My Cardboard Balcony

This post marks the 501st post I've written for this blog, meaning I have hit the 500-mark for My Cardboard Balcony. That being said, let's celebrate by sharing stats that no one else but me cares about! Since September 14th, 2011 (not including the 4 OneWords I posted from years prior), I have written/posted: ~241 OneWords (even though it's been 245 days and I've tried to post every single day, I missed 4 OneWords due to vacation or due to the website not being updated with a new prompt) - 36 Introspections (for 36 weeks of blogging) - 36 Sonnet Solstices - 36 Whims of the Time Traveler ~108 other poems - 35 Storytellers (36th will be tomorrow) Of the Storytellers, the ratio of prompts versus providers is as follows: ~28.5% (or 10) of the prompts were provided by my friend Daniel Bulone. He will also be providing his 11th prompt for tomorrow's Storyteller. ~17.15% (or 6) of the prompts were provided by my sister Jocelyn Roddie. ~Another 17.15% (or 6)...

There once was a boy by Belinda Roddie There once was a boy who was made of gold. His father was a goldsmith, and he took great delight in fashioning such a wonder under the cover of night. And lo, the boy was a sight to behold, for every part of him, his eyes, his nose, his cheeks, even down to his toes and fingernails, was carved entirely from solid gold. And when he smiled, he had flaxen teeth, and when he frowned, his eyebrows would crease and fold The metal in his forehead, but gold was gold And malleable enough to keep him lively. When he walked, he left footprints of golden residue. When he sneezed, out came a fine, golden dust. He even would bleed, and when he bled, he bled gold, and that was that. And when he stood in the sun, he shone like a brilliant light across the land. But for fear that he would be taken away and pounded by hammers into a golden clay to be refashioned into whatever men desired, he was locked away in a small, dim room with a silver key, and there he’d ...

First base, second base, and third base were all loaded - by red-skinned aliens. Not from Mars or Neptune or anything like that. From far away, where they had a literal World Series (not like us. We have a U.S. Series. Why don't we call it that?). These bad boys were facing the New York Yankees in the semifinals of the intergalactic round of baseball. There were no high stakes. No threats. We were just playing ball. And the aliens rocked at it.