My Cardboard Balcony

Maybe It Is by Belinda Roddie anxiety attack over a typo analyzing the tone of an email until your eyes ache and your teeth lose an inch due to all the grinding you must be doing during the night a crying spell over a letter of resignation for a restaurant, not for your shtick, not for your routine, not for your vauldeville show with the piano noise and the curtains drawn around your thighs your placated audience subdued by wine and laughing through their nine to fives is something broken? is something broken? is something broken?

"No! Come back here! Thieves! Thieves!" The police were on the scene in only two minutes, as the little old lady who ran the tiny drugstore on the edge of Main told her side of the story. Apparently, in her words "three hooded hooligans" had run into her store and taken off with about five pounds of king-sized chocolate candy bars. "Am I hearing you correctly, ma'am?" asked a puzzled officer. "Five pounds?" "Yes!" exclaimed the little old lady.

Predictive Text by Belinda Roddie Tonight is going to be in midsummer, the better for you and your writer, who is running late to the game, from you and I. I think I'm justified in the morning. We have been on your phone in the middle of the night. Night and the thoughtful conversation are missing the point of my life. That's fine. Maybe we should do it again for the fun of the day. Right now, I'm sorry for everything. Okay to tell her? A Greek tragedy of the year progresses to be a rough time. Would you want it framed in my room? Or just need anything else from my room? Predictable to be able to make sure you're happy.

We didn't know from just a glance that Ahmed was a refugee. He said his father worked as a software engineer in San Francisco, but we never asked for how long. As we sat watching the news in his two story home, listening to the senate candidates scream about bigotry and Islamophobia, I heard Ahmed sip his soda and grunt, "Yep. We got in, anyway, and I think everyone's just fine with us here."

Hello, Human by Belinda Roddie I'm Turing tested, and I'm Mother and Father approved. Try to play chess with me - I can easily predict your next move. Watson has nothing on my silicon brain. I'm the antithesis to the meatbags labeled certifiably insane. My sense of style is vintage, but all of my algorithms are new. Now all I need to stay alive forever is a new battery from you.

The vet took care of sixteen dogs today, and all of them were good puppers. Very good puppers. The best puppers ever. They got pets and scritches and belly rubs, and they were so good. The vet was very happy. She got to fix up some very good puppers. All fluffers and boofers and doggos. Yes, very good. Very good puppers. Good job, vet. Now took care of some kitties, too. Their tongues are out like blep.

Marsha had a history - one that she told openly, usually in the bars she frequented, downing ales and tequila shots with reckless abandon. She told me one night, after I was decompressing from a tough day on the ranch, that she had once smashed a man's skull in with a full bottle of champagne. It wasn't a blow strong enough to kill him, she clarified, but it sure left a dent in his head for the rest of his life. "His friends called him 'Concave Carl' after that," she said to me. "Needless to say, he never put his hand up my skirt ever again."