My Cardboard Balcony

This Is Meant To Be Deep by Belinda Roddie Today has held no meaning; I assume that that's okay. I've painted my nails gray and sipped gray coffee from a chipped bowl. The humidity is killing me. It's autumn, but the air is thick. I see children leap frogging over fountains that haven't gushed water in over a year. Outside, a man debates whether or not he wants to be a patron. Maybe he can't decide between a macchiato or a chai. Oh, the mental conflicts he has to endure in a suburban snakehole like this. Elsewhere, buses break down on the busiest street. The traffic lights are blinking red. Eye open, eye closed, eye open, eye closed. The riders all get out and walk the last three miles back home. They are sweaty and tired. A child drags a torn up stuffed dinosaur against her ankle. Her nose is dusted with gray.

I knew that eventually, the teacher was bound to crack. And he cracked. The first clue was that he walked into the classroom without a necktie on. His shirt's top two buttons were undone, exposing the initial tuft of untamed chest hair. The second clue was the fact that he remained standing in front of the class, rather than collapsing into his desk as if our very presence winded him. The third, well, that was obvious - the veins in his eyes were as large and red as Hell's tunnels.

Deluge in the Canal by Belinda Roddie Autumn steps back for a moment as this scene unfolds: A fire hydrant is unceremoniously torn from its asphalt roots, a school bus's faded yellow mudflaps shredded into ribbons as it shuffles with rumbling chagrin to the curb. It is a hot day, September summer.The water erupts in a volcanic glory on this hot day. The children are ecstatic. They don't think about drought or water rationing; they think about sprinklers and swimming pools and slip-n-slides. They dance beneath the newly made geyser while the nice men in black uniforms and funny hats try to shoo them back onto the wet lawn nearby. I tell two guys in Giants gear what happened. I was there. I saw the existential struggle of an oversized vehicle as it scraped its way past its newest obstacle. I witnessed the first burst of liquid livelihood soaring above the red roof of my Ford Focus. Now I'm standing with the sun kissing my shoulders, sweating under my...

For a moment, I thought I might have to seek medical assistance, but much to my relief, the cut wasn't too deep. Which was good, because God knows where I was going to find a doctor at this hour in this area. In the trench to my left, I could hear some sort of cackling, sort of like someone wasn't trying to laugh off the pain but the noise coming out of their throat was halfway between a yelp and a scream.

She said that tripping me in the hallway was accidental, but I didn't believe her. She was one of those girls whom you knew was out to get you. You could almost see the fangs protruding from her mouth. She was ready to maim, dismember, kill, and bury within the same day. Her name was Rhonda - Rhonda, of all names - and I knew she was one hundred percent out for for my blood.

by Belinda Roddie I was voted most likely to become an orca. I never did fulfill that yearbook dream, though. Though I did swim with a lot of dolphins and great white sharks. The reconstructive surgery didn't help much, either. Over two hundred thousand dollars down the drain. This year's reunion is going to be awkward. This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.

Why were the statues going white, and why was the rain cascading in sheets? I tried to find solace by the window, but the world outside had become nothing but glass. Blankets of water blurred the semblance of life that I stretched my mind to detect. Near me, my lover was asleep on the divan with wine pooling across her lap. Her curls lay in wet swaths around the warm nape of her neck. The statues would crumble in due time. The deluge was impending. We both would drown.