My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie Goodbye, friends. I am off to the world of lullabies and dreamscapes. I am taking up an oar and rowing across the Styx where it connects to the Aegean Sea. I will take a trident to the Kraken before washing ashore onto an island where cows are revered as gods and birds carry messages from forgotten kings. And I will maintain a throne made out of coconuts, because it just seems appropriate given the climate of the area. Some say that there is a dwarf in the fields who will give you gold if you sing him your favorite song. Then you dance, and he grows displeased. He exchanges your gold for silver due to your audacity. And yet silver is what buys you a house and helps you raise a family. Only your children are not human, but mutations of something far, far more beautiful. They are mythological entities. They are Chimaeras. They breathe fire to heat up the pot where you boil their macaroni and cheese. And sometimes, I will see you there. I will find you petting oxen...

She wore a violet scarf, while her wife donned a violet neckties, and the violets crowning the tombstone were beautiful. They knew that the color, the flower - they were important to their daughter. They remembered that the dress she was buried in was violet. The jewelry, too. And her own daughter, their granddaughter, was already being drawn to purple, to the last beautiful color of the rainbow over their heads.

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.