My Cardboard Balcony

I Can't See Colors by Belinda Roddie I can't see colors - all is black and white. I'm not a dog, but still, I cannot tell if you're wearing a blue shirt or a bright green one. It's all gray to me, a gray Hell of dull shades, dull hues, dull tints, dull shadows of lifeless grass, sunlight, even ketchup bottles. I can't even see red, which blows, because I'm sure the color red is much cooler than all the others. When I kiss my girlfriend, I don't see pink in her lips. I can't compliment her on the long list of nail polish that she applies. Still, it's an exciting, fun world, despite the flat lack of all color for me. Fancy that.

There's a certain patch where people sit, eating their lunches out of paper bags, farther away from most of the general populace in the park. The patch is worn down drastically - mostly dirt, very little grass, and all brown - and sometimes coats are laid out as a simple substitute to blankets and quilts And when night falls, the stars seem brightest from that specific spot, where the trees are spread out more evenly and the leaves don't block out the evening canvas.

She Dreams by Belinda Roddie She dreams, she schemes, she mixes cream and eggs together in a bowl. She whips up whims and age old stories, artificial wins and glories, stuff that every klutzy nothing wants to guzzle down. She doesn't let them savor it. She knows it's all just sugar.

Kerry dangled from one of the rafters, one hand gripping the wood and the other waving as her brother as he stared at her, a hammer swaying limply between his fingers. The barn was almost complete, and there was his thirteen-year-old sister, scaling the ceiling like a monkey and cackling at those workers who were trying to concentrate on sawing and drilling. "She's one hell of a kid, isn't she?" asked her brother's boss, laughing as Kerry propelled herself to another, steadier beam.

Alastair Aloysius by Belinda Roddie The man with two first names fell in love with the woman whose moniker glowed with cliché: Rogue Valentine,  a tattoo of a lipstick kiss sticky on the side of her neck. They had bonded over a common goal to draw and quarter the pompously quadruple-named hero, the queen's favorite: Sir Lawrence Adley Howard Charlemagne, the odor of his arrogance emanating from every orifice of his admittedly majestic figure. His two swords, both tucked away, were equally as gleaming. Rogue Valentine sought to woo the knight who carried four names like extra weight against his chainmail, but when she offered wine spiked with just the right amount of malice, he declined. He was not a drinker - it did not suit his reputation. Alastair Aloysius was fairly disappointed by the state of affairs, and he suggested that they call off the plan altogether. Valentine refused, and that was only mere minutes before their murderous methods were d...

Annnnnnnnd nope, still not updated.

Here's An Idea by Belinda Roddie Bake more pies, smoke more dope, build more snowmen. The closer you get to certain death, the more vinyls you should have collected, more beers drunk, more stones skipped, and more fireworks lit on whatever holiday seemed appropriate at the time. After all, there are plenty of people who would like nothing more than for you to die young and alone. Don't let them cheer for that. Don't let them scrape the whipped cream off your slice of apple a la mode. Don't let them pour your lager out of its comfortable glass. Bitches will always kill a good idea before it's well cooked, so let it get crispy, chew on it, swallow, smile, and let the sparkles crackle on your teeth and grant you another hundred years to live.