My Cardboard Balcony

Sad Dream a sad dream is different than a bad dream it sometimes renders mad screams and tear streams and dry heaves with ribs creaking sorrow leakage it leaves you cold with no sweat leaves you clinging to your bed instead of wanting to actually stay up, you just want to cuddle with the one you love

"Can I make a suggestion?" "No," Parker snapped. "And if you continue to talk to me in that condescending tone, so help me God, I will use my pocket knife to cut out your tongue." Dennis shut up pretty quickly, and I swore that I saw half a dozen faces in the classroom lit up with satisfied sneers. I had always liked Parker as a professor, and today, he was no exception against the snobby students.

Spraying Neon by Belinda Roddie the act of four or more musicians of the not-quite-hetero selection of homo sapiens  group together in reds and silvers with big, broad gloss guitars, sleek locks, buttons, and zippers, no velcro, no duct tape, no chains or overtly flashy trinkets - just the colors and polished microphones carrying the power of half a dozen's tremendously fabulous sound that spews out half a rainbow that meets with the ultraviolet glee of the audience, that lights up the entire sky in a spray can neon along a blue concrete wall waiting to be stained with human emotion.

Howard had a 1963 Chrysler turbine car sitting in the cobblestone driveway beside his cobblestone home, and it hadn't been driven since the year it was made. He made good use of it as a lawn ornament, allowing the green to grow around its hubcaps like braids on a rubber man's head. I had wanted to drive that car so badly, but I knew it wouldn't be in good shape now. I wouldn't have been surprised if its engine had turned entirely copper from rust.

At Billy's feet was a bucket that waited for any standard level of spew to reach its rim. He was sitting upright in his bed now, head lowered so far that his chin nearly touched his chest. To his left, his brothers were sleeping soundly, the ale not seeming to have affected them nearly as drastically. "I need to brew myself something to help my head," Billy thought to himself, as he tried with an enormous effort to stand up and walk properly.

by Belinda Roddie He explained it to me quietly. "There comes a time in everyone's life when they need their asses kicked, just to keep the wheels turning." That explained his business card. It was two thirty in the morning by the time we sat down in the cheap twenty-four hour diner, where he had agreed to meet up with me. As I chowed down on pseudo-Belgian waffles, he stirred a cup of coffee that seemed so corrosive that I imagined it could chew away at the tiles embedded in the walls if poured onto them. He didn't drink it. For obvious reasons. "So what do you want me to say?" I asked with a bemused half-shrug. "You need an ass to kick?" "No," he said. "I figured you did." "Not anyone I can think of off the top of my head." "Oh, c'mon, kiddo." He began dumping processed "sugar" into his mug as he spoke, the concoction gaining the color and potentially the texture of wet cement. ...

"I'm bringing back overalls," Carla stated proudly, twirling around and showing off the flared denim. At the table in the cafeteria, there were mixed reactions. Simon stared as if Carla was infected with some horrible illness. Tasha just sipped her drink. And Max looked simply ecstatic.