My Cardboard Balcony

Wild Children by Belinda Roddie There are wolves to be tamed in these stained glass woods, where the prophets are frozen in time, their fragile halos glistening with the canopy's forgotten rain. I will offer the hunters a pot of stew made with the bones of the gods, so that, when they dine, they are imbued with a vision that zaps the folly from their brains and dredges the fear from their watering eyes. I am not strong enough to walk this path of enlightenment alone. If you hold my hand tightly, I will feel heat in my stomach strong enough to light the ground beneath my heels. When I step, I will skip, and when I skip, I will dance. And you will carry me in your choreography. The beasts will witness the shadows' surrender. They will follow us to our personal den, and protect us while we, at long last, sleep.

Should've known that the webmaster of OneWord.com would be taking a deserved vacation. Happy Labor Day, everyone!

No new OneWord prompt today! Phooey. Maybe we'll see one on Labor Day.

by Belinda Roddie "The last time we were here," she intoned, "the rain fell on the roof like a waterfall. The blossoms were still descending, but they were soggy, heavy with angelic tears. In the puddles, I could see the reflection of my inner demons. And the stones, when swimming in the damp soil, looked like God's calligraphy." I approached her and reached for the crook of her arm. No other desire pulsed in my mind save for the desire to cling to her, watching the moon force its way through the clouds. Here, the sun barely shone. Gold, in lumps or in warm rays, was always hard to come by. She allowed me to hold her, to press my hip deep into the curve of her thigh. I was much shorter than she was, and I knew that, if she wanted to, she could bury her lips deep into the crazed tufts of my hair, kissing the raw and white scalp beneath. When I traced the shape of a tear against her cheek, she did not flinch. I was the struggling artist, attempting to rub fa...

"You gave how much to charity?!" "Half my earnings," I repeated to my flabbergasted uncle. "And don't look so shellshocked, Uncle Brad. They need it more than I do." "Which charity?" my uncle demanded to know, pointing a skeletal finger at me. "I should at least get the honor of knowing that!" "Charlie's Foundation," I replied with an excessive tone of politeness. "Pancreatic cancer research. You know, the stuff my mom died of. Now please lift your jaw off my floor - I just had it swept."

Started classes. Worked. Wrote some stuff. Tired now. Obviously, any stuff I have to say about my classes will still be relevant next week. 'Cause, you know, I'm still taking them. ...I'ma go read a book and do some crosswords now. G'night.

NOTE: This is the fifth full-act play I ever wrote, at the age of twenty, while studying abroad at the University of Limerick in Ireland. While I believe it is the weakest of my plays, I am proud of some of the language in it and wanted to share it. This is Act I of the play. Enjoy. Dialogue With A Marionette: A Play In Two Acts by Belinda Roddie CAST (in order of appearance) NEMO, an Irish prophet of death EMACIATED WOMAN, an overused symbol of Ireland ELLEN D. GOAT, a soul collector JONATHAN C. RAM, a soul collector MORDREN, the daughter of the Grim Reaper TERRY MONAGHAN, an Irish senator NELL MONAGHAN, his wife CHARLES HAMILTON, an Irish senator ANNE HAMILTON, his wife DONAL PETERS, an Irish professor and Sean’s closest friend SEAN DOYLE, a former Irish senator ENSEMBLE SETTING The Other World Ireland WRITER’S NOTE: All stage directions and emotions listed in this script are open for suggestion. Altering them should not decrease the caliber ...