My Cardboard Balcony

As a bookseller, writer, reader, and reviewer, I have been given the amazing opportunity to meet and talk to many published authors. While some of these authors are well-known, others are either just starting, or they might have even played a role in my life in the past. One such author, for example, is a former writing professor of mine, who I believe did the best in teaching me discipline, bolstering my creativity, and allowing me to finally feel like I can be myself. That, and of course, he's got a great new novel out. Before I started working at Copperfield's, I had never really had the experience of going to an author's event, getting a book signed, or simply having conversation with fellow writers who were published. Sure, I had gotten autographs from performers such as actors and musicians after shows, which did mean something to me. Authors, not so much. As I am myself a writer, I find the chance to meet authors to be extremely important. Whether or not people ...

Keep Out Of Reach Of Children by Belinda Roddie "That's not a toy!" cried Benny. "It's a laser cannon!"

Amy was a dual citizen - born in San Francisco, California to two Australian parents who happened to be walking across the Golden Gate Bridge when her mother's water broke. She had spent her early years in Melbourne before her parents both unexpectedly died in a bus accident; after that, she was bound for the bay area again, this time living with her very wealthy aunt. Amy didn't mind. She liked America, despite its flaws, and made herself at home.

She Sat Outside by Belinda Roddie She sat outside with her cigarette lit, the night sky loud and bright above her head. "You, I'm getting tired of this shit, all the drug and the smoke and booze," she said. I stood there on the balcony with her, my own stogie burning my knuckle. I puffed one more time and proceeded to hurl the stump three floors down to the pavement. Why were we so numbed by the Bacardi? How had we both one to this, battered and worn down to almost nothing? I wondered now if all the family ties that we had torn apart could be mended. She didn't say another word, the ash in her mouth gray.

They stood as still as statues, letting the rain sink into their skulls. Their bodies were pierced to high heaven, and water filled up all their holes. They gurgled and they choked on Mother Nature's weepy deluge. By the time the storm finally broke, they were submerged in Atlantis's blue. And there, they were really statues, all bone and fossilized, awaiting a scuba diver's gaze or a scientist's curious eyes.

And Then They Emptied Their Steins by Belinda Roddie Let's make a compromise to never drink warm beer by candlelight, to refrain from singing after six PM, to pray for rain when lightning sets the dry high grasses aflame outside. We'll put aside misguided attempts to seek out ghosts when it gets cold. We'll dip our fingers in hot oil and let the burns tattoo the dirty parts of our cuticles. We'll feel the lashes of fiery winds, gray with ash, in the middle of May. Our tongues are parched on holy water. No alcoholic suds will loosen our mouths so we lapse back into carefree conversations. Because we are rational human beings: Only capable of crying when it stings. Only laughing when the joke's gone too far. Only finally feeling the pain after our skin's been stripped away.

Central Park did not feel inviting to Shane these days. Not since the day that Casey broke up with her. In the end, it was all "This is better for us" and "We have to find different people" and "It's for the best" and any other bullsh** that came out of that girl's mouth. And she had said it after they got hot dogs from their favorite stand. Their favorite stand, God damn it. Shane had gotten extra relish and onions, too.