Comments Posted By Belinda Roddie
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Back in the 90s, the word “radical” was thrown around a lot by generic 90s kids and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I know it means something a lot different. Something more intense and extreme. The radical left wing. The radical right wing. Radical Islam and radical Christianity. And yet the first thing I still think of is nunchuck-wielding Michelangelo eating a pizza.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.21.2011 @ 11:31 am
I could relate in more ways than one. Like he always chewed gum with his mouth closed. And he kept his hair up in one or two tufts, never more. He liked to ride his bicycle at night without a light. He wore one contact lens. He preferred cats over dogs. He died each night in bed and had to be revived by the gift of electricity. I could definitely relate.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.20.2011 @ 11:17 am
When the boy built a sand castle on the beach, he also wanted to make a sand king and a sand queen. But the sand queen would be traitorous and unfaithful, attempting to overtake the sand king with a sand army. But the sand king would have the god Poseidon on his sand, who’d send out a flurry of sea monsters in the form of waves to wash away the army. But ultimately, the castle itself would be sacrificed. The boy’s parents always thought he had a beautiful imagination.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.19.2011 @ 12:35 pm
A mutual break-up requires a complete emptying of the brain, the retrieval of memories before they are tossed into a metal wastebasket and thrown in a dumpster, where it drifts toward the ocean and is soaked with salt. It requires one person smiling while weeping inwardly, no matter how right it was to end it, because a relationship, any relationship, leaves a rather large thumbprint.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.18.2011 @ 1:01 pm
The knife couldn’t cut the bread, so we broke it into pieces and ate it in chunks, thick sourdough soaking in our mouths and sweetening our tongues. We didn’t have butter or anything to top it with, but it tasted so good that it felt like we didn’t need it.
You passed me the bottle of wine we had stolen from Jonathan’s vineyard. I took a long drink. It tasted like your lips.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.17.2011 @ 8:24 pm
Modern warfare is a battle of words. Slander and rebuke. Humiliation. Paid for by taxes and donations and first-level income across the globe.
There’s a man working in a cubicle for a newspaper. He has to write a vilifying article about a politician who he doesn’t know. The politician likes dogs and donates to Red Cross. The result: “Red Cross scandal regarding the mistreatment of innocent puppies.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.16.2011 @ 8:16 pm
I have plenty of advice. I just choose not to give it to people. Because one way or another, it’s not compatible. I don’t know exactly how Susan’s boyfriend is treating, or why John just can’t make friends. I can try to know, or pretend to know. But a pretender doesn’t really have real advice to give. Just vignettes and hope. One of which could be false.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.15.2011 @ 8:00 pm
The dog’s name was Scout and he was bigger than he should have been. A labrador with a head bigger than my own. Big paws, too. Like whenever he tried to grow into them, they’d just get bigger. He liked to serve as my pillow when I was watching TV, or my tongue towel when I was crying.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.14.2011 @ 4:22 pm
Compassion. That’s a word I don’t see executed very often these days. You know when you’re in a grocery store, looking at all the different brands of butter, wondering just whether or not you want salted or unsalted? And then this little old lady wobbles by with two gallons of milk in her hands, and they’re like weights holding her? And you decide to take at least one and help her get to the check-out?
It’s that easy.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.13.2011 @ 5:24 pm
There was a subtle spring to Freddy’s step as he traversed the street where the library converged with the small park and playground. It was the playground with the enormous swing set, with an astonishing eight swings available. So Freddy could always use it, even when the day was at his busiest. And as he sang and giggled in glee as he soared into the air, eyes glittering, the people would stop and smile at him.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.12.2011 @ 12:38 pm
“Five to ten years?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“But your job! And the kids!”
“I know, but we tried. We really tried. It didn’t work.”
“But…how are we going to live?”
“How am I going to live?”
“Just like that, hon. Live.”
“Live with or without me. Write only if you want to.”
“I’ll write. Always.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.11.2011 @ 2:46 pm
Stacks of book, paper bound with coffee stains. Coffee stains from a mug with with a picture of London on it. London in the winter was so beautiful. And Dublin. Sweet with frost and cider. Sweet with romance.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.10.2011 @ 9:24 pm
Blood tastes like iron mixed with gravy. I know this because when I was punched in the teeth tonight by a drunk bandit, it was like I was gnawing on a razor sauteed in my grandmother’s Thanksgiving dinner. She made the best mashed potatoes, and my uncle carved the turkey. He carved it so thin that it was like having death lite dancing in your mouth.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.09.2011 @ 9:46 pm
The mystery of friendship, to you, is stronger than the mystery of life sometimes. After all, one day you’re smiling, hugging a buddy as a digital camera flashes in your faces. The next day, you’re removing cellphone numbers claiming you’ll never trust that person again, as her paranoia creeps in like a parasite and she calls the authorities on any perceived “threat.” No attempt at peace or compromise: You throw her off-kilter, she sends the cops on you. And then they shake their heads in wonder as you tell them the truth, especially about how she hurt you so badly that you put a razor to your arm for the first time in ten years.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.08.2011 @ 1:43 pm
Being a writer isn’t prosperous. It’s not meant to be. At least, financially, it’s not meant to be. Creatively, you could have all the money in the world. Only instead of money, you have words. Lots of them. Locked in vaults of gold and carried around in checkbooks. Want to buy a story? I have plenty. That’s my prosperity. My spirit. And no matter how small of a paycheck I may get, I’m happy with my “annual income.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.07.2011 @ 3:35 pm
The setting is simple. One chair, one coffee table, set up by the fireplace. A brick mantel with black and white photographs. In one of the photographs, there’s a fisherman with a long black beard. He doesn’t look too old, but he looks tired even though he holds an enormous seabass. His wife is next to him. She smiles. She completes the simple setting, the comfort of a cottage.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.06.2011 @ 1:10 pm
I warned him not to go back to his mother. She had been collecting things. Sharp things. Like corkscrews and scissors and those little pocket knives you can latch onto a key chain. Even shards of glass.
I fought one piece of a bottle that used to hold 2001 Riesling. At first, I thought the red was alcohol. The smell, however, told me otherwise.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.05.2011 @ 5:36 pm
“Do you think morality’s blank and white?”
John stared at the street below him. He didn’t look behind him to see who was speaking to him. But he recognized the voice.
He took a deep breath. The colors of cars looked so inviting.
“Because I don’t think what I’m doing is wrong.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.04.2011 @ 1:24 pm
Suppose she found him living in a trash off the corner of Palm and Tustin. He wouldn’t be green or furry, but he certainly could be grouchy.
Suppose he shook her hand with a banana peel on his head. Smelling of coffee grounds and sour milk. The garbage man at his finest.
That’d be something. But suppose they fell in love later and when he washed up, he truly was a gentleman.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.03.2011 @ 1:49 pm
Everyone’s on edge right now. There’s no calm at the table. Not even when the empty pint glasses are cleared and brimming ones replace them. Cider tastes too dry. Beer tastes too better. And I swear, my hands are shaking from nerves.
“Is this ever going to work out,” I hear Lily say, “or are we all just going to keep being awkward about it?”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.02.2011 @ 12:40 pm
He braided her hair for her because her fingers were stumpy and clumsy and she kept them heavily bandaged. His friends would tease him about, saying he was too good at it and that obviously meant he was gay. But the little boy liked working with hair just as much as he liked working with the little girl’s hair.
“You’ll look so pretty,” he told her, his voice shaking. “Like a princess.”
“Like a princess,” she repeated, and the bandages became her jewels.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 10.01.2011 @ 12:38 pm
Why do they call us hopeless romantics? If anything, there’s nothing hopeless about being romantic. There’s this queer feeling of awkwardness, sure, and the occasional depression – but in the end, everything looks so much more vivid. A coffee holds a secret. A folk song looks bright red with passion. And everything – and everyone – is so beautiful.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 09.30.2011 @ 6:00 pm
Half a minute later, half his glass was empty, the warm beer dribbling out of the corner of his mouth and creating a thick stain on his white shirt. He stared at the fuzzy screen – where Alex Trebek was chastising a contestant for an incorrect answer for a geography question – but didn’t make a sound.
I tried to look at him head-on, but I just couldn’t. His eyes wept too much. And I didn’t want to add to the crying.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 09.29.2011 @ 7:38 pm
“What are you, dense? Are you retarded or something? Who the Hell do you think I am? I’m the goddamn Bat – ”
Shawn turned back to his X-Box 360 while Leslie focused on the computer screen in front of her. The garish Batman picture hovered on her desktop, before she keyed in a name in the search engine.
“Ricky Ferraro. Now there’s a good artist.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 09.28.2011 @ 6:53 pm
On the playground, there were two men. They sat on the swings without saying a word to each other, their fingers wrapped around the chains, their feet dangling in the wind. One child complained to his mother that the swings were taken, but she scolded him for his harsh words.
“Let them sit there,” she said. “It’s been a long day for them both.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 09.27.2011 @ 1:20 pm
There was enough evidence to lead me to the basement of the broken down house, after seeing the shovels outside. My hands gripped the stair railings so tightly that I almost ripped them out of the way, and I groped for a light switch as I entered the space. The smells of dust and memories came before the sights. And then I exhaled.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 09.26.2011 @ 1:25 pm
His hand felt greasy against my chest, his teeth bared. He pressed hard into my ribs, and my arteries shuddered from the tension. I did not speak. I simply stared at him and made a rather casual remark.
“Look, Ben, I know you’re turning into a werewolf again…but could you ease off for tonight? Otherwise, I’m getting the silver bullets.”
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 09.25.2011 @ 2:18 pm
So I have to write this piece about – what? No, I gotta work on dinner first. That mushroom and shrimp risotto isn’t going to make itself. And then I – no, first I need to walk the dog before I can go out and get milk. Milk, that’s right – that’s what I need for breakfast cereal tomorrow. And then – wait, what was I writing about again?
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 09.24.2011 @ 12:18 pm
A convict was convinced that the crook in a cell close by was not criminal. He coughed out a column of complaints to a colonel coming by to visit. That column was copied for the common crowd, and they all came to the conclusion that the convict was correctly convinced.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 09.23.2011 @ 3:10 pm
Back To Stats Page
“What year is this?”
He looked down at the glass in his hand, the port staring back at him with a muddled reflection. He frowned.
“Um, last year, I think.”
“It’s good,” said his date for the night, and she sipped her glass delicately. “Mah-velous. You have good tastes.”
He didn’t really try to have good tastes. But then again, he always seemed to pick up snooty girls.
» Posted By Belinda Roddie On 09.22.2011 @ 2:50 pm