My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie She read me like Braille. Her fingers danced across my shoulders and arms, caressing every mole and every goosebump and every random sprig of hair that rose from my puckered skin like a sad stalk of black grass from a smooth desert of brown flesh. Soon, her palms began to navigate the creases of my hips, the spider webs of stretch lines weaving across my torso like they were actually alive and bristling with sunlight, golden and warm against my lover's hands. She did not have to touch my face to know that I was crying. She did not have to sense my body shaking against hers to understand my sadness. "Some day," she whispered to me, her teeth almost grazing my ear lobe, "you'll come to understand how wonderful of a person you really are." That night, lost in the cushions of my father's old couch that I had stuffed into my depressing apartment, was the last night I saw Sasha for nearly six years. She had been twenty at the time; ...

I wasn't brave enough to take on the dragon with a sword and shield. I was, however, cunning enough to lure it into a corner, quick enough to escape its fiery breath, and energetic enough to scale the tower wall before it could even reach me. When you saw me, you asked if I had slain the beast, but I hadn't, and it meant all she had was me in that tower.

Welp, it begins. Next week, I will be attending TEACH Week at Sonoma State University before I start classes on the twenty-fifth. Also, I have begun a stricter exercise regimen upon discovering that I've gained a few pounds since last measured at a doctor's appointment. Basically, more cardio than walking, possible weight lifting, and a promise to not go out of my way to buy chocolate (my main weakness). I think there's nothing else I can ask for your guys but the usual, and that's to please wish me luck. I'm gonna need it more than ever. Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

NOTE: This is the fourth 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 by the summer and began writing my fifth full-act play in the winter of 2010 while studying abroad in Ireland. This is Act II of the play. Enjoy. Can't Hurry Love: A Play In Three Acts by Belinda Roddie CAST (in order of appearance) SAMANTHA “SAM” MELICK, a lesbian novelist ANDRE GRIFFIN, a bartender-turned actor AMELIA MELICK, an actress and Sam’s older sister LESLEY EVERARD, a questioning English university student MRS. MELICK, Sam and Amelia’s mother MR. MELICK, Sam and Amelia’s father SIMON HART, Lesley’s boyfriend SETTING A Pub in Yorkshire, England 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 an...

The stylist that Mark usually went to was on vacation, apparently, so he was redirected to one purple-haired Shane, who stood by the corner mirror, reapplying eyeliner. When he saw the customer coming, his face split into a broad, white smile, and he clapped his hands loudly and rapidly like an excited seal. "I've heard so much about you!" he squealed as he directed Mark to a chair. Mark frowned. He's heard about me? What have I accomplished besides getting my neckbeard occasionally shaved?

They Turned Off The Water by Belinda Roddie They turned off the water, so we drank more beer and cider than we thought we would. We took out the board games, shuffled cards, and bored ourselves to tears with tired old Parcheesi. Soon, headaches came on, and we ran to buy packs of water, dousing our throats and brows with the lukewarm liquid, our tongues still dry as we debated whats and whys and hows of the broken heater. By the night's end, we knew we were bitching about first world problems, and from this slight rut, we would mend. We went back to drinking, chatting 'bout girls, and playing games. The water would return later, and then a shower would be earned.

I unpacked the groceries only to find a silver pocket watch lodged between the loaf of bread and the jar of marinara sauce. I looked at it curiously. How in the world had it ended up in the paper bag? Had someone accidentally dropped it while passing my cart? No - it had to have been purposeful. A gentleman had jostled me slightly on my way out of the store. Whatever his intention was of leaving me this watch - if it had been him, of course - was beyond me.