My Cardboard Balcony

Bad Poet, Worse Chef by Belinda Roddie My brain's baked; my hands are wrung. I can't right wrongs, but I can write them. The sun makes meat out of my mental state, string beans from string theory. I have cooked my words and marinated them, but they still have no obvious taste.

"Which one of them stood out to you?" the casting director asked me, passing me the headshots. I scratched at the whitehead glowing from my chin as I perused the picture of the actresses we had just seen. So far, none of them had really blown me away, but we weren't necessarily getting massive lines out the door for this production. Still, picky writers have picky minds, so I exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring slightly, and passed the photos back, shaking my head. "None of them."