My Cardboard Balcony

The listless stranger trails behind a serpent's coil of railroad workers. They toil over iron, hot and sharp, the rust crackling across their skin. Eventually, the laborers will be as stained and taut as the boards and nails they pound into angry submission. When the trains roll, they and their conductors will both be belching smoke. The listless stranger has coal in his pockets - he will not share it with anyone.

Savoring the Season by Belinda Roddie Your fingers are as spicy as a cinnamon stick, autumnal bliss before a personal kiss. Webs as thick as molasses entwine our two lives, as we extract heavy honey from our family hives. The crunch of leaves accompanies caramel on cups, while the pumpkin drips upon our lips are good pick-me-ups. Still, my favorites are your fingers, with their tang as hot as splinters, while we strive to eat the best fall treats before the mint of winter.

"How much time do we have left?" I asked. Rose looked at her watch. "Eleven minutes." We continued to sit in the empty classroom, wondering when the teacher would return. If we really wanted to, we could bolt for the door right now, ditch this dismal detention once and for all. Something, however, kept me in my seat, staring at the blank whiteboard in front of me. Rose didn't seem to want to move, either, her fingers moving closer and closer to my side of the table.

Francisco's Fever Dream by Belinda Roddie City somnolence, a sleeping pill taken half past noon. A man shakes a coffee cup on the corner of Fifth and Market. No one seems happy. A chess piece breaks in half on a board. Trojan horse, split wide open, all the Romans spilling out in a confused heap of martyrdom. They don't look at the players, the tourists who rush by their tables. Their eyes are set at ten minutes to despair. I am sitting on a bench spotted with birdshit and meaningless graffiti. The code for the tag team has worn off to the most commonly used letter of the alphabet. How little I could put down if that letter were missing. It is a piece of me, a molar in my row of bottom teeth, a fragment of brick in an earthquake-disturbed church. The brisk, fragile creaking of wind vocalizing distrust to the contaminated bay water below. Loose, necessary strings of conversation in foggy corners and sticky diners. Symbolized by the frost. The g...

She sat on the throne of oak, and he on the chair of elm. They overlooked the crowd in silence, thorns decorating their foreheads in a Christ-like fashion. Their talons were hidden from view, their fangs tucked behind their smiling lips. She held a scepter of serpent scales, and somehow, it seemed to move as if it were alive.

No OneWord today because the site wasn't updated. We'll see about tomorrow, though!

Second update ahoy! As of November 15th, I have: - Written 28,500 words. This puts me past the halfway point for the 50,000 word goal. - Still not come up with a title. But hey, that happened last time I won NaNoWriMo, too. - Started to mentally outline the rest of the story and character motives. This novel will definitely go beyond the 50,000 word for NaNoWriMo. I will definitely fill you all in on the progress even after November 30th. Until next Saturday, my friends. Cheers, Belinda