My Cardboard Balcony

Cyber Rope by Belinda Roddie Once again, the baddies try to tie and re-tie corporate knots around the fingers of the ones who rattle honesties on keyboards. But such a thing is not so new, since early in milennium when Y2K was fake, and we decided to bring molten fact to our raw voices hidden in our bedrooms. We had nothing but a lens to signify our words of pseudo-wisdom that still tilled a couple grains of truth, and once again, the money-lovers are all trying to tear that voice from our throats while double-knotting us together with the good old cyber rope.

There were six magazines lain out on the floor of the bathroom, all from 2003. I didn't know why they were still there, or why they were in such pristine condition. The covers were still glossy, the print clear and untarnished. Even the pages were like they had never been turned. I picked up one magazine and ran my palm against its surface. On it was a picture of an actor who had never made it that far. He had a smile and lots of stubble.