My Cardboard Balcony

Snow White by Belinda Roddie Snow White did not live with seven dwarves, nor did she receive a kiss from a prince. She was a raging lesbian with a pixie cut who whistled while she worked it and was definitely fair as hell in her cuffed jeans and red flannel shirt. That's the story. Eat your hearts out, Grimms. Courtesy of the huntsman. This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.

No Rest For The Wicked by Belinda Roddie The insomniac had dreams, all right. And they came alive.

So. Wow. Okay. It's 2021. We are still in the middle of a plague. We have a lame duck president and the near entirety of a political party attempting to destroy American democracy. We have friends and family seriously harmed by this year. So it'd be really shitty for me to gloat over my accomplishments. I could say I survived, but...not everyone did. One in every 1,000 Americans has died from COVID-19. Millions more have lost jobs, loved ones, and livelihoods. How can I be reflective of a year like this? I guess all I can do is state the facts, with no positive or negative connotation. So here's what I did, in no particular order: I made it through ten months thus far of remote teaching. I wrote three short plays and one full act play, all read by the online theatre company I co-founded in March with my sister Jocelyn. I also participated in over thirty readings with said company I co-founded as an actor. I celebrated having the best boy, Binxy, who we adopted over a year a...

Small Comforts by Belinda Roddie When I hear the term small comfort, I notice that it has a dual meaning - both positive and negative. If a house burns down, it is perhaps a small comfort that a few appliances or photographs survived the blaze. It's insignificant, trivial, compared to the overall loss itself. But perhaps small comforts can come in a house that is still intact. Where it's cold, but the ham and cheese sandwich and tomato soup you made are warm. Where peppermint bark tea is drunk more than wine and cider. Where you put down the first mortgage payment out of hundreds, but it's a step. Those are small comforts you should take, my friend.

Poser by Belinda Roddie Professor Milton felt very called out by the overpass graffiti.

This Year by Belinda Roddie This year can die in the following ways: By dagger, sword, or other kind of blade; by going down in an infernal blaze; by choking on a turkey bone or spade for gardening; by forgetting to wear a face mask and contracting its own plague; by getting devoured by a wolf or bear or rabid animal out of its cage; by nuke or missile or by rocket ship so it is shot into the fucking sun; by falling from a tub, breaking its hip, and getting a massive hot infection. But perhaps most appropriate is this: this year can die by guillotine. Chef's kiss.

Crazy Cozy by Belinda Roddie Dude, I'd kick your ass. And I'm wearing cat slippers.