My Cardboard Balcony

The last question on the test just baffled me. I couldn't figure it out, so I drew a fluffy unicorn and added a speech bubble with the words, "If unicorns don't get it, I don't get it, either." I was told to stay in after class the day after we took the test. My teacher was staring at me through her round spectacles, holding the page of the exam in question. There was my pretty unicorn, staring at me expectantly. "So..." She clicked her tongue. "Unicorns don't understand mole conversion?" "They don't need to, ma'am," I replied.

by Belinda Roddie Jezebel, my pet iguana, silently waits for my demise. I am convinced that her murder plot for other pets of mine in the past have involved dry plants she didn't desire to eat, a cup of stale water, and some traces of fecal matter. My mother says that this combination is in no way lethal, but I have stressed to her that my pet snake, Oliver, died in a similar fashion. I believe Jezebel felt it was a rivalry of attention that had to end. In my case, however, she does not seem to want to actively end my feeble existence. I believe she wishes for me to fritter my life away in the fashion I have taken on, and slowly but surely, I shall disregard my diet.  I wonder if she is quietly praying for Mother Nature to destroy all of humanity with a super typhoon. That will at least leave Jezebel with some fresh water. I've tried giving Jezebel away in fear of my own safety or sanity, but to no avail. My best friend Jonathan does not like reptiles. My other fri...

She tied her hair into a braid, only to have her brother chop it off in one rough stroke with a sharpened kitchen knife. They placed the hair in a plastic bag and left it on the doorstep of the old doctor, who screeched at the sight of his betrothed's "gift," along with the note left beside it: Find another one to wash your callused feet. I am long gone.

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.