Comments Posted By Belinda Roddie
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Mick Jagger’s “Wild Horses” was playing in a small diner where Roger sat, drinking a coffee. The autumn leaves were damp and clogged with rain and dirt, and a tinny jukebox was already playing Christmas songs in the corner. As he stirred sugar into his mug, he watched as the young Irish waiter, Ferris, set down a plate of sliced turkey in front of him.
“On the house,” he said. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
Roger smiled. At least he had something to be thankful for now.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.24.2011 @ 12:23 pm
She walked out with eyelashes bristling fire, her lips molten lava melting into her tongue as she licked the ripe skin. Bosom bulging outward to complete the volcano. And probably most of the boys in the room were about to erupt.
Instead, I clapped. Then I took her hand and escorted her to the small corner table reserved for us, where we’d watch the show.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.23.2011 @ 6:57 pm
Study time was replaced with chips and drinking that night, while Stacy and I used our textbooks for propping up our glasses. The TV was blaring a re-run of Frasier, and I liked how we both laughed at the witticisms. My twin brother Terry had fallen asleep on the sofa with the empty bowl used for popcorn rocking on his stomach.
“I had a good time tonight,” Stacy said when she was about to leave.
“Yeah, you can thank Napoleon for that.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.22.2011 @ 6:29 pm
I realized, with a light laugh, that a client at my law firm was named Robert Browning. I addressed it to him over a light lunch at the nearest café.
“Like the poet.”
He frowned at me over his latte “Come again?”
“Robert Browning. The poet. I haven’t read much.”
He smiled and recited a whole verse of Browning perfectly. I had a beautiful, literary nerd moment and washed it down with a cup of black coffee.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.21.2011 @ 7:42 pm
1. There are no rules.
2. Pay no attention to rule #1, since there are no rules.
3. Wait, #2’s a rule, isn’t it?
4. Shit, this is not going as well as I planned.
5. I could always just cross this all out,
6. but I figured a list would look good on our clubhouse wall.
7. To Hell with this. I’m getting myself a sandwich.
8. Sandwiches always prevail over club proceedings.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.20.2011 @ 11:24 am
Tempers flared like lightning bugs, thumping loudly on the carpet, blowing tinsel ’round the room. It was ugly, absolutely, and I stood there heart a-trilling with my cider in my hand and not remembering its taste. My dad and brother were standing in their blue and crackling fire, fists clenched and the spittle flying ’til it struck me in the hair. This was going to be one hell of a Christmas party.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.19.2011 @ 4:52 pm
Caught reading at work and I shuffled off feeling a mite embarrassed. Not that it mattered in the long scheme. I could still play the newbie card for another week, or maybe the rest of the month. After a while, though, I’d grow out of the ownership phase. Oh, well. I was learning. And I had a wicked inclination for Hefeweizen.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.18.2011 @ 6:00 pm
“I don’t know how to play solitaire.”
Francis watched the cards dance in his mother’s hands. They were wrinkled far beyond her actual age. He wondered if they were actually wrinkles.
“Well, I’ll teach you.”
He looked up into her watering eyes. She was so focused on the deck, her lips pursed and thin. True passion for something so simple. Within her worn out face, Francis saw warmth.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.17.2011 @ 6:19 pm
He had a jar of fairy hearts on my desk. They buzzed with a marvelously bubbly music. He listened to the sound and smiled as his ears noticeably tingled from the vibrations. He hadn’t taken the fairy hearts by force. He had found them, left with a little red card, telling him to take good care of them until the fairies came back for them.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.16.2011 @ 6:28 pm
To the left were pigeons. To the right, foxes. And all around me, the sound of horns and baying. I strode to the podium with an axe in my hand. It was spray-painted gold. I spoke in a Nordic tongue I didn’t recognize. The foxes yelped. The pigeons did not pay attention. And when I was finished, a fireball struck my throat and rendered me mute while all the world crumbled around my tennis shoe-clad feet.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.15.2011 @ 6:13 pm
The orchestra played Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 1 with grace and gusto, and the minor intonations of a horrifying “Frere Jacques” crept into my ears to sleep. That night, I drank beer on the apartment balcony, with my brother curled up in a ball beside me. He was five years old and too tall for his age. He had cried during the third movement. I didn’t blame him.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.14.2011 @ 6:35 pm
There’s a lot of emphasis on the abstract telling more than the concrete. However, as I stand in this exhibit, I find myself more drawn to the chair with nails sticking out of its seat than the blur of colors on the canvas nearby. The canvas is called Somethingus Latinus. The chair? “Chair With Nails.” Which one makes me think more? You make the conclusion.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.13.2011 @ 7:46 pm
Snapping an icicle from the rooftop, she licked away at it until she giggled as her tongue stuck to the frost. She let the ice dangle from her mouth for a moment. Two moments. Three moments. And then it dropped in a wet, soggy lump to the ground below.
“You’re silly,” I told her as I wrapped my arms around her. My face was scratchy against her scarf.
“You’re sillier,” she retorted before she kissed me.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.12.2011 @ 2:22 pm
In the beginning…there was cheese. At least, there should have been. At least, that’s what my boyfriend John’s father said. He had not only been a cheese artisan in his youth, but he had tasted almost every cheese in the world. All, he said, but the mystical ones.
“Let me guess…you’re planning to fly to the moon, aren’t you?” John asked his dad.
His dad winked and grinned. “I’ve got the rocket already built.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.11.2011 @ 5:52 pm
I was absolutely, positively, one hundred percent sure that my brother was a shapeshifter. It happened when I first saw a tabby sitting at the computer. Then a raccoon watching TV on the couch. I’m not quite sure how he garnered the talent. Maybe from some sort of mishap in chemistry class. Or some intergalactic tool he received like in Animorphs. Or maybe I just left the front door partially open during the night and some pests came in.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.10.2011 @ 6:07 pm
When the prints were ready, David hung them out to dry and watched the images ooze out in red patterns before him. Upstairs, his wife was making dinner in the kitchen, the TV blaring an old Seinfield episode with the same old bass transitions. In the backyard, his sons were playing catch.
As his eyes focused and unfocused, David morphed in the red glow around him, completely at peace.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.09.2011 @ 12:50 pm
You have a patent for a hamburger. Which means you’ve got a patent on beef. Which means you’ve got a patent on genetically engineered cows. The beginnings of a mad scientist’s wet dream as he controls all the cattle in the world for scientific purposes.
Elsewhere, a woman invents a new type of computer. Steve Jobs’ ghost snatches it up before it goes public. And all the while, people are growing rhino horns from patented genetic bacon cheeseburgers.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.08.2011 @ 11:57 am
There’s something about Autumn in autumn. She blends in with the leaves, painting her face in reds and golds and oranges. Her hair branches out in roots. She drinks hot coffee under the shade of a large oak tree that has the words “Save Me” spray-painted on its stomach. And she giggles as the cold air kicks up around her shoes and carries her about the city.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.07.2011 @ 11:42 am
“An alarmist is not the little man in your clock.”
“Yes, he is!”
“George, an alarmist is someone who – ”
“Lives in my block.”
“No, if you let me finish…”
“He’s the one who rings the bells when I have to wake up!”
“Okay, and I assume that the roosterist is the guy who gets the rooster to crow at sunrise?”
“Yeah! You know that, too?”
“Just eat your cereal, George.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.06.2011 @ 12:38 pm
“Well, your tires certainly left a mark.”
I tossed the heavy garbage bag into the water. It bobbed a bit before it sank. Danny stood there with her arms folded, her lips pursed and her brow creased like she was in deep thought.
“You think they’ll notice you’ve taken off?”
“Maybe. I dunno. Not very many people notice me.”
I could still smell blood in my fingernails.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.05.2011 @ 5:19 pm
In the downpour of November streams and autumn leaves dank with moss and fog, I held an umbrella out to the young woman standing by the bus stop, dressed in a long red coat and tall red heels. She didn’t turn to look at me or acknowledge my gesture, but she huddled beneath that fragile cover like a spider beneath its dark web, waiting for the sun to come back out.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.04.2011 @ 5:07 pm
What Billy served Jacob was a combination of meatloaf, egg, onion, and plenty of ketchup and sauce. His Texas-style meatloaf hash, he called it. Jacob chewed slowly, grinning, savoring the high-packed salty flavor of the meat crumbs and the red pepper sprinkled throughout.
“It’s damn good,” he told the stubble-faced, cowboy-esque man in front of him.
“I made it just for you.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.03.2011 @ 12:30 pm
To be profound, you must not try to be profound. Don’t use big words. Don’t try to speak in meter or in long phrases. That was Shakespeare’s job. That’s eloquence. Eloquence is the petals of the rose, fragile, pretty, and usually withering rather quickly. Profundity is the bud when it’s closed off – modest, humble, but capable of withstanding an entire hurricane of denial.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.02.2011 @ 11:51 am
Epiphanies don’t always mean redemption. They don’t always mean your life is saved or at least will get somewhat better. Irishmen with their epiphanies that they’re paralyzed in Irish woes. Yeah, lovely to know, but now what? The ever pervading question. When you’re lying on your bed and your date’s just left, and you’ve counted all the diamonds in the chandelier, and the thought remains: Now what?
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 11.01.2011 @ 11:26 am
Behind a Captain America mask, the passionate Peter Smith felt invincible. Especially when the bottle on the carpet spun in his favor. Tossing back the warm beer from the red cup into his throat, he grinned a lopsided grin as he led the cheerleader Susan, dressed as a vampiress, into the closet.
Some people celebrated Halloween for its candy and spookiness. For Peter, courage was found in more than just scoffing at ghosts.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.31.2011 @ 2:00 pm
Her husband had a ponytail and wore mascara occasionally. Because he thought his eyes were too muted. He loved costume design. His hands would be all pricked and red from needles and the chafing of fabric, as well as sticky from hot glue and tape. He made Halloween costumes for all four of their children every year.
“Don’t ever change,” he told her one night, when she dressed as a witch for a costume party. “I’m always happy to have just you once the outfit’s gone.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.30.2011 @ 2:49 pm
There was a sacrifice of the conscience earlier today when a drunken man stumbled his way over to some railroad tracks and decided to sleep there for the night. When he woke up and found that his legs had been removed from the knees down, he sought out the very train that was responsible. His conscience had become comatose the night before, so it was not there to warn him of the consequences of facing down a full-sized Amtrak until he was flying in three pieces across town.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.29.2011 @ 11:13 am
Joe slammed a broken bottle into an old man’s ear and watched the front lobe burst like a bloated bloody balloon. Fragments of tissue and aural percussion stained the shards. He felt sick all of a sudden, surrounded by overturned cars with their dashboards on fire and Coldplay’s “Us Against the World” playing in the background. Painfully tranquil music as people dressed like him and battered like him and unshaven like him danced on top of hydrants screaming, “WHO’S LAUGHING NOW?!”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.28.2011 @ 11:54 am
The artistry of baking a pie was lost on Ricky, but the taste was something he could respect. Still, his wife liked to call the baking process an art. The way the sugar dusted her apron, the smell of cherries in her hair and face, the criss-cross of the crust and the splash of whipped cream. She was Van Gogh, all right.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.26.2011 @ 11:51 am
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He shepherded a different kind of flock. The kind of flock with beady eyes and lolling tongues. Who wore headphones and neckties and horn-rimmed glasses. Screaming profanities and homophobic speech. And he smiled the whole time, holding onto his microphone, while the media praised him for his courage and daring tone.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.25.2011 @ 11:13 am