My Cardboard Balcony

"I don't want to go through this again," my mom grumbled. "If you're not going to eat with us, then you can get out of this house for the night." That was fine by me. I had twenty dollars to get myself a burger, and I could easily walk to whatever cheap eatery I desired. I grabbed my jacket, marched outside, and slammed the door behind me. My bigoted family could choke on their overcooked pork chops and lumpy mashed potatoes, for all I cared.

by Belinda Roddie "Really, that's the best you can come up with?" asked Mrs. Timber sourly. The tapping of her red pen against her desk was like the unwanted ticking of a doomsday clock. Grace was frozen. She had told the truth, and it was as if she had offered a sloppy saga instead. She wasn't sure how to respond to her teacher except, "But that's what happened. I'm not joking." Mrs. Timber was not amused. "Miss Farraway," she murmured, "I do not tolerate lies. Especially not elaborate lies. If I had a doctor's note, a parent's e-mail, then perhaps this conversation would be going differently. But as it is, I am not going to accept this far-fetched tale as an excuse to turn your essay in late." This was not good. The paper was worth thirty percent of the grade, and Grace only had it half-finished. She didn't know what else to do. At this rate, she could have easily said, "The dog ate my computer," an...

"I can't go back to that camp! I'll die out there!" Tanya's mother sighed. "Honestly, dear, you are so hyperbolic." "You think I'm kidding?" shrieked Tanya, her mouth agape and partially filled with peanut butter. "Last time I went, I almost drowned while canoeing, nearly got mauled by a bear when I went to the bathroom at night, and got poison oak so bad that I nearly went into shock! I will definitely  die!"

It is same old, same old in Belindaville. Still looking for work, still writing, still loving, still seeing friends. I got to rekindle some old ties and get some interviews and move forward in regards to some career strategies. I can't exactly get more specific than that. My anxiety's definitely lessened, and my writing has progressed. I am one episode away from finishing my second mini-series; now it's just a matter of actually getting my work produced. Wish me luck. I just got back from a fun party for some coworkers, and now I needs the sleeps. G'night, everyone, and have a great weekend.

But It's Her Fault, Right? by Belinda Roddie She was hot. He was not. She was gay. Welp.

"I don't believe in wealth distribution," Uma remarked dryly. "If poor people can't pick themselves up off the ground, they deserve to be poor." "My father," I replied, "was a train conductor for years before cuts cost him his job. He tried everything, but no one wanted to hire him. Not at his age, not with his health problems. Now you're telling me my father deserves to be poor because of circumstances he could not control. Tell me, should your vast bank account shrink to nothing and you're starving on the street, should I just tell you you deserve it and go on my merry way?"

My Unicorn by Belinda Roddie My unicorn will be the very best that you will ever see. Her mighty horn will shimmer in the sun. Her pearly fur will glisten like the mellow dew at dawn. When I ride her, she will take me to the castles in the sky, where I will eat pie and cake and ice cream all day. She will eat strawberries and cheesecake instead of oats, and her whinny will sound so beautiful that children will cry when they hear her neigh. I'll love my unicorn with all my heart, and she will love me back with all of hers. I'm sure your unicorn will be just fine, but mine's still better because, well, she's mine!