My Cardboard Balcony

Some nights you have a lot to say when not much has happened, and some nights you have nothing to say when a lot has happened. Tonight happens to be the latter. Mostly it's been the usual stuff: Getting myself to write, looking for a good career, etc. I did have a wonderful New Year's celebration with my family and my girlfriend. My girlfriend and I, of course, are closer than ever. And now it's all about keeping to my craft and keeping my head up. Plain and simple. Unlike last week, everything has gone smoothly according to blogging schedule, so...no more missed OneWord entries at least for a while. Recommended Book: The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen Great story of a delightfully dysfunctional family . Not a light read. Recommended Poet: William Stobb I got two books of poetry by him as a Christmas gift from my girlfriend. Look for Absentia and Nervous Systems . Recommended Music: Frank Sinatra I listened to him a lot at my family cabin. Good old jazz stand...

Route 666 by Belinda Roddie The devil's on this train Headed east to San Diego He's been dreaming up tall tales Over a glass of Pinot Noir Half a dozen of his minions ride coach As he meets and greets in the diner Shaking hands and leaving scars on palms That a fortune teller will decipher With long crooked fingers The devil has a nice smile He rarely flashes the teeth For fear he'd bare his fangs in malice At the passengers who dine with him And he loves to talk of tempting That son of a bitch in the desert Though his wishes that tale Had a better ending The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since November 3rd, 2008.

A dozen donuts with red, blue, green, and white frosting sat in a cardboard box on the coffee table when Derek got back from work. He grabbed a maple old-fashioned and let his incisors close in on the sugary dough and hardened sugar, savoring the flavor of the American delicacy. When he was halfway through the donut, he found a note beside the box from his wife, Tracy. "Enjoy these diabete donuts. They're a symbol of my looooooove. XOXOXOXO"

Somebody Stole An Iris by Belinda Roddie Somebody stole an iris from a pot that sat in Missus Hathaway's front yard. I do not know if it had bloomed or not, but all the same, the crime was quite bizarre. The sad old lady threw a fine old fit and got half of the neighborhood involved. She would not let the cops sleep for one bit until the floral mystery was solved. Then one morning, I saw a girl pass by, her hair done up in curls, her cheeks bright red, a purple iris pinned beside her eye, the petals woven bright upon her head. The young thief walked beside her, face aglow. Whether he was ever caught, I don't know.

Hillary took the speckled apron and draped it over her son's chest, tying a simple butterfly knot around his back. He held the spatula in one tiny fist and the ladle in the other, grinning from ear to ear. "Do I look like a cook now, Mommy?" he asked, the gap in his front teeth clearly showing. Hillary smiled with watery eyes. "You look like a master."

The Parlor by Belinda Roddie trophy antlers hanging from the ceiling fan they are as tall as sycamore trees and just as full he plucks a feather from his warm wool cap places it in a small groove where branch meets potential blossom "ain't they a beaut?" coughing whiskey like fine powder rouge across the bearskin rug

There were thorns growing out of his head instead of horns. Bristly, tipped red and angry. They snagged onto the leaves of low trees and sent shrieking branches toppling down into the dirt. He made no move to trim them. He could have used a fine soil and seed, a little fresh water, to kill the thorns and have irises or petunias grow from his crown instead. Instead, he sat on a rock and waited for the thorns to grow from all parts of him. He waited for them to choke him.