My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "She was dressed in the blood of the men who had underestimated her," said the storyteller, sipping from his predictable cup of coffee. "Not a pretty sight." "You mean painted?" He stared. "Sorry." "Painted," she pointed out. "She was painted  with the blood of the men who had underestimated her. Not dressed. You can't wear blood." "It's for story purposes. It's a metaphor." "Sounds silly," she replied, clicking her tongue. "Unless the blood coagulated, of course. In which case, good luck getting it to stick to you in any weather." "You're a scientist, aren't you?" "And damn proud of it, sport." This week's prompt was provided by Roger Collins.

"Did you break my vase?" Teresa asked her oldest son, Charlie. "No, Mom," he replied. "It was Jason!" "Did you break my vase?" Teresa asked her middle son, Jason. "No, Mom," he replied. "It was Sheryl!" "Don't even bother asking me, Mom," Sheryl snapped from behind the screen of her laptop before Teresa could even speak. "Charlie and Jason drank Dad's beer and crashed your vase while singing along loudly to Queen's 'Bohemian Rhapsody.' Filmed the whole thing,"