My Cardboard Balcony

Long Live The King by Belinda Roddie You tickle the underbelly of the beast that's dreaming of caramel and sugar, the images all of different colors, but all still painted in something sticky and serene. Once the laughter finally subsides, you see the prince emerge sluggishly from the rotting hide, and as each tuft of fur disintegrates, you are left with the sullen monarch before the revolution. Guillotine, guillotine, where is your lullaby now? What syllables do you have to comfort us with before our minds are separated from our flesh? How many songs can we sing before the anthem becomes sterile and obsolete? We float above it all, the screaming crowds who wave severed fingers piked on pitchforks. You tickle the underbelly of the beast, and the caramel turns to powder, the sugar petrified before it reaches eager and hungry mouths.

"And what are you supposed to be?" Rachel blinked. She stared down at her notepad, then back up at the senator, who was shooting daggers at her. "Um...I'm a reporter, sir. From the Times?" The senator scoffed. His enormous wrinkled jowls quivered as he sneered at Rachel. "Well, here's your sound byte," he growled. "You can take your precious little newspaper and shove it right up your - "