My Cardboard Balcony

Jealousy With Sprinkles by Belinda Roddie You met my sister at the ice cream parlor, licking the edges of the coolest mint on the hottest day of the year, and swept her off her feet. And there I was, left in the paltry shade, the dairy a puddle at my troubled feet, watching you woo the woman who was always seen as far, far smarter, prettier, and hardier than I could ever fathom.

The framework was bent and broken. The lens was cracked and useless. I held the damaged bifocals in one hand and gripped the steering wheel with the other. Somehow, with a broken leg and bleeding head, I had to keep driving. It wasn't as if my car couldn't function. Granted, a large chunk of its tail had been ripped away by the flying debris. But I was not going to be a number in the tally of terrorism victims. Not today. I was going to flee. I was going to tell the story.

Song Book by Belinda Roddie It began with a spider weaving before a wedding, spinning by the broken barn burning without heat or sun. And after that, I was never the same. My hometown was quite the brewing ground for rhythm and melody. It was there, in sharp contrast to cold suburbia, that I confronted my nemesis, that the phoenix rose from the ashes only to find it could not let go of its creator, that I desired to keep warm through a frosted December (that, admittedly, seems to grow warmer by the decade). But in another town, where my fingers flickered across the fretboard after hours of clinging to a pen, I discovered a hearth of harmonious stories when nestled in a circle with my musically inclined friends. I strummed; they picked, plotted, pounded, and pattered keys on a piano, stick to drum, as I made them hang upside down, serenade a miracle child, talk to imaginary heroes and drink from the fountain of youth. They let me see them smile. And they had...

A journey into the unknown is not a journey at all. A journey, in many respects, alludes to a vivid and identifiable end destination or resolution. The unknown does not offer such luxuries. It provides no lantern for your wandering in the dark. All you can do is put your hands out in front of you to touch any walls or obstacles that may arise in your proceeded path. The unknown is not a journey - it is a scramble.

The employees of the sandwich shop were actually given quite a bit of latitude in regards to their hours. There was Bobby, who worked every other day except for the last Monday of the month - that was when he participated in Poetry Night at Mister Nerve's Café. There was also Erin, who didn't work any weekends unless there was a full moon since she figured she'd be safer from the lunatics if she was in the shop.

by Belinda Roddie It was just another day at the grill, except for the woman with legs like silk, and arms that stretched from Denver to Portland. Of course, her arms didn't literally stretch from Denver to Portland - that would be eerie and especially cumbersome. But her legs did indeed seem like silk, from the way they shone like silk to the way the skin of her calves almost rippled like silk, her thighs appearing to bristle in the wind as it bit at the hem of her purple skirt. The woman ordered a stuffed pepper, and she made sure to make it super spicy: The meat had to be spicy, the cheese had to be spicy, the rice had to be spicy, even the chili powder had to be the hottest they had. And damn, why stop there? Stuff chopped jalapeños into the damn mess. Hop it up with habaneros as well. It was clear that the woman, allegedly billowy and cushiony on the outside, was prickly and hot on the inside, able to stomach the kind of cuisine that would send three full-grown men dashi...

No OneWord today. Hope that there'll be an update tomorrow!