My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "His rhymes are so safe he should be called Bubble Rap." "No." "Seriously, I mean, he doesn't even throw a jab. Let's call him No Punchline." "No." "Oh, no, wait! How about this? His rhymes are so dull, we'll call him Mister Blunt." " No." "Get it? 'Cause he smokes weed, too!" "If you think your cousin is such a shitty rapper, why the Hell are we going to his gigs?" "Gee, I dunno, Aaron - 'cause I love him and stuff?" "I just don't get it." "Hey, man. I get you're not a rap fan." "What?" "You're not a rap fan. Obviously. I mean, my cousin? Rap's his life. I'll make fun of him, but - " "What makes you think I'm not a rap fan?" "I-I dunno. I've never heard you listen to rap?" "Is it because I'm Asian?" "What?" "...

The foreign ambassador said nothing as she sat at the conference table, listening to every word of the negotiations. She wasn't sure if anyone else there realized that she could understand every language being spoken. There was the smooth, yet pompous, French ambassador, trilling and trumpeting about his nation's upcoming election. The sharp and deliberate German ambassador, stroking his thin mustache as he spoke about more personal matters. And of course, the rough Russian, who with every element of his tone sounded like he did not want to be there.

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.