My Cardboard Balcony

Okay. So I had a good Thanksgiving. I started on some of my credential work. Buuuuut I'm also fighting a cold. So excuse me while I burrow under the covers with a book and try to sleep this sick off. Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone!

No Sale by Belinda Roddie It's Black Friday. Time to put bars in the window.

After the banquet, we cleared our plates. We scraped the crumbs into bins and buckets. The larger scraps, we scooped into bowls and tins and containers, covering them up with foil and plastic lids. Then, when the leftovers were packed and the tablecloth shaken outside to get rid of the remaining bits and pieces, we loaded the goods into the back of our truck and drove through our neighborhood, visiting every house where our poorer friends lived. And we served them a banquet of their own.

The Turkeys Ran Away by Belinda Roddie The turkeys ran away once they heard news that Thanksgiving was upon them again. One turkey played the banjo, sang the blues, and practiced paltry (and poultry) laments. The birds all gathered and set up a camp, serving each other plates of pecan pie, and burned their feathers just to light their lamps at night so the bravest could keep an eye out for hunters or animals hungry for white or dark meat. When the morning came, the last notes of the banjo left to die, and a gunshot was heard across the lane where the turkeys slept. Boy, they clucked and prayed, but they could not escape the holiday.

I gave Roger twenty bucks in exchange for one of the fattest, juiciest turkeys he had prepared in the deli. When I took it home, I was giddy. Soon, the feasting would begin. The crispy skin on the poultry goodness as it simmered, gleaming, in the oven. The mashed potatoes laden with fresh butter and salt that would make my tongue dance. The casseroles and salads set to complement the copious wine and beer flowing from the bottles, just in time for the richness of the pie.

Romance In The Middle Of Nowhere by Belinda Roddie We casually hold hands under the table. The waitress doesn't notice. Neither does the redneck wearing a baseball cap and a Confederate flag T-shirt sitting nearby, slurping down a chocolate milkshake way too loudly. You pay the bill, and I add the tip. When we get in our truck, we share one very brief kiss, our eyes straying to the rearview mirror to make sure no one saw us. You tuck your hair into your hat, and I rub the remaining lipstick away from my cheek. There's dust in our mouths, and we choke on the heat as we peel away from the ramshackle diner, where more like us hide in booths, chewing on cold pancakes, braiding their fingers under red plastic tables.

"I was thinking of seeing that new feature at the local theater," said Anthony. "Wanna come?" I cocked my head to the side and looked at him. "Feature? That's what you call it?" "Whatever. Movie, dude. I heard it's pretty damn fun." "Like, DVD fun or overpriced evening tickets fun?" "C'mon, man. I'll buy you a drink when it's over if you don't like it." "Buy me a drink if I do like it, Tony. Either way."