My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie The writer was prompted to write meta-fiction. It was riddled with ample contradictions. Purposeful or not, the manuscript was spotted with hardly discernible pseudo-wisdom. She went to fetch butterscotch melted in a can to drink with a splash of limited attention span. Her son was watching the newest sitcom on technology that surpassed the old CD-rom, listening to tender-eyed, raw bobbing heads as they mentioned a character that was already dead. The writer tried getting to the boy to look at her, but just staring at her face sent his brain in a whirl. "What do you want?" "Nothing." "Why do you want nothing?" "I don't know." "Is it really nothing?" "No." "Then it's something." "Yes." "What's the something you want?" Meta-fiction is meant to cause friction in sentences, making the reader aware of proceedings. It crosses the sentimental strait o

Fawn over you, ever and always. My little ray of self-esteem, poring over a tome or two, red wrinkled velvet against red crinkled page. Dame lost in a damsel dream. Never imagined a doe like you. Doe-eyed, doe-eared, doe-nosed, too. Frolic along in your island of whimsy with pirates like in your hideous stories. You are a dear. A dollar in my pocket. Wrinkled like the words of your fancy. Fancy free, caring little for money or beauty. Fawn over you, always.