My Cardboard Balcony

So guess what, my handful of readers? Guess what, guess what, guess whaaaat? I don't have to work at a large retail store anymore. I'm going to be working at a bookstore! Yep, a bookstore that has six other locations in my state is opening in the city just south of my hometown, and I happened to be hired as a bookseller. While the job for now is temporary, my new boss told me he liked me from the start and got nothing but positive vibes from me during the interview. In short, I'm pumped. This means a better schedule, an easier place to commute to by bus, and of course, a chance to work with books and promoting reading to children. It may not be a teaching job, but my God, it's totally up my alley. In the matter of a week, my girlfriend, my sister, and I are all employed. We've been looking at apartments and finding some gorgeous places to apply to. Things are looking up, and it's one of the most awesome feelings I've had in a long time. Oh, and one...

Writing Exercise #5 by Belinda Roddie Story #1 - A Motor/Engine Starting Up  - 200 words The phone rings twice. Pick it up. Pick it up, damn you. Pick up the phone. “Who is it?” “It’s Jane.” Damn it. “What do you want?” “I want to talk to you.” “Oh, is that why you called? What a shock.” “Just bear with me.” “What do you want? Tell me the truth.” “I want Sam.” “What?” “I want my son back.” Damn it. Why did I have to pick up the phone? Why was I so dense? Why? For the love of God, why? “You can’t have him.” “What?” “The judge was on my side. You can’t have Sam back.” “I’ll take you back to court.” “Try me.” “I’ll win this time.” “Try me.” There’s a pause on her side. No words. I don’t hear her breathe. Talk, damn it. Say at least one word, Jane! “I’ll see you in court, then.” “I won’t come.” “You’ll have to come.” “I won’t.” “Bye, Glenn.” She hangs up on me. I wish I had not picked up. I get some wine and fil...

"How many songwriters you got hired?" "None," I replied, spitting a half-dissolved Altoid into the garbage can because it was too strong. My soon-to-be productor stared at me. My agent smirked. "So who writes your songs?" he inquired stupidly. I arched an eyebrow. "Guess." My agent couldn't help letting out a giggle. I reached toward the bowl of butterscotch candies on the producer's desk. He hardly blinked.

The Village Idiot by Belinda Roddie The village idiot fell in love with the stone-hearted maiden who lived in the cottage on the farthest end of the town alone, never wanting to take a wife or husband. But the idiot, being, well, idiotic, could not stop her heart from beating manically each time she walked past the maiden's home, wanting to play a wacky tune on her trumpet or dance a foolish jig to elicit at least a giggle from the young dame. But nothing would persuade the maiden to even step out of her cottage to have tea with the poor village idiot, heart pummeled and sore.

The instructor who took care of the fifth grade class this year was a stocky, stubbled, and bespectacled twenty-four-year-old man who had once been a high school classmate of mine. I was the assistant principal at that time - the youngest ever hired in the history of the district, in fact - and found it quite interesting how he avoided eye contact with me. When his first evaluation came up, he sat at the table across from me, staring at the floor.

Crisis Averted by Belinda Roddie Crisis averted - for now. Enough time to celebrate with a flask and flagon, and enough stained spoons to boom out a boozehound drum solo. We're a to z okay - for now. Drink with me, friend, until three months slither by on their bloated bellies, and we're back to square one when we've barely played hopscotch. Leave enough chalk dust between my cigarette fingers and my beer thumb, and I'll draw an Ash Wednesday cross on ye, to celebrate a purge of sympathy. Because twenty-four billion Washingtons emerged from the foam for a stein, friend. Twenty-four billion chances at a bottle of water or half a sandwich for a preschool kid. A food stamp or a drop of milk. An orange peel and a sense of worth. Save money, they say, while loosening their belts enough to let the green slip from loose and cowardly bowels. They should drink, too, so they can forget and bring us to the brink again. But we're okay - for now...

I finally noticed the tattoos on her scalp when she took off her hat. I guess her hair hadn't grown back in a very long time, not since the disease had gotten to its worst threshold and she shaved off the rest of the lonely tufts just to feel beautiful. And she was beautiful, especially with all the typewriter print across the crown of her head. "I want to kiss the words," I told her. And I did.