My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "Hey, you stole that line from a musical!" "No, I didn't!" "You totally did! I know it! I've seen the show on Broadway!" "You're a liar!" "Are not!" "Are, too!" "See, this is what happens when we let them try to write music together," Mark said glumly as he watched our daughters squabble. "They don't have to follow in our footsteps, you know." They wanted to, though. Mark and I had been a dynamic musical duo for twenty years of our lives. When we had decided to have children, our careers were put on hold. Jessica and Allison, as a result, wanted to write music and basically continue the trend like it was a family tradition. They were thirteen and eleven respectively, squabbling over who got to play what instrument or who got to sing what song. Today, the argument was about lyrics. The amount of music they had written? Pretty negotiable. Close to none, th...

I was ready to cook a seven course meal, that was how hungry I was. But when my friends showed up at my house, I made grilled cheese with bacon and tomato soup for all of us. Not that we minded, of course - we enjoyed the meal with pretty hefty bottles of beer. "So when's the new girlfriend coming over?" Arthur asked me with a mouthful of cheddar. "I don't know. Tomorrow?" "You haven't asked?" I blushed. "I'm still a little nervous around her." "But she said she loves you!" "I know. It's hard to believe."

So. I won National Novel Writing Month. No, I don't get a prize. No, I don't get money. I just get the pride of knowing that after trying four times, I finally, finally reached the 50,000 word goal for the month of November. It's kind of funny that I'm celebrating so much, especially after I finished a novel that was more than 75,000 words long in eight days. But it's still worth a lot to me to be able to face a deadline head-on and make it. Yes, I did get to the word count exactly on the last day of November, but it was pretty much purposeful. I wanted to pace myself out as much as possible, given my workload and the fact that I spend about 45 hours a week at a school where I obviously can't spend my time writing. The novel's not finished, and it's still untitled, but there's only one chapter left (each chapter is named after a month in time in the story, so the last one is "June"). I'm really looking forward to wrapping it up an...

Illuminae by Belinda Roddie Stranger in the illuminae Singing a father’s lullaby Under a glorious Neptune sky The fireflies dim their glow to cry Drinking from an oaken bowl While lying on a velvet knoll And the stars so high above him roll Like wheels in cosmos dark as coal Stranger in the illuminae Doesn’t know where he is and why Caught in the view of a swallow’s eye That gently glides over the cold hillside He sleeps, while the spirit of the air keeps His body warm Tomorrow it will send him home The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since July 23rd, 2007.

"He was just being himself." "If being himself is being equivalent to the spawn of Satan, then I am not interested in spending three hours with him while they're at a movie." "Become, Joey. Don't be a ham." "I'll be more than a ham if I have to babysit the demon!" "Dude." He punches me in the shoulder. "Pipe down. What would they say if they overheard you?" They are indeed standing over there, waiting for my decision.

Hot Cider and Croissants by Belinda Roddie Hot cider and croissants are all I have on the table, but it's a good enough meal between the two of us. Cinnamon on our tongues. Crispy, buttery pastries flaking against our teeth as we munch on the café delicacies. Feeling warm and tingly all over, I want a kiss from you. I want a crispy, buttery pastry kiss from you. I wish for a kiss- shaped croissant, the swirling mosaic of a display counter in a coffee shop that we could open with sappy motifs. Hot cider and croissants are what we'd serve to young lovers whose dreams will soon converge.

Crime was on the rise in Off Key Village. Nothing was on pitch. Everything was out of tune. The Oboe Scoundrel had trilled off with another bag of reeds. Now none of the Clarinet Gang could play. And to top it all off, some trumpeter was tooting his horn about how the mayor was sleeping with the virtuoso violinist.