My Cardboard Balcony

Tonight, I'm not going to use the Fourth of July as a shameless opportunity to analyze my role as an American in a world that is far from perfect. I'm not going to take a bunch of time and text in order to emphasize my appreciation for my country while also acknowledging its many problems. I'm not going to indulge too much in any remote patriotism, nor in any over-the-top cynicism regarding the nation where I reside. It's not necessary. And do you know why? Because it's late, I had an amazing day with my family, and I am now exhausted. Introspection, ironically, can wait for another day. Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

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 Seven by Belinda Roddie Traveling through England with only a bag full of clothes and basic bathroom supplies, as well as about two hundred and thirty pounds in your pocket, is not a joy ride. While I may not have had to succumb to a pure survivalist’s strategy, I as well, as any other Brit, were aware of the consequences of simply wandering through such an expansive, populated country. There was no peaceful journey music, no fade-ins and fade-outs like in the cinema. Granted, I was lucky to do most of my...

The ham was in the oven, the firecrackers were set on the table, and I could faintly hear Sousa on the cheap radio that my uncle kept on the patio. It was hot, humid, and sticky, and I pushed the already short sleeves of my blue shirt up higher, exposing raw flesh yet to be chewed on by mosquitos. My mother handed me a sparkler, patting me on the shoulder. "Your father's favorite holiday," she reminded me. I rolled my eyes.

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.