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.