My Cardboard Balcony

She was a gamer. So was he. But who got respect in the world of first-person shooters, MMORPGs, and gaming communities whether online or in conventions? He did. He was the king. He, with his silvery black soul-patch, twinkling blue eyes, and hair spiked up to the left side like a strange overgrowth of desert thorns. She was a gamer, and she was scoffed off. And when that happened, she pushed her cap away from her forehead, grabbed the nearest control, and growled, "Watch me, motherfuckers."

by Belinda Roddie "I am the queen of this carpet square!" "You sure are." "Aaron." "Well, are you or are you not a queen?" "Just bring me my tiara already! "Why that particular carpet square, though?" "What?" "I said, why that carpet square? I mean, you could not have picked a dirtier spot." "Well, it's a good square. It's soft." "John." "And cozy." "John." "And I can sleep in and dream happy dreams and be a happy little queen kitten." "John." "Just like Zelda." "Yeah, about that...Zelda pissed there earlier, dude." "..." "Yeah, I'm serious. Just outright pissed there. Guess she decided the litter box was her nemesis for the day. "..." "So I am really surprised you did not smell the urine from a mile away before you sat down on it and christene...

We had adapted to the hot bayou in a matter of weeks. We wore boots with soles as thick as tire rubber so we could navigate the deep, sticky swamps more easily. When we fished, we used large bait and prepared ourselves to wrestle with monsters. At night, when the heat didn't cease, we aimed our tent flaps to the closest, smallest breeze, just so the fluttering of canvas cooled us down enough so we could finally go to sleep.

Mur. Classes. Work. Assignments. Tired. Mur. Good night.

This is an untitled, unfinished novel that was technically left alone in late 2008. However, the last time it was modified and checked for errors was 2011, where upon I decided that the absurdity of the plot combined with the sloppy British research was too much for the story to continue. However, seeing as this is Whims of the Time Traveler, it's a perfect example of my first attempt at long fiction, so I've decided to unabashedly display it. Have fun. Untitled: Chapter Two by Belinda Roddie If someone asked me, “What was it like going down that river? Terrifying, am I right?” I wouldn’t be able to give them a straight answer. I don’t remember it very well at all. It’s already bad enough that these random people, after all this time, still ask me about it. Because from what I can tell, not a whole lot of people know or are friends with a girl who was found in a bloody coffin when she was ten years old. Of course, I don’t use it for casual conversation. When I ...

The bonfire was big enough to be the beach's main light source. It was a torch, crackling with each aluminum can and bottle thrown against the splintered wood. I opened up another flask of whiskey and passed it around. The booze tasted hotter than the flames felt on my face. It was like I was setting my tongue alight. "After this, what do we do next?" one member of the group asked.

Lysandra's Rubies by Belinda Roddie Lysandra's rubies shone from Ayla's neck, locked in a massive clasp that held her cloak tightly against her as she roamed the wreck of train coaches, cold biting at her throat. The snow would not lessen, and Ayla feared that Lysandra, her love, was buried deep within the smoking chaos, the frost smeared with debris, where coal and dark oil were streaked, black and foreboding. The crash had cost most of the passengers' lives, and not a soul had seen Lysandra live or die, no ghost to prove demise, so Ayla had been told. With no sign of her love, she vowed to find her, even if she left the world behind.