My Cardboard Balcony

Stanley was not allowed to demonstrate the capacity of his detonation device, as the police had already arrived on the scene and the school principal, hiding beneath his desk, had gestured for everyone in the classroom to evacuate. The seventeen-year-old wrinkled his nose in disdain at the uniformed sheriff, who walked toward him with her belt jingling. "So." She clicked her tongue. "Playing with fireworks, are we?" Stanley groaned. "No, sheriff," he scoffed, "it's far more complicated than that."

by Belinda Roddie "That pony doesn't belong there." "What?" "That pony does not belong there." "...What?" "Jesus Christ, Aaron, I cannot make it any simpler!" "What pony, John?" "That one." "...What pony..." " That one." "Wha - " " That." "I - " " One." "John - " " On the bookshelf." "...Okay, see, that helps." "Duh. What else were you thinking?" "Well, considering you've downed half a bottle of Pinot Grigio before pointing out a pony...I figured you were hallucinating again." "...You're talking about the dingo, aren't you." "I am talking about the dingo." "Aaron. The toy pony does not belong on the bookshelf." "Okay." "It belongs on the DVD shelf." "Since when do you care?" "Sinc...

The three of us went to the metal playground once a week, which is was dark enough for the children to have gone home already, but light enough for us to see past the horde of pine trees rising from the incline of dry grass and gray earth. It also meant it was cool enough for us to go down the massive slides, the alloy curling into deep, embracing springs as my brother tried climbing up the slope while I screamed for him to stop so I could shimmy down and hit the sand with my open palms outward.

Ahhhh, Valentine's Day. The first one I ever actually spent with my girlfriend in person. Where do I even begin? Welp, I went to work, then gave my girlfriend a cute blanket with a kitten hoody, then promptly screwed up on getting her flowers for her opening night performing with Marin Onstage. And tomorrow we're going to have a late Valentine's Day brunch that will most likely include mimosas. Because I love my girlfriend very, very, very, very, very, very much. ...That was easy. I'm going to bed. Writer's Quotation of the Night: Writing fiction is the act of weaving a series of lies to arrive at a greater truth. - Khaled Hosseini Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone. Addendum: Okay, so one thing I should mention to my handful of readers is that I will be in Cazadero from Monday until Wednesday of next week, meaning I will not be putting up OneWord blurbs for Monday and Tuesday and I will be putting up Poet Corner poems a little late in the...

"Caramel Kisses" is an unfinished novel I began to write back in 2009 and stopped working on in 2010. The two main characters - Adriana Maguire Reynard and Emma Burking - would ultimately be revised for my later completed novella, "The Liffey Is Half-Asleep," in 2011. Several elements of "Liffey" can be found in their original forms in "Caramel Kisses," such as the characters' names, the haiku scene, and Adriana's penchant for writing. Because of its influence on my later writing, I figured that this story, though incomplete, was worth sharing. Caramel Kisses: Chapter Thirteen by Belinda Roddie “Adriana?” “Yeah?” “Have you ever thought of getting a real job?” Directed pause before the next line. It gives the statement undesirable tension. Cross upstage, begin the conversation. “That’s a weird question. Is my current job imaginary?” “No, I mean…maybe a job where you don’t have to ju...

Jodie's predictable sadness on Valentine's Day was offset, albeit temporarily, by the heart-shaped box of chocolates that she grazed on every time her workload became lighter at the office. The candy was, of course, not bequeathed by anyone romantic. It was her mother, in fact, who bestowed upon her single daughter the sticky sweets that she indulged in every February. Her friend Tanya with overly curly hair had invited her out for drinks for Valentine's Day, but Jodie, of course, refused.

The Tavern's Lights by Belinda Roddie The tavern's lights were on at three am, so I stumbled in to hear a banjo and an accordion squealing a reel in the corner, while three men drank tall pints beside the bar. The bartender was young and lithe, her red hair falling in crisp drapes across the shoulders of her uniform. I sat on the stool closest to the wall and asked if she could spare me a cider. "I have four dollars in my pocket." She nodded and passed a bottle, forgoing the glass. I said, "So you're open pretty late for a bar." She smiled, not speaking, while the musicians sang of the Emerald Isle.