My Cardboard Balcony

Cyber Rope by Belinda Roddie Once again, the baddies try to tie and re-tie corporate knots around the fingers of the ones who rattle honesties on keyboards. But such a thing is not so new, since early in milennium when Y2K was fake, and we decided to bring molten fact to our raw voices hidden in our bedrooms. We had nothing but a lens to signify our words of pseudo-wisdom that still tilled a couple grains of truth, and once again, the money-lovers are all trying to tear that voice from our throats while double-knotting us together with the good old cyber rope.

There were six magazines lain out on the floor of the bathroom, all from 2003. I didn't know why they were still there, or why they were in such pristine condition. The covers were still glossy, the print clear and untarnished. Even the pages were like they had never been turned. I picked up one magazine and ran my palm against its surface. On it was a picture of an actor who had never made it that far. He had a smile and lots of stubble.

Couldn't Ask by Belinda Roddie couldn't ask for a pint of lager with a double shot of aspirin to ease a shivering spinal tremor working down each nerve that presses flat into the cerebral discharge spewing from each fold of gray matter spooned into porridge bowls. too polite to swallow tablets with foamy frothy fanatic livelihood that tastes like Irish fields when the sun hits just right for the wheat to burn.

How could I refuse him? His sweet smile, his cute receding hairline, the little dimple halfway hidden under his beard? He wanted to dance with me. I simply could not say no. He was not a good dancer, no. But the passion was there as his body pivoted around mine, his fingers shaking as if they were not used to human contact. He was trying so very hard to make me comfortable, and he made me laugh without saying a single word. I asked him out for coffee the next morning. He said yes.

We are all carbon-based lifeforms worth one tiny particle of stardust. But what we forget is that stardust is brilliant and beautiful beyond measure. When you see the sun, do not just see it as a ball of fire. See it as a conglomeration of star power. The swarming of heat, the black flares in globules. It is a moving energy source that is very alive. Just like we are.

by Belinda Roddie It's physically impossible to ride a unicorn into the sun. Helios tried that before resorting to chariots of gold and fretted flames of bronze and orange tongues licking at horses' hooves. Those poor horses. The sun is no place for unicorns. Unicorns are meant to orbit the sun, their horns painted with the stardust that sparkles like glitter. Because glitter has to go with unicorns, like peanut butter and strawberry jam. Strawberry jam is on my toast this morning. Golden sun serves as my butter. Helios revolves one more time, frowning over his bad luck. Because the unicorns have won once again. They win all the stars. This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.

His foot was chained to the floor, and his arm was chained to the wall. His fingers were chained together, and his toes were, too. Chain wrapped around his shoulders, and chain coiled around his head. Metal serpents bit at his chest and ears and even around his neck. He could barely breathe under so much metal, and only his facial features could be seen under all the necessary weight.