My Cardboard Balcony

Unfortunately, it's been another rough week. While there is some good news with my loan deferment and my class going smoothly, this week has been Anxiety Week all around. From climate change to Ebola in the United States, my brain has latched onto anything it can to render me unable to function as a normal human being during multiple moments of the day. It also doesn't help that I have a massive insect bite of some kind (wasp sting? Spider bite?) and then, after icing it, gave myself some kind of welts or something. Hives from the cold? I dunno. They're fading as I type this, but let's just say I get an A++ for taking care of myself so darn well. The good news is, I believe I'm finally pulling myself out of the anxiety slump and back into writing mode. This afternoon, right before work, I went on a writing spree and began Chapter Two of my new novel. While of course, I wish I could've gotten a lot more done, I know I'll probably do some writing possi...

NOTE: This is the third full-act play I ever wrote, at the age of nineteen. While I cannot specifically remember when it was finished, I am going to hazard a guess that I was done with this play and beginning to write my fourth play by the spring of 2009. It's a risky guess, but it'll have to do. This is Act II of the play. Enjoy. Be Still, Little Lotus Eater (A Play In Two Acts) by Belinda Roddie CAST (in order of appearance) MUSICIAN MUSE SILVERS GRIMM JENCI FAIGEL AYLIN JAREK SETTING An Uncharted Island WRITER’S NOTE: All stage directions and emotions listed in this script are open for suggestion. Altering them should not decrease the caliber of the play, but they should serve as guidelines for the director and the actors. Remember, nothing is set in stone. Act Two Starry Night (The act opens in complete darkness, with night sounds) GRIMM. Silvers? …Silvers. Silvers, wake up. SILVERS. Huh? What’s going on? Is something wron...

They told me that my ambitions were far too lofty, and I believed them. I dropped my dreams like hot coals against my feet, and I packed one bag and traveled down abandoned railroads for a good portion of my life. How much schooling, intelligence, and hope had I wasted by believing in those who didn't believe in me? It was a fruitless exchange, and the world was paying the price for it.

The Land Was Dry by Belinda Roddie The land was dry as she walked; not a drop of rain had fallen there for thirty years. The earth had once been fertile but had lost its moisture, as the sun had scorched and seared it. No food grew now, and hundreds, if not thousands, of people had left the small town in search of wetter, greener lands. The spot where her parents had met was dead and brown, the grass no longer sprouting, the flowers no longer blooming. She found the old home where almost every memory of hers from childhood had taken place. Now she'd roam on to the next town, still seeking to quench her thirst, her trauma, and nature's vengeance.

"I used to have a pet turtle," said Timmy, "but he died. So now I have a hamster." "Quite a change, huh?" asked his teacher. Mister Hammerstein. Timmy shrugged, chewing on a wad of peanut butter and banana. "I like both. One day, though, I want a snake. One that'll wrap around my shoulders like a big, squirmy scarf. And I could look all cool and scary, and maybe the grown-ups would respect me a little bit more."

The Girl With The Green Hat by Belinda Roddie I found you at the food court when I wanted someone to talk to, and you were wearing a bowler as green as spring with a silver-topped cane at your hip. You offered to share your kung pao chicken because I didn't have the money for my own meager sampling. I declined, but then you bought me a pizza pretzel, and that was awfully nice. There was something about the way you made jokes about the mannequins, mocked the window displays, and found glamor in the cheapest and wackiest of the clothes on the clearance rack. You made the hand-me-down jeans and jacket I was wearing seem like something out of a fashion show, and you never stopped smiling beneath the brim of your hat.

NO SMOKING, the sign said, until I tore it down and lit my pipe aggressively, the smoke thrashing like an angry third arm across my shoulders. When a waiter stormed over to demand I put the thing out, I threw my bad beer in his face, jostled on my coat, and sauntered outside, pipe still puffing like a chimney. The tobacco was sweet, and the smell clung to my curls and made them feel sticky against my jawline. I felt like myself again.