My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie It was a cold, wet Saturday night the first time the house plant spoke to him. But he could not understand its language, and so he merely blamed the hissing on the wind. By the time Monday warmed up, the house plant spoke again. It tried practicing enunciation, stressing syllables. But he could still not understand its language, and so he simply blamed his neighbors for the noise. The rain started again on Thursday, and a package was shipped to him. He opened it to find a translation guide. English to House Plant. He read through the first few pages. It was bizarre. The house plant words almost appeared to be Welsh. He couldn't make sense of it. He had no one to blame for the strange sounds now. And then the house plant spoke to him. He listened to the hissing and growling, to the choking among its petals and pink buds. His ears ached from the strain. But he finally understood. "Do. Your fucking. Dishes." This week's prompt was provided

How many of you believe in ghosts? Perhaps only a handful of the crowd you stand in at the bus stop, or in the line where you wait for your overpriced coffee? Or maybe you find more believers among the skeptics at museums, or in fancy restaurants, or walking along the pier? Maybe, if you believed hard enough, you'd be able to see me, smoking a cigarette I can't taste and wearing a coat that no longer provides me warmth, perched where the sunset hits the back of the local grocery store.