My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie Today, I threw knives and I threw stars, and I threw javelins, but I didn't throw axes. I needed money for mead, anyway, and shepherd's pie, while pretty ladies sold garlands on staves and children wielded carved blue magic wands. Dressed in black, I followed my dame through the dust and the slight September breeze. One man accused me of being a spy, but a mild denial from me kept him at bay; I couldn't believe my luck. We watched a joust and hollered as the knight from Scotland won the bout. He wore no shirt; his abs apparently offended the gentleman from France. The child in the stands behind us refused to sit, as he claimed it, "hurt his feet." A man in orange blew a glass flower in front of us that afternoon. Minutes later, it shattered like the sun hit it just right - or like a miniature silicone supernova. The glassblower told us that the flower self-destructed because it hadn't been annealed. I guess that's what happens to al...

This is a guest post. Cardboard wife here. We're at my parents' house because I am housesitting and Belinda was kind enough to visit me. We are going to the Renaissance Faire tomorrow. I am also leveling a forsaken Arcane Mage in WoW. That is all. -The Cardboard Wife (Arden) This is an addendum to my wifey's guest post. Wow, it's been a rough week. Lot of ups, but a lot of downs. You know what's a good idea, kids? Not writing a derogatory word for gay people on my whiteboard. No, censoring it does not make it okay. Also, if you happen to be any of my students reading this right now...go to bed. Or at least, don't waste your time reading this blog. It's a lot of goofiness and overly poetic randomosity and bleh. Not your thing. It's weird how sometimes I'm reminded that everyone can read these posts. Which is why I am very vague as to where I work and who I fraternize with. Should I go private? I dunno. But the boundaries are always shiftin...

Home, Sweet Home by Belinda Roddie The photograph of London that my father kept was burned.

Go Back To School by Belinda Roddie Go back to school, and you will find the old football stadium abandoned at last, while the sun casts all the buildings in gold and you recall your adolescent past. You remember long days and idle chat with teachers and classmates, bad poetry written in journals, doodles on the back of a math sheet, left with other debris in the bottom of your book bag. False friends would always disappoint you, though first loves reminded you of fairy tales. And when you hear the bell ring, there's that gentle buzz of calm familiarity. These years you never would relive, yet they're all here.

"So, what do you do for fun?" asked Mrs. Chandler over her mug of spiced tea. Erika stared at her. "For fun?" "Yeah, for fun! Or maybe as a creative outlet. What do you do?" "Oh. Um..." The preteen averted her awkward gaze to the ground. "I...build stuff. I guess." "You build stuff?"