My Cardboard Balcony

Scribe by Belinda Roddie Scrolls rolled up in stacks, like firewood, only not made to burn, but to last forever. The quills collected, waiting to dip sharp noses into sour ink. She will write many words tonight. Idioms. Symbols. Decrees. The message of kings presented to the fools of chaos. And she will read them. But she'll never truly understand them.

The sly look on Regina's face was equivalent to a scruffy fox squinting too hard in the sunlight. When she showed me to the corner table of her restaurant, I couldn't help but notice how well-lit the ceiling was, yet how dark the space seemed to be. I could barely even see the autographed portraits of random celebrities strewn across the walls. "First things first," Regina told me after she briskly ordered the house Merlot. "We talk about your script. Then we eat."

Passive Aggressive Note by Belinda Roddie It's okay that you didn't try to leave a goodbye for me when I planned a farewell for you. I'll cope with the lack of verbal beauty from my divan, soaked to its velvet skin with rum and lemon lime soda spilled from an unforgiving glass. I'm fine with the fact that you packed two suitcases instead of one, thereby stealing from my closet, something I could not humbly request back without the typical camaradarie of awkward exchanges over very cold coffee. I'll deal with it. I have no choice. In the end, I'm left with cleaning the couch with a wipe, smelling alcohol in every direction. Praying for sanity. Praying for peace.

No OneWord again! It's getting a little spotty lately. I'd love to see some consistency return to the prompts!

She was a gamer. So was he. But who got respect in the world of first-person shooters, MMORPGs, and gaming communities whether online or in conventions? He did. He was the king. He, with his silvery black soul-patch, twinkling blue eyes, and hair spiked up to the left side like a strange overgrowth of desert thorns. She was a gamer, and she was scoffed off. And when that happened, she pushed her cap away from her forehead, grabbed the nearest control, and growled, "Watch me, motherfuckers."

by Belinda Roddie "I am the queen of this carpet square!" "You sure are." "Aaron." "Well, are you or are you not a queen?" "Just bring me my tiara already! "Why that particular carpet square, though?" "What?" "I said, why that carpet square? I mean, you could not have picked a dirtier spot." "Well, it's a good square. It's soft." "John." "And cozy." "John." "And I can sleep in and dream happy dreams and be a happy little queen kitten." "John." "Just like Zelda." "Yeah, about that...Zelda pissed there earlier, dude." "..." "Yeah, I'm serious. Just outright pissed there. Guess she decided the litter box was her nemesis for the day. "..." "So I am really surprised you did not smell the urine from a mile away before you sat down on it and christene...

We had adapted to the hot bayou in a matter of weeks. We wore boots with soles as thick as tire rubber so we could navigate the deep, sticky swamps more easily. When we fished, we used large bait and prepared ourselves to wrestle with monsters. At night, when the heat didn't cease, we aimed our tent flaps to the closest, smallest breeze, just so the fluttering of canvas cooled us down enough so we could finally go to sleep.