My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie The cupcakes revolted. The doughnuts did, too. They formed a sweet army brigade. They allied with cookies and other pastries and marched in an angry parade. I pulled out a fork and charged at the mass. The sugary frosting flew everywhere. Crumbs littered the floor as we settled the score, and you could smell death in the air. All the rolls and croissants begged for peace and detente, but not even they could be spared. The war of deliciousness was ended that day, while the angry sun up above glared. I scooped their remains into a trash bin. Not a bit of their flesh could be saved. All the chocolate, vanilla, and sprinkled glory was gone - what a terrible waste. This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.

How many times must we pass through the same revolving door to the same hotel lobby, waving to the same doorman as he tips his gold braided cap to us? How many times must we shuffle awkwardly into an elevator that never leads us to the stars? How many rooms must we rotate through before finding one with a queen-sized bed that's still suitable for serfs like us? It's all too warm, too formal, too ornate; I'd rather just go home.