My Cardboard Balcony

The Orange Man by Belinda Roddie The orange man has hair as tough as straw and as false as a snake oil salesman's pitch. He does not care for following the law and likes to make each dear woman his bitch. He's greedy, he's fascistic, and he's crass, not keen on good old common courtesy, instead choosing to stir up the morass of struggling people who swear fealty to his con artist agenda. He says he'll make things great again, but I don't think such a claim holds water. Everyone pays for incompetence, policies that stink, and economic plans that'd make you scream. The orange man shall haunt you in your dreams.

"Did you call her?" "Yeah. I did. Multiple times." I leaned back in my chair. It complained loudly. "They're all unanswered. She wants nothing to do with me." My friend sighed and propped her elbows on the table. Her red curls fell in awkward zig-zags across her face. "Give her space, I guess?" she said. I shrugged. "I've given her three months. Who knows how much longer she needs."

Still Going Strong by Belinda Roddie Five years of sweaty fingers slipping against a keyboard. Five years of laughs and musings, of bad days and regrets and hopes. Over two hundred fifty stories told, short and sweet or longer tapestries, and over a thousand poems to boot. A solid two hundred sixty-one solstices settling on the screen, and one hundred and three tales hugging ten words to their chests. Nearly two thousand wandering OneWords bubble up in this champagne I've poured for myself during my self-congratulatory anniversary. I mean, Hell, it's worth it. I'll sip the metaphorical carbonation and enjoy the sweetness. Five years, I've stood on my cardboard balcony and braved the winds and storms. No upgrade needed, and even when things change, this author will spill out lingual adventures whenever they get the urge to escape. Today, September 14th, 2016, marks the fifth anniversary of my first post on My Cardboard Balcony. Thank you to th...

I found a half-empty bottle of twenty-year-old scotch in the basement cabinet, and by the time I carried it back to the kitchen, my guests were arriving. Just two visitors: A woman no older than twenty, and a man no younger than eighty-five. They both were wearing blue flannel and jeans, the lady's curls kept short and bouncy while the man was so bald that you could almost see your reflection on the top of his head.

No Words For Now by Belinda Roddie I stopped talking on the car ride home after we stopped at a run-of-the-mill grill that smelled like garlic bread and grease. We were discussing our futures and the end of the world. I stopped talking once you started crying, because I had brought up the size of a cat's carbon footprint. We would get a furry feline friend, I promised you that. Maybe a tabby or calico. One that liked getting scratched behind the ears. I stopped talking and started singing instead. The stereo buzzed along with my strained voice. To the left, blue trucks lined the telephone poles, and light poured from panels like we were reflecting the sun off sheets of steel. Then I got quiet, and as we pulled into the driveway, your eyes were a little drier. "I just needed to cry for a bit," you told me, and I understood. The air was chilled by the hands of an arriving autumn, bay water running through the canal beside our apartment windo...

No update on the OneWord website today. Oh, well!

A Lovely Outing by Belinda Roddie Put on your dapper shoes, 'cause we're going to the Ferris wheel and rising to the top so we can touch the constellations. They'll feel like spider webs against our rough, callused fingers, still sore from digging in the earth and planting dreams that never take root. You saved up a lot of money just to buy those dapper shoes, and I got myself a bowtie with a hue to match the sunrise, a burst of orange and gold to rival the explosive size and color of the real thing in an autumn dawn. Maybe one day, we'll be able to ride the bumper cars, too, if we could scrounge up some extra silver from the corners of our shack. Father said to savor every moment under this wild canopy of stars, 'cause you and I are so small, and this roller coaster of a vacuum is so damn big.