My Cardboard Balcony

Twice Folded Manuscripts by Belinda Roddie Twice folded manuscripts littered the gray carpeting in the cramped one bedroom flat, while Steven, stooped with age, attempted to scrape words - hardly a final brave hoorah - with plume sharp as a scalpel, the paper rummaged like gray matter waiting to be folded and twice folded and thrice folded into complex wrinkles well worth the read. He had no wife to peruse the pages, no son to give sound critic's eye to the crude scattering of never-ending winds of fading whimsy and blackening tone. The manuscripts twice folded on the floor were never to be sent out anymore.

Donna made her final statement as governor long before happy hour at the local pub, her hair that same mousy brown and her eyes those same glazed, lazy pools of pensiveness. She waved to the cameras, to the reports, to everyone willing to watch her go on TV. And in the end, she walked home. She found Simone sitting in front of the TV, eating popcorn and watching the latest chick flick. They shared a kiss.