My Cardboard Balcony

Welp. I start a new class on Monday on adolescence. I'm dealing with financial shtuff again. I still have yet to complete a novel since 2012, only winding up with a bunch of unfinished stuff. And on the plus side, I'm still happily engaged. I'm kind of sucking at this whole introspection thing right now, aren't I? ...Maybe next week will be better. 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 Eight by Belinda Roddie The studio I was able to get was not a bad one. Due to the summer coming to a close, several cheaper places to stay were opening up, and despite the man in the starched shirt and vest closely observing me after looking at my identification card I was able to settle into the place rather quickly. It was a small place, one room with an adjacent shower, but it was good enough for me, at least for a week or so. Besides, the rate that the manager had kindly offered me was fifty pounds a...

Just when I thought we were in full swing again. Oh, well. Tomorrow, then!

I Want To Be A Sorcerer by Belinda Roddie I want to be a sorcerer. Could you begin to imagine how great that'd be? I'd have a thousand books of spells and brews, and I'd achieve a total mastery of everything magic - each jinx and hex, special elixirs for love, life, and death, and with each wave of my wand, I would vex the most logical of minds, every breath drawn in at the sight of my flowing robes, my pointy hat, and my ability to turn a cow into a bird or probe a human into flying past the trees, across the sky. Is it too much to ask to be a wizard, or too hard a task?

The light from the frosted window was translucent, creating a harsh glow of outside energy against my bed. As I tried to wake up fully, I could feel an awkward weight against my bones. The illness, I knew, was getting worse. I wasn't quite sure if I'd be able to walk without a cane, maybe even two. It was getting more apparent that I would need a wheelchair. The doctors hadn't known what to make of my ailment. No diagnoses seemed to cut it. It simply seemed, they said, that I was like Atlas, and the weight of the world was literally pushing me into submission.

Not Another Gay Novel by Belinda Roddie It's one of those nights when I've arrived at my parents' house for dinner. My sister and brother are there, too, and somehow, the old mutt who's been the darling of my family for over a decade still has the energy and posture to beg for any food remnants that tumble from the table. We eat ravenously, talking in between chews, while I ignore the occasional political quip from my brother as he tries to push my father's buttons on healthcare - a rather hot button at that, one that will burn your fingers. And then, when I've found the chicken less interesting than the words bubbling in my brain, I announce, "So, I'm planning on writing another novel." My parents look up from their plates with an aura of slight interest. My sister already knows, and my brother has always seemed apathetic about my writing.  I already pumped out a book a year prior, the ideas once wiggling in my cereb...

You said that my feelings were "highly illogical." Who were you, fucking Spock? Was there really something in your mental honor code that provoked you to challenge the things I could not control? And really, was it so necessary to alert my family of the sheer audacity of my actions, my attempts to live the life I wanted without false mentors and artificial prophets standing in my way?