My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie Cankles. They give us our power. If you see a titan with cankles walking by, be sure to worship them. Pick a day to do so. I have called dibs on Tuesdays. We here in the Cankles Clan take pride in our unusually beefy, stout ankles. After all, they give us support. They keep us upright; they separate us from the animals. The quadrupeds, inferior bastards. They do not have cankles as magnificent as ours. Always a fear a woman with mighty cankles. Men do not have adequates cankles compared to women. Like Amazon warriors, their feet are perched below their redwood tree legs, as ankles blend effortlessly into calves, and calves into thighs. The clan deserves respect. The clan deserves to be in your nightmares tonight. Cankles. They are a gift from our deity. And we shall bless them with socks. This week's prompt was supposed to be provided by Arden Roddie. However, I misheard the prompt, yet I was too proud of this ridiculous piece of fiction to change it.

"Dude. Look." Randall took a deep breath. He scratched aggressively at one of his bushy sideburns. "Everyone just needs to chill, okay? No need to get at each other's throats. No need to derail the campaign. Just...try to figure this out so we can move forward, okay?" Sally was still red-faced. She clenched her 12-sided die in her fist, while her knuckles continued to whiten until they were always translucent. In the meantime, Ellen was ready to roll for initiative, practically ignoring the argument between Sally and Vincent.