch, Emptying a bottle of Amaretto and watching Rod Serling’s face As he spoke of a macabre demise coming my way. He called me then, and the taste he gave was not as sweet As what any glass of Amaretto would leave in my mouth. He spoke of changing routine while I sat With the screen casting my silhouette on the wall, And as I listened, my own shadow seemed to nag me, Frolicking at my silence, laughing at my calm. He told me he had to keep moving while I, on this couch, Could not, and hearing this, I could not help but Laugh as well, laugh with my shadow, My dancing doppelganger on the wall. He asked, “Have you been drinking tonight?” “No,” I lied, fearing that my wobbly pronunciations Would give me away, “No, but have you Been living tonight?” And I hung up. He never called me back, and I, comfortable, Undeterred from my nest, let Serling’s voice Carry me away as I watched the cigarett...