My Cardboard Balcony

He Spoke Diagonally by Belinda Roddie At a slant, not a bias - a slope, not a dancing crevasse. He waited for me to complete my thought chain and then added another crooked link. "I speak diagonally," he told me. "I'm like a hidden word search puzzle." I could circle his eyes with red pen, watch as the letters formed within his irises - solid greenish gold, transcribed, stamped with the stone etchings of the Roman scribes.

Scratching my nails against the glove compartment, I pulled out the battered Brian Wilson bobblehead and haphazardly perched it atop the dashboard, watching the great black plastic beard sway back and forth against the pivot of the figurine's neck. The lights were melting like candied caramel against the windshield, and I tried concentrating on little Wilson to keep myself awake.