My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie No one knew what to do when the diegetic music stopped. It was supposed to keep going throughout the entire scene, but the piano had suddenly dropped off. It hadn't even faded - there was a simple progression of major chords, crescendoing into a waterfall of notes, and then it was like someone had taken a silent hammer to either the ivory keys or the pianist's hands. The director rose from her seat, sweating noticeably. She wiped her wet hands on her slacks and then clapped a soggy clap. " Cut!" The awkward ensemble of extras shuffled to the corner, while the hot-headed lead actor strutted toward the director, obviously fuming. "I told you to fire that musician," he scowled. "She's much older than you are. Her hands act up sometimes." "We haven't even gotten to the part where I compliment the damn woman on it! My token line. 'You must have dug up Mozart's fingers and had them attached ...

Jennifer proceeded to clamp her teeth down on her mother's hand, hard, though not hard enough to draw blood. The bite, however, was enough to elicit a high-pitched, squawking scream, as the poor woman tried to shake her daughter off her arm like a bird trying to ruffle its feathers. I stood up from my chair then, leaving my unfinished meatloaf behind. "Jennifer," I said. "Sit." She stared, mouth still on skin. "You're going to act like a dog, I treat you like a dog. Sit ."

Aw, do I have to be introspective right now? Saw my girlfriend earlier this week, which was wonderful. Came to a standstill in my novel, but that's okay, I'll pick it up at some point. Working out job stuff and filling out forms to turn in. Saw Marin Summer Theater put on an incredible show of Les Miserables  that was of course at least three hours long. Yeah. My brain is incapable of introspection right now. Night, lovelies.

Descent by Belinda Roddie The blood of a savior drips from a crown of thorns Mingles with the rain from his eyes And the sweat from his brow The lightning strikes his shoulders as he tries to breathe The air moves in spirals, down, Down, until there is nothing left but The wine from a chalice The work you see here was written in the fall of 2009. It was last edited in December of the same year.

Clara Tankman was a very wealthy girl with very poor ambitions. And by poor, I do not mean mediocre - I mean impoverished, penniless. A word that many critics would claim was synonymous with "artistic." You see, three months back, Clara watched her father die, took seventy-five percent of his inheritance, and gave it all away to those she viewed as less fortunate. She sent the other twenty-five percent of it to her mentally disabled brother, before she took off to Morocco with only five hundred dollars to her name.

I Didn't Tell Her by Belinda Roddie I didn't tell her that I had purchased a ticket to New York because I hoped I had at least a teaspoon of talent. I didn't tell her that the second week of August would be the last week that I'd reside in my parents' house, or that I had already quit from my boring job pushing carts and enduring customers' abuse. I thought if I just disappeared, she would forget me. After all, we did not speak much, and any flame between us had flickered out long ago, or so I thought. It wasn't until the day before I left that she came to me wanting more.

"Does this have peppers?" asked Chastity. "I can't eat peppers." We were sitting at the table on my father's deck, the backyard spotted with color as roses of every type grew and separated patches of cherry tomatoes, summer squash, and cucumbers. My mother had just brought out a heaping plate of food, and sure enough, I could spot chunks of bell pepper throughout the casserole-like meal. "Sorry, Mom," I said somberly. "Chast' can't eat peppers. She's allergic." "Really?" my mother asked. "Tell me, how does she live happily from day to day?"