My Cardboard Balcony

Verbal Miscellany & Oral Oddities by Belinda Roddie The soul of wit is kept in a jar; brevity has nothing to do with it. Maintain its glow, and the fireflies have competition. Your riddles are mine to collect in rows. Take a look at your blackened, greasy fingers. Your words take a sticky form when they slosh against your lips. Little imps lick away at your skin so they can taste a sample of your random intellect. If you unscrew the lid, the language is gone. It dissipates like fog being burned by the sun. Don't be tempted to release newborn ideas before they can walk. A baby bird deserves a nest before its eyes are wide enough to witness stars.

By the time the Council had finished speaking, Arvey could feel the bristling hairs on her neck begin to relax, settling back down against her sweat-moistened nape. Beside her, Barkelee squeezed her hand. Behind her, she could feel Quinoni's fingers massaging her shoulders. It was true that Mistress Kor, wherever she was now, would be held accountable for whatever heinous acts she committed; at least, however, the three of them had been declared innocent.