My Cardboard Balcony

I have started a new mini-series. Don't worry - this does not mean that my current novel will be left unfinished, though I may take a brief hiatus to focus on other projects. One of which, by the way, is a secret (Shhhh! It's a Christmas present! Don't pry me for answers!). My first completed mini-series, "Happy Distribution," focused mainly on the concept of doubt and second guessing a solid relationship for the sake of past infatuation. This next series, tentatively titled, "Full of Grace," will be regarding a personal conflict that I had to deal with some time ago, and still have to deal with on a minor level. Specifically, it deals with the concept of religion clashing with sexuality. Even more specifically, it focuses on Catholicism and a same-sex couple, with the protagonist almost fanatically attempting to get her marriage acknowledged in the church that she was raised in and cares deeply about. I was raised and confirmed Catholic as a young g...

A Wrathful Blizzard by Belinda Roddie It wasn't snow that had fallen, and it wasn't white.

Fifteen jobs had been outsourced, and fifteen hardworking citizens were sent home. The fifteenth of them was Sylvia Clement, and she had been toiling at her career for a solid twenty years. She hated the fact that she would have to go home, to her ailing father and her wife on disability, and let them know that their income had been cut in half. Maybe they would have to sell the house. Maybe, Sylvia feared, she would have to pretend she was twenty-two again and start entirely from scratch.

Stiff Hands by Belinda Roddie Somebody broke the clock next door, so it's always ten at night, but only when you're in that room with a lover or a friend. Time stops long enough for you to spill your secrets along with wine. It will let you cry a hundred times in the corner without the dawn infringing on your territory. It will wrap you in a frigid shawl as welcoming as a black hole, pull you into a dimension that sprinkles stardust on your bangs and turns you gray while you're still young. And when the somebody you dragged along into that void kisses you, it is like the forgotten sun in a tiny space, until you remember that it's bright aside, and you break free, and you find solace in the incessant ticking that was once so limiting before. Her Hands Were Cold by Belinda Roddie Her hands were cold and would not warm up by the hearth. No matter how many hot drinks I passed to her, her body never rose above its frigid temp'rature. I w...

Would you like to ride a boat in Venice? Please say you do, oh, please. We'll kiss the salt brine in the air. You'll sit across my knees. We'll hear the gondoliers' all warble as the water flows. You'll kiss me right upon my lips, while I will kiss your nose. Let's ride a boat in Venice - I hear the weather's great. We'll spend an Italian evening just for us. Let's set a date.

Lungs by Belinda Roddie I lie in bed at night, and I am thankful for a great many things. However, I take for granted the mighty pouches of life stored behind my ribs, cycling air to make it nourishing. My blood is warmed to the melody of oxygen. I can breathe. I do not have to take my chances with a canister. I do not have to stop walking to ease the burn in my chest. I do not have to fear a chokehold, for many reasons. I am allowed to breathe. I am allowed to live. But he can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. How many times did he have to gasp it to be spared? And how many times would I have had to say it before precious air returned to me, and my lungs cooperated, and the man in blue apologized? We are different, the dead and I - I get to lie in bed a...

The bear cub clung tightly to the rotting mouth of the tree, a slight trace of honey noticeable on its jowl. None of us tried to approach it - it was clearly scared, and very, very hungry. The ranger with us fidgeted with his walkie talkie before slipping behind another tree to talk with a cohort. "Where's its mom?" my son asked, practically attached to the crook of my elbow. "I don't know, Jim," I replied, "but we mustn't interfere."