My Cardboard Balcony

"Listen!" "I'm listening." "Just listen!" "I've been listening the whole time." The poem was clear in my head. "Listen to the exhortation of the dawn." Sanskrit. Kalidasa. Somewhere, a composer wrote a song to the words. "What do you want me to listen to?" You stumbled mentally. I could see it. Like a sunrise wavering on a hilly brain, hesitant to cast the crest in sunlight.

by Belinda Roddie She hesitated outside the door before finally deciding to simply walk in. The winter air scuttled in with her on frosted legs, wrapping the room in an igloo cocoon, as Arvey drew her coat closer around her frame. Mistress Kor's hopes for her to become huskier and more toned muscularly had been fulfilled somewhat; the girl still needed meat on some parts of her anatomy, but she was becoming fuller with each travel, rather than thinner, against the elements and the beasts. The shoreline house that the group now settled in was owned by the Crusader, who in his retirement was more a Fisherman with a capital F (more the Fisher, in Arvey's mental notes). He was more than happy to let the bloodied Quinoni, the haggard Barkelee, and the ever undisturbed Kor into his residence to stay for a week of rest. The amount of poise and composure that the professor had collected through assumedly years of experience was not something to cluck one's tongue at. Arvey alwa...

So I got a pair of boots. They were tall and they were black. They had buckles gleaming on the sides and zippers down the back. When I walked in my new boots, the heels made dents on the street. Several gentlemen tried to follow me, but they couldn't take the heat. When my boots touched the asphalt, there was fire in the air, and it lingered on my eyelashes and danced across my hair. I felt hot in these new boots, and what luck I really had, to have shiny boots to show off, and a super wealthy dad.

So girlfriend withdrawal has been cured. Ergo, once again, no productive introspection tonight. I do have a lot of things to say, but they won't translate well into writing. No, the thoughts in my head only seem to work when they are strictly oratory or spoken. Instead, I'ma go relax and enjoy this weekend. Night, all!

...and Out by Belinda Roddie Urgent message. Very urgent, Over. Cover’s been blown by city lights, Over. The gladiator’s broken down our shields, Over. Do you copy? I repeat, do you copy? Copycat, repeating lines from a Beckett play – I cannot understand you, Over. I could never understand you, Over. I see the gladiator rising for the kill, Over. There’ll be no time for us to celebrate today – Do you copy? Do you follow? Have you fallen? It’s all over. It’s all over. It’s all over. Over. The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since November 13th, 2007.

The creature was maned, but winged. Fanged but tusked. Sharp and crude and snarling all at once. But it bowed its head to me, and my mistress, and my two compatriots, its snout scraping the dirt because it dipped so low. It bowed to all of us. As if we were kings and queens. My mistress stepped to the creature slowly. She clicked her tongue. She straightened her waistcoat. "Pretty," she mumbled.

I Want A Room by Belinda Roddie I want a room where I can scream and hear the echoes of my own voice bring me slim remnants of subtext within my whimsies and ramblings, and the vents provide me a way to vent. And behind the glass, someone puts a headset to her ear and listens. No, she won't give advice. She won't try to enlighten me with remedies. She won't intend to ease the anxiety I feel daily. She will simply listen to each word I release from my clinging tongue into the air, accompanied by breath. I won't run out of words. I won't run out. To run out of words is something I doubt.