Comments Posted By Belinda Roddie
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A crossfire medical examination made Lucy cross and Larry even crosser. The festering marks on the poor woman’s hands never seemed to go away or lose their color. It was always red. Red, red, red. Very very red. Like a traffic light against the industry skyline of Los Angeles. Pastel red that grew warm sticky in polluted air. And always that tender stinging from the core of the wound to the very edges.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.22.2012 @ 11:15 am
In the gallery, the paintings were melting. Not due to the hot sun, but due to the gaze of the surrealist, sipping a glass of sauvignon blanc imported from Italian (which he had surprisingly been able to sneak into the museum without anyone noticing. The guard even asked for a sip). As his Dalí-esque mustache bounced with excitement, he let his arms become crooked like the hands of the clock and tick tock, tick tock away.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.21.2012 @ 6:18 pm
The curse on her face was not beauty, nor was it ugliness. It was the expression of utmost fear – the painted panic like flaking rouge on two fat cheeks – that would not waver. All day and night, she stared through the window with two bulging eyes and pale cheekbones, lips quivering below her beaked nose. She was constantly afraid, and the terror never, ever ceased.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.20.2012 @ 1:15 pm
The red balloon had Mother’s face on it. The green one had Father’s. A strange pair of etched portraits bloated with the effects of helium. I couldn’t turn my eyes away.
The entire town was being cursed like this. It had started with a carnival. Now the balloons were circling the entire city. All with the faces of my friends and family. Blankly staring. Threatening to burst.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.19.2012 @ 12:27 pm
We found shelter in the form of a lost cabin, broken down and splintered in the Sonoma rain. The vineyards surrounding the bare-boned acres of the property were withered and brown, some ends scorched as if by flame.
It was clear that the troops had gone through here before, scouring for survivors. But after that, it was as if they had been happy with leaving the ghost behind.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.18.2012 @ 12:34 pm
Scooter was back on track in March, serving pancakes at Bobby Pan’s diner just down the street from his grandmother’s house. His grandfather’s death, though sudden, had inspired him to get off the couch once and for all, most likely leaving a human imprint on the worn down cerulean cushions. He was glad to get away from the smell, too.
Bringing a plate of waffles laden with syrup to the pretty girl at the corner table, Scooter smiled. It was a broken toothed smile, similar to his gramps, the kind of smile they exchanged when they had gone fishing together years earlier.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.17.2012 @ 1:26 pm
“The ants went marching one by one, hoorah, hoorah!”
“Griffith! That’s not a nice song to sing while the ants are going straight toward the boric acid!”
Griffith wrinkled his pug nose and shrugged. “Well, you’re the one who thought about poisoning them in the first place.”
His sister, Lindsay, sighed. The whole bathroom had been infested with the buggers for a week, and the spray hadn’t worked. She felt that she had to go to the extreme.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.16.2012 @ 12:09 pm
The detective was a remarkable flirt, as every film noir dame seemed to swoon for his Brooklyn accent and his floppy fedora. At least, that’s what it seemed like to the detective as he sipped from a martini glass and drew a picture of a dog eating a sandwich on his notepad.
The Halloween party was going marvelously and several suspects had become so drunk he could now question them. He’d have to talk to the Superman in the cheap franchise costume set soon enough.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.15.2012 @ 11:56 am
“Do you know who he is?”
“Not a clue.”
“Seriously? I thought you had a class with him.”
“No, that guy was sexier.”
“And he had a deeper voice.”
“Oh. So…how did he know my name?”
“I don’t know. Shouldn’t I be the one asking you these questions?”
“Oh. …Yeah. Maybe. I guess.”
“So…do YOU have any idea who he is?”
“Not a clue.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.14.2012 @ 1:25 pm
There was green candy candy at the carnival, and pizza slices sold by the bridge. Harvey Talon got a squeaky hammer for a prize at one of the water gun games and drove his father nearly mad. Meanwhile, his little sister, Ginger, was on the ferris wheel with her new boyfriend, and they were making out to the sounds of the screams from the clickety-clackety haunted house ride down below.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.13.2012 @ 12:29 pm
The maze of apricot haze and clouds swarmed violently around the small gang of high school students, all traipsing nervously about the mud and soot that coated the ground with a strange mixed ebony and gray hue. The mists appeared to be practically solid, as none of the boys and girls wanted to really attempt to breach the orange-brown walls that surrounded them.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.12.2012 @ 1:47 pm
The festival? The festival! It was happening all over again. The streamers dangling from each window, the heavenly smell of dishes from all over town. Francis’s baked fish, Granny Storm’s pies, and of course, Mister Fox’s fresh meats, cheeses, and soups. And the boys were at it again, dancing and cavorting about in their fancy red jackets and new brown shoes. I watched them with a cup of ale and felt the familiar smile creep across my lips again.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.11.2012 @ 3:33 pm
Max was the only little boy in school who wanted a pony. He wanted to brush it, groom it, even braid its mane with ribbons and flowers. Max’s father didn’t like the idea at all, and for Christmas he got him a BB gun and plenty of G.I. Joe action figures.
“I don’t want those,” Max had bawled, such a tiny boy amidst all the wrapping paper.
“You do want those,” his father had replied, nostrils flaring. “You do want those and you like them!”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.10.2012 @ 12:47 pm
The two lovers wanted to adopt. Sure, they could have a child of their own, or two, or maybe even three. But the thought of adopting warmed their fingers against their coffee cups and their cheeks against their color-matching scarves. They talked about raising a child who needed a family, bringing him or her out of a dire situation or utmost despair and sadness. A little dash of hope in a gigantic pot of emotion.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.09.2012 @ 12:36 pm
“If the caterpillar turns into a butterfly,” asked Sadie, “what does the butterfly turn into?”
Mister Deidrich, smiling warmly, shook his head. “No, dear,” he said as he wiped away the chalk from the black nothingness in front of his classroom. “Butterflies don’t turn into anything else. They just stay butterflies.”
“Yeah,” the teacher replied. “Isn’t that beautiful?”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.08.2012 @ 1:25 pm
There’s the old saying about “if walls could talk,” and can I just say thank God they don’t? I mean, if they were gossiping about the stuff I did in my room, it’d be all over! And no, it does not involve naughty things. It involves…silly things. Like maybe, just maybe, I have a collection of swords that I brandish sometimes to act cool. Or I think of random songs to play and sing on my guitar.
…DON’T JUDGE ME, WALLS. I KNOW YOU ARE.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.07.2012 @ 1:14 pm
Red orbited the blue in the veil of the underworld. Surprisingly colorful for dead people. The spirits wore bright colors with forest greens – a great gold oak hue, or perhaps reminiscent of a shivering redwood with silver leaves and stark purple branches.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.06.2012 @ 3:07 pm
“Smile for the camera!”
Click, fizzle, whimper.
“There you go. You look just lovely.”
Family’s together for the Christmas party. We’ve all crammed together on a single couch for this display. Those who are tall enough hover over us from the back wall. All grins. Lopsided. Uncle Lloyd yawns and stretches.
“Can I go get drunk now?” he asks Aunt Sadie, who raises her hand to smack him.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.05.2012 @ 12:16 pm
Nothing was sacred, nothing was new. That was the message the preacher was giving. The spot on the pew where I normally sat was empty as can be. Instead, I stood in the back, waiting to escape from his hostile homily. He was propagating like mad, and I couldn’t hear God at all. And across the way was a hospital where a dozen people were suddenly suffering nervous tics from some fake divine intervention.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.04.2012 @ 11:39 am
“We received a call from the Captain. Outlook not so good.”
“Why, what’s the problem?”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. Nasty little creatures. They’re all over the place.”
“Where do we start? Texas? Hong Kong? London?”
“You said it was an invasion!”
“Yes, a home invasion. Termites.”
“Chief? Chief? Are you there?”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.03.2012 @ 11:37 am
The word epic is often overused. Me, I like to use it in the epic poem sense. You know, the kind of poem you have to read in every single ninth grade English class. Unless you’re in English Honors, in which case you gotta read Beowulf and The Odyssey. And quite possibly the Iliad. The only thing I can think of when reading Homer’s work is, “The muses must have really liked him.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.02.2012 @ 12:43 pm
As the station wagon bounced down the unsteady asphalt street, Lawrence kept looking out the window toward the string of Gregorian-style houses. It looked like they had disappeared from the States and right into a Victorian English novel, or at least in Dublin, Ireland. He turned his head and found his older sister asleep beside him, her CD player still plugged into her skull.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 02.01.2012 @ 11:50 am
In the heart of the festival, two boys were dancing together. They wore bright red paper hats crafted by one of the elderly villagers, and their shiny new brown loafers with bright silver buckles kicked up loose pebbles scattered on the cobblestone. The musicians and drummers sped up the song, and the boys did nothing but dance faster.
Sipping from a tankard, I watched the two children whirl arm in arm like a tornado in its wake.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 01.31.2012 @ 11:32 am
“The odds, my friend, are even.”
Ulrich frowned. His opponent was giggling like an idiot, which was entirely unexpected.
“I get it! I get it! The odds are even! Haha! Classic!”
“…I don’t understand…”
“What’s next, a trio is an even number? GAHAHAHAHA!”
“Sir,” said Ulrich’s squire, “if you don’t kill him now, I will.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 01.29.2012 @ 11:53 am
With swollen feet, she could not function. She despised sitting on the couch. She didn’t care for watching the idiot box. None of the shows appealed to her. She’d put earplugs in whenever her brother played video games and curl up under a blanket.
She had no books to read, no movies to care for, and no people to call. She just wanted to run. She wanted to run on every surface while her feet stung from the impact, without the festering of wounds and blisters and irritations that confined her to her house.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 01.30.2012 @ 12:23 pm
Zack had a silver loop that looped through his right looped lobe. It was a loop that looped about seven times in loop-de-loop fashion. Like a roller coaster that looped around until it made you dizzy. The silver would always droop from his face like a sad, lonely little lump of metal, but Zack was proud of it. It was a loop! …In his ear!
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 01.28.2012 @ 11:29 am
At our northern cabin, there is a spectacular view of a lake behind a monstrous growth of redwoods. It looks very green from a distance, but if you edge closer to it, the hues of the grass shy away to reveal the light blue of the sky overhead. At night, when the swarms of stars and cosmic dust emerge in swirls and whirlwinds, you can see the water glitter.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 01.27.2012 @ 12:08 pm
Starch stiffened the collar of his shirt as he tied the red bowtie until it was a monarch butterfly fluttering beneath his chin. Pinned to the small pocket was a medal. A simple medal at that, too, bearing no real emblem or embellishment. Silver, not gold. Tarnished, not shining. It glowed as brightly as his own dead teeth.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 01.26.2012 @ 12:07 pm
The lady who approached me in front of the office had a beehive and full pink lips, sticky with the gloss I had seen her apply at her desk. As she offered a limp hand, hooked almost like a talon, for me to shake, I looked at her.
“What’s this?” I asked.
She furrowed her penciled brow at me. “It’s a lady’s handshake. You’re a lady. We shake hands like ladies.”
“Uh uh,” I dissented. “You shake hands with me like a real person. See, a gentleman’s handshake is not gender-specific. You have a firm handshake if you’re authoritative. Professional. Powerful. I don’t care how much estrogen courses through both of our bodies. You give me a real goddamn handshake.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 01.25.2012 @ 1:32 pm
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Plans? Sure she had plans. She had lots of plans. Many of which revolved around a different flavor of ice cream. Not the lonely kind of ice cream eating with a pint-sized carton on the couch watching a chick flick. No. She planned to go to every ice cream branch, franchise, parlor, shop, store, department, truck, van, cab, car, headquarters, laboratory, secret lair, everywhere. She’d try every flavor, everywhere.
“Though I’m pretty sure chocolate will always be my favorite,” she giggled to herself.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 01.24.2012 @ 9:08 pm