My Cardboard Balcony

Poor Eckle's Mistress by Belinda Roddie One drink after another, glasses of cherry and raspberry ale, overtly sweet to mask the tartness of the atmosphere, Master Eckle thought he saw his mistress's hand slide slightly, but deliberately, a shiver of flesh rippling across colder flesh, down the shoulder of his friend Stein's wife, her lips stained purple from her tall glass of wine. He was tempted to yank the tablecloth away from where it caressed his clumsy hips, to see if his lady had removed a slipper so she could curl a toe or two across the other dame's ankle. Instead, he bit his tongue, and, when he saw the women smiling and laughing with noses nearly touching, he raised a glass and toasted to an innocent, growing orchard of friendship.

I didn't want a single prayer from the congregation. I didn't want a homily devoted to me from the pastor, nor psalms dedicated to my fallen name. I didn't want anyone presuming I wanted to carry a cross as if I, too, were to be crucified for the sake of portraying a message. Excommunication was bad enough already, and I wasn't willing to make more of a drama out of it. I was never going back to that church, not even to mouth anyone off. My girlfriend encouraged that mentality. She'd sit next to me on the couch as I stewed, holding my St. Teresa of Avila pendant close to my chest, and kiss me gently on the nose as a sign of "You're doing the right thing."

"I just don't understand why I'm still single!" griped the overly enthusiastic Anaheim Angels fan, as he guzzled a full pitcher of beer and made a lewd gesture at the closest girl sitting in the bleachers with her arms folded and her lips drawn in a very thin line. His friend rolled his eyes as she turned back to the game. Somehow, she was seriously considering converting to Dodgers loyalty.

by Belinda Roddie All she wanted was to run her hands over the tall grass one last time. As it were, however, there was no grass, and Orris's fingers, stark gray steel within her gloves, could feel no rough or wispy sensation of any bristle or blade of any hypothetical meadow. Instead, she stood along what used to be the Burren, now worn down thin and dark from the storm, the hostile Atlantic rising up to lick the heels of her boots with aggressive salt. It had been two years since the Last Crusade began. She had lost her hands in her last attempt to get rid of the Holy Men. They had been replaced, haphazardly, by one of the country's most brilliant surgeons until he was blown up in an old jeep heading toward the border. Now the Holy Men had control of Parliament, and the partially metallic women was left to wander, a war-tattered, terrorist-branded nomad in the last remnants of an old Ireland that was no longer green. New Ennis lay several kilometers away, the last...

The stairway seemed to go on for hours, but I couldn't help continuing to trek up the arduous steps. The air around me grew dryer and colder, and I tightened the collar of my jacket against my throat, feeling the fabric chafe against my stiff, reddening skin. Outside, I knew the sun was setting, and upstairs, the conference was convening. If I could only get to the sixteenth floor in time.

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...