My Cardboard Balcony

The Book by Belinda Roddie I did not remember writing these words. Then again, I didn't remember writing anything. It had been two weeks since the amnesia had kicked in like the airbags deploying in the car accident. My sedan had been totaled. My brain, dented. Right where it counted. The book was leatherbound and dusty, and it smelled like rainwater and salt. The book had a broken latch and torn out pages like lost fingernails. The book was old and worn down and covered with incessant cerebral scribbles. Scribbles that turned into stream of consciousness sagas and love stories and queer fantasies and ramblings. I read it all. I did not remember any of it. This week's prompt was me just thinking of books. Yay.

Poor François-Marie Arouet by Belinda Roddie Voltaire, you wouldn't last one day in twenty-first century society.