My Cardboard Balcony

One thing I've realized around, I don't know, two seconds ago while sitting at my parents' desktop while I take care of their old dog: The best way to keep your creativity going is to maintain some sort of enthusiasm for something, even if some naysayer may call the thing you're enthusiastic about "frivolous." I mean it. It doesn't even have to be enthusiasm for something deep or abstract or philosophical. It can be anything. It can be enthusiasm for a particular song you heard on the radio, or a drink you mixed for a friend, or a certain video game or book or movie or even a specific type of cheese. It can be enthusiasm for what some people might call a typical hobby, like playing board games or getting really good with crosswords or baking a batch of cupcakes. Enthusiasm is so goddamn important to have in order to be a working artist, because the moment you become apathetic or disinterested in your day-to-day routine is the day you run into some pretty...

"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 Twenty by Belinda Roddie We planned our wedding for May, six months after the night I had proposed to her. Emma had reminded me that she didn’t need a lavish ceremony, just a small, pretty wedding where her father could lead her down the aisle to a song other than “Here Comes the Bride.” And I was fine with that because Emma was beautiful enough for a small ceremony an...

"Your card has been declined, sir. You'll have to use another." "That can't be right," Simon sputtered. "I should have a good chunk of money on there." But the cashier only shook her head. "I've tried it twice now, sir. You'll need to use your other card." There was only one explanation - his bitch of an ex-wife had to have drained his entire checking account. Now was not the time to panic. Simon had to breathe. He reached back into his wallet and frustratedly pulled out a twenty.

S'more Cupcakes by Belinda Roddie S'more cupcakes cool in their wrappers as the tin is set out where the light is just catching the edge of the tablecloth, glass after glass of milk settling in the dust of the kitchen. We pass out sweets on plates, plastic and bright red, chewing through the goo of marshmallow paste, the sugary taste exploding on our tongues. Our rendezvous has wine on coasters, cookies on display, and just the right amount of cheese in bowls to serve with crackers. We plow through the day with flavor in our mouths, flame in our souls, and hot liquor and dairy to chase down our treats, whether salty, sticky, or brown.

There was an old bible I picked up from the church still sitting in the corner of my bedroom as I packed my last suitcase. I wasn't even sure why I had kept the thing - maybe I had simply forgotten about it, and it certainly looked as if it had, appearing to be more dust than leather or paper. Still, I picked the bible up and brushed away the sheet of age, staring at the stamped golden letters on its cover. Why did I snatch this from the church? I guess because it reminded me of her.

Minivan by Belinda Roddie Ten teenagers piled into a broken down uncle's minivan with two bottles of Tullamore Dew, a plastic jug of lukewarm sangria, and a twelve-pack of apricot ale stolen from an ignorant parent's refrigerator. The first teenager popped the cap of one bottle and let it fly into the second teenager's forehead, leaving a dent so precise that it was like a crescent moon etched into the skin of a stunned moon goddess. The third and fourth teenagers found a corner to kiss in, while the last six juvenile jesters turned up the radio as loud as they could before the battery drained away and the engine wouldn't sing to life. And they all soaked the booze from glass vessels of shame, and they all climbed to the roof so the alloy sagged beneath their knees. And they all ran for the bushes when the cop car whipped by, the silent streak lost in the symphony of tires on the wet concrete.

"Her feelings are pretty overt, man," the barista told me, referring to her coworker, who stood in the corner with her back turned as she repeatedly washed the same glass in the sink. I sighed. "I'm flattered," I said. "Really, I am. But I'm happily taken." The barista shrugged. "Anything could change." "And I plan to propose to her," I added sternly. "Still, anything could change." "Like your attitude?" I sneered.