My Cardboard Balcony

Not a bad week overall. Writing is a little slower in terms of the TV script work, but it's still moving, and that's worth something. It's just not quite one episode a night anymore. Also, my girlfriend's going to be here on Sunday, and tomorrow's going to be a fun day with friends. Good food, drink, company, and Disney movies. There you go. Saw a show last night called After Juliet. Upon telling my girlfriend the premise of the show, she and I both agreed that yeahhhhh no. If you're going to extend from Shakespeare's work, you either gotta be a brilliant writer or you just don't cross the bard. And that's about it. Brief introspection this week. Yay. Writer's Quotation of the Night: Keep writing. Keep doing it and doing it. Even in the moments when it's so hurtful to think about writing. - Heather Armstrong Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

Breath by Belinda Roddie He’s shirtless and smoking as she rolls on her side. She hasn’t been able to sleep since he arrived, and now all he does is frown and puff away. She watches momentarily before leaning over. “Don’t,” he says. She pulls away. "Why not?" "I'm tired." He finishes smoking and breathes. She breathes, too, as if responding. They don’t speak, and they hardly move. She lies back, sighing deeply as if she were trying to get him to glance over. She begins to feel warm. They breathe together. It’s beginning to grow light out; they haven’t slept since they met and drank and romanced together. They merely separate from each other, break away and ponder and yearn. Then they finally speak again. "I thought about traveling," he says. “Where?” “I don’t know. Somewhere. Anywhere.” They breathe together. He feels chilled and calm, but she feels flush and red as she stretches. He expects her to suddenly purr as she becomes feli...

He can't tell me. It's a secret. She can't listen. It's a secret. You can't write that. It's a secret. I can't read that. It's a secret. Walls of code? Must be a secret. Tax returns? Definitely a secret. Love affairs? Never secret. Bribery? Only secret for a little bit. Sexuality? Usually secret for years. Feelings? Only secret for days. True intentions? Always secret.

Tonight's Masked Man by Belinda Roddie Tonight's masked man was smoking tangerine cigarettes and eating soup, his face warm and oily from the lamps carrying the aromas of rosemary and garlic. As he lifted a strand of beads dangling from his left brow, he stirred his spoon around the bowl and made green tidal waves in the confines of black porcelain. The waitress could not stop staring at the strange array of yarns and feathers lining his jawbone and golden wasp cloth covering the spots where stuff hotter than grease spat vitriol across his cheeks and nose. He never would remove the cowl. But to the girl, he should.

"Lights, camera..." "Wait, wait!" I rolled my eyes and backed away from my filming position as the star, Samantha Kelliorson, waved her arms frantically for the director to step in. As he did so, I realized how heavy his eyelids appeared to be - gray blinds against his eyes. He needed more coffee, or something, to get through this. "I just don't feel right, Bradley," Samantha was saying. "I'm just not in the moment." "I'll put you in a moment by slamming the camera literally into your face," I muttered.

Caress the Nose by Belinda Roddie The sharpshooter kisses the wet, seeking snout of his rifle barrel - two pecks, one lick, muscle against metal. It's done some marvelous work today, sending bundles of feathers crashing onto the dry grass and instantly molting in premature decay. When he stoops to retrieve the meal, his fingers constantly caress the nose - that slender, flaring nostril rimmed with dark powder, everything there but the red-rimmed eyes. This is the hunter and his lover. They share work together. They share meals together. And most of the time, in the thick of a stifling August heat wave, they share a bed together, one smiling, the other snoring.

"It's a trap!" "Stop saying that." "IT'S A TRAP!" "You are not Admiral Ackbar!" "IT'S A TRAAAAP!" He kept bellowing it over and over as I served everyone a second helping of garlic mashed potatoes. Susan groaned very audibly before spooning large squares of butter into her spuds. "Honey," said her father, "don't you think that's a bit too much fat and carbs?" "IT'S A TRAP!"