My Cardboard Balcony

When We Are Married by Belinda Roddie When we are married, we will paint the aisles with yellow rose petals, and, when the light becomes white gold, the ribbons can be strung, like sun beams wrapped in crisp, clean paper. When we are married, our mothers will hold hands and share tissues, and our fathers will toast to our future and drink heavily to their pasts. Our sisters, too, will cry, though the warmth of an October morning still clinging to summer will soothe the aching bones of celebration. When we are married, I will place a new ring beside your seaside one, the one that was a little too big when first slipped against your knuckle by the San Francisco skyline. You've resized it by now. It fits like a dream. And my rings, too, will sit together like lovers having just met. Yes, hello. Very nice to meet you. We are here due to romantic circumstances, are we not? Then let us make the most of it, silver and gold - green, red, blue, and purple on the ...

The Hellhound was cornered. He had never thought it would end like this. No bullets in his handgun, no sharp blades to rip from his hip. He was facing down three women, all of them armed to the teeth, their smiles catching the light of the nearest street post and making their mean molars glitter like gold. "Seems like I'm gonna have a barbecue tonight," crowed one of the ladies, wielding what turned out to be a blowtorch. A blowtorch, of all things.

A cloudless day does not mean there won't be storms later. They are the storms that do not require rain, lightning, or thunder. All they need is a hot temper, a colder cup of temptation, and something blunt or sharp gripped in a dominant hand. Storms become hurricanes even without wind. It is when the blood begins to pour. It is when the people begin to scream. It is when the creator and destroyer fall to their knees together, staring at the dampened blades and fingers, wondering what they've really done.

by Belinda Roddie She wasn't supposed to die, just to suffer immensely. And yet, there she was, eyes half-open and glazed with the last of the blood and tears. She was dead. Very, very dead. Becca didn't bother to clean up, or even move the body. She simply pulled the reddened latex gloves off her hands, slipped the scalpel back into its pouch on her belt, and walked out. She made sure that her boots did not leave a single print on the messy linoleum. The walk back to her apartment was slow and cold - June was not promising summer fun just yet. Becca tossed the gloves into the large dumpster beside her driveway, pulling the collar of her coat tightly against her throat. It felt like December, even though six months had passed. She half-expected to see snow fall or Christmas trees light up in windows. Winter had never quite left her mentally. She hadn't meant to die. But she had fought too much. Moved too much, wriggled too much. Becca had meant to aim for ...

Man, OneWord was doing so well, and yet, no prompt again today. Here's hoping a new word pops up tomorrow.

Tonight, I am not going to talk too much about my life. I am not going to go into too much detail about my first summer class (which was, of course, fun and worthwhile and it ended a couple days ago), or my work (which is fine), or my relationship (which is and has always been awesome). I don't want to talk about my catastrophic anxiety or my existentialist nonsense or scratch away at my cerebrum hoping that something creative bubbles up as a result. Instead, I want to tell a story of what happened to me today. I'm not going to hammer a message into it. I'm not going to influence any sort of "moral." I simply want to tell a story. I am not "poor." At least, not in the societal sense of the definition. However, I don't make a lot of money. I don't have a lot of savings. I do have to scrape by some months after I pay off student loans, bills, and other credit build-up. My income, in fact, does not allow me to pay an adequate amount of rent, so ...

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 Four by Belinda Roddie If you asked about me to people who met me over the years that I spent in Reading, they would say that, back then, Joan Engel was a completely and totally average girl. Those who would befriend me would later change their minds, saying that I wasn’t totally average, but special in a positive way. Cheerful, they said, bright, and terribly outgoing. That was who Joan Engel was. Over the summer of my first year living in Reading, I worked hard in order to adapt to my surroundings. I le...