My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie They always said that lightning never strikes twice...they were wrong. Dead wrong. Twice on the week before Christmas, a drunk driver rammed some sort of truck or jeep into my neighbor's house, not even giving the poor girl enough time to repair the first hole in the wall. Both of my mother's cats got sick in one month with the same thing, though they turned out to be okay, if not a bit congested. A former boyfriend of mine won the lottery two years ago, only to buy another ticket and win an even bigger lottery after that. I knew people with a great deal of fortune and others with a shitload of bad luck. As for me, nothing seemed to really happen twice at all during my life. I had been broken up with once. I had gotten into a car accident once. I had even drunk enough beer to the point of severe intoxication once in my life - never again, especially after waking up with a four foot tall woman next to me. Until, one day, as it always appears to be, I hit the ...

The business headquarters is a small, squat little building nestled between a greasy sandwich shop and some sort of laundromat that is probably just a front for baking meth or selling cocaine, or both if the owners aren't picky. The door creaks when you open it, and when I say "creak," I mean it breathes as harshly as a dying man does when he's struggling to say his last words. There are only two desks in the entire office: The boss's, cluttered with cut-out newspaper coupons and a full cigarette ashtray - and mine.

Another darn good week. Worked some smooth shifts at the bookstore, got to see some students of mine really excel in their classes. I met an author whose book I wrote a glowing review for tonight, and we had a lovely time at an art gallery, drinking wine and having wonderful conversations. I'm prepping for San Francisco Pride, and I'm hoping tomorrow I'll get to go to an art, wine, and music festival with my dad, siblings, and fiancée. We'll see how it works out. I've got a lot of work on my plate, which is good, though again, not progressing so much on writing projects. Obviously, I'll keep you all posted if something comes out. For now, however, I'm just going to relax with a can of apple ale before hitting the hay. Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

Sentenced to Die by Belinda Roddie Helpless to stop my fate, I slowly drank the poison.

For the rest of Lisa's stay, the weather was terrible; the rain came down in aggressive, impatient spurts, and in some parts of the city, the flooding was so bad that streets were closed for hours on end. Lisa decided to keep to herself in the hotel, watching TV, feeling the last bits of her soul dwindling away with each rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond .

I Find by Belinda Roddie I find a stone, and it feels cold in my palm, smoothed out by the ocean tipped with foam. I find a bone picked clean by birds that fly from crest to crest, from cliff to cliff. They roam so freely, so unhindered, and I feel just a little bit envious of them. I find letters from my mother, still sealed. I never opened them. I find a gem that's loosened from its ring. I find a cracked and empty saltshaker along the road, and it proves useless in my kitchen back home. I find quatrains and a silly ode my father wrote, and somehow, all I hold are little nothings that, like me, grow old.

"I don't sing the national anthem." "Why not?" "Because it's terrible, that's why!" Sylvester slapped down his half-empty can of beer as he finished his sentence. "And not because of the country, mind you. It's just a terrible song." "Why do you say that?" "The melody, the lyrics, the strange question at the end...I mean, if it were me, the national anthem would have a lot more death metal screaming and definitely a couple of explosions after the second verse. Because Amurrica!"