My Cardboard Balcony

Something Extraordinary by Belinda Roddie Many times, observers reflect on the effects of gravity on a quarter high-life society - where a sliver of humanity injects champagne by the flute, and a greasy chunk of the stranded survives off the very measly products that the sliver of humanity creates in the back room. The soup can extravagances of lower class existence echoes a French revolutionary sentiment, when "Let them eat cake" was derived from the word brioche, which was really a sweet, buttery bread that only the bourgeois socialities had the chance to eat. Now you see why Marie Antoinette said it - out of ignorance. Thinking that the very slovenly peasants who shook their sewage-slimy fists at her could munch on the basic formalities of her own example of ecstasy. And in truth, the guillotine didn't serve as a revelation or epiphany to her, or her husband, or any others pinned down by their own weight to the floor, fed sweets by ten servants,...

The claw was buried deep - very deep - into my shoulder, edging toward my clavicle. There was no finger attached to it. No implication of a talon. A paw. A mutant hand capable of boasting scales or fur. And of course, it hurt very much. I took considerable time removing the claw, and when it had finally let go out of my flesh, it made a soggy noise and slumped in my palm. I examined the clotted object and wondered who, or what, had wanted to kill me in the first place.

Tutoring Session, 10:47 by Belinda Roddie Disappearing poltergeists. We dream big, but we are forced to consider ideas like we're seeing ghosts - haunted, irrational, nothing but an optical illusion in the corner of your weakest eye. When you take a test, four senses are ignored for the sake of your sight, and we all know that vision is limited to one paintwashed scope, and achieving perfection is not the same as achieving complacency. Discard ideas, and we discard human happiness. No boat sails without a sail. No meal is accomplished without a recipe. And the recipe, per health requests and taste preferences, is going to change. The ladle sticks to the edge of the pot, and we can't stir. But we lick the entrails, and we choke, and the gristle lingers long enough for the smiling headmasters to mockingly ask, "There, was that so hard to swallow?"

No update to OneWord.com today! Ho, hum. We'll see about tomorrow.

Awkward Ocean by Belinda Roddie We dwell by an awkward ocean. We breathe deep and let the heat burn our nostrils. We sip salt around the rims of coral reefs and let the sun sear our retinas until there's nothing but carbon dioxide radiating in our lungs. We carry burdens, all of us - but the sea cannot wash away each scrap fallen from the dinner table. The fish that eat the crumbs have already been gutted. The waves splash bubble bath sprinkles as the winter becomes second summer. The scalped sunset with a pink, exposed crown. I cannot say I can spare it - my gift to you is distraction so you can ignore the operation I botched on Mother Nature's cancerous bosom. The tumors metastasize, and we learn to build houses on her lumps instead of planting the cure within her swollen mammary glands. My gift to you is senselessness, so when your double motor revs behind glowing screens, you'll strip naked and feel like melting in the sterile glow of the con...

We couldn't say that word in the classroom because it was taboo. Nor at the bus stop. Nor at the city hall. Not even at home, where comfort should have been sought for the sake of privacy. But privacy was a draconian term by now, and the truth was, the forbidden element of the language had once been a common occurrence fifty or so years back. So when Alan Hoff said the taboo word and later disappeared, we all knew why.

"What color is your hair?" "Auburn." "Auburn?" "Sort of like a...reddish brown." "Like...ketchup and chocolate mixed together?" Charlie smiled and scratched his head. "Maybe not so dark of red. But it's fine." The boy grinned, picked up his white cane, and waved goodbye.