My Cardboard Balcony

Fluid Fingers by Belinda Roddie I shudder to think of those caught in chalk outlines, when I try to break from the constrictions of the easel, and the color spectrum. I have two hearts, one fluttering female, the other murmuring male, and what composes me are oil and vinegar, water and wine, the residue of sidewalk art remaining on my fingers as I scrape my identity in rainbow hues on the hot pavement.

No OneWord update today. Doesn't seem to be a rhyme or reason to the pattern of updates versus lack thereof. Oh, well!

Meet Me At O'Toole's by Belinda Roddie As if I were psychic, I knew you were waiting outside the diner, standing with a napkin to wipe the grease away from my mouth, the salt from my lips and my eyes. You told me that the way the eatery is built allows someone to look in, but not out. I believed it. Whenever I wanted to look out at the urban world of red lights and parking meters, I only caught the reflection of my stained sweater after dropping a meatball onto my chest. Outside, the smell of failing brakes overpowered the cheap odor of cheese and beef, chili pepper and lemon. You took your time swabbing at my collar, prodding the skin beneath, tender as an undercooked pork chop, shame marinating the nerves beneath, until finally, with every ounce of courage left in my full belly, I asked you to stop.

Laura was surprised to see a group of fans already huddled beneath her hotel balcony. She sighed and lit a cigarette. There wasn't much noise coming from the swarm, just the slight breeze and the light tapping of rain drizzling down on the wooden paneling of her window. To the right of Laura, by the bed, a bottle of champagne was submerged in half-melted ice, slowly growing warmer and warmer with the impending summer storm.

I slowly put down the book and proceeded to put my face in my hands. From the very beginning of this alleged classic, the narrator, Nick Carraway, pompously declared, "I'm inclined to reserve all judgments," yet for the entirety of Fitzgerald's God forsaken novel, he was critiquing every person he lay his eyes on. I was ready to slam the entire book in my essay, even though I knew my English teacher wouldn't approve. "I happen to love this book," he had told the class with a smirk, "because it captures the twenties so gosh darn well."

by Belinda Roddie She still leaves messages for me on my mirror. Not frightening messages, mind you. No I am coming for you or Your time is short or any foreboding specifics such as, Mind your step on the twelfth of September at eight o'clock sharp . No, these messages are curt, to the point, and usually about trivial things. Reminders and tips, mostly. One day, as I was attempting to floss a stubborn piece of popcorn out of the crevice between my back molars, a sentence written in the typical red, sinister scrawl informed me, Don't forget eggs for the birthday cake. On another night, after I was puking my guts out after a particularly bad plate of fish at my father's house, the blood-like words dripping from the glass suggested, Drink plenty of fluids and get lots of sleep tonight. At no time did I particularly feel comforted or charmed by these words, nor did I especially believe she was looking out for me. But she was there, doing some sort of service, and that didn...

No new OneWord prompt today. Guess the webmaster's taking it easy? I don't blame 'em. Finding a new word to update the site with every day is tough.