My Cardboard Balcony

Cody Codebreaker by Belinda Roddie Man, Cody Codebreaker, you're rolling up your sleeves, fingers skidding on the keys. How do you stop yourself from releasing adrenaline when you sneeze? You've got a knack for hacking into each bank for a stack, for opening a blowhard's account and ripping out the dollar signs, Christ, Cody Codebreaker, you're making me antsy from the way you're dancing, the way you short out a motherboard, smoke a hard drive with a stare. You're leaving your signature everywhere. Say hello to the CEOs and Anonymous and tell them they ain't got shit on you. Fuck, Cody Codebreaker, when you're done with your spree, close your laptop and lock down everything with an encrypted key, come to my bedroom, please, and I'll shake you up so hard that you'll be seeing blue screens of death painted all over the walls. You are a dynamite motherfucker with a King Midas touch, pulling gold from the vaults, and th...

I was having trouble walking, and my blurred vision wasn't helping. I didn't remember exactly what had happened to result in my legs feeling like iron. Slowly, though, as the blobs that must have been people surrounded me, I began to realize that maybe I shouldn't be trying to walk at all. "Sir!" one garbled voice urged me. "Sir, do not get up! You've been hit by a car!" Great, I thought. Hit by a car and  misgendered by a bystander in the same day.

21 Shots by Belinda Roddie First time drinking, and I'm already seeing stars. My buddies Bronco and Hyde are waiting for me in the trunk. Don't even bother to help me buckle my seatbelt. My fingers feel like fat hot dogs being grilled on the fourth of July. Bronco's sober, but she's driving too close to the right. Just like all the other cars, actually. I'm sweating like I'm in a tropics, but it's Hyde who smells like he's been baking in the sun like an overripe fruit, rotten down to its soggy pit. "If we drive fast enough, we'll be back at the hotel in no time," he grunts, as Bronco lets her black boot work the pedal like the lips of her last lover. "Hang in there, buddy, all right?" Hyde's worried I'm gonna roll over toward the window and stain the already spotted glass with my own vomit. But I don't feel sick. This road. I've been on it before. The asphalt splits in familiar cracks. For a...

"So what's the currency of your imaginary country?" Arlo asked Rachel, as the two sat down to map out their roleplaying game. "Not sure yet," replied Rachel. "What do you think is a better fitting name: A denka for a dollar or a grappi for a dollar?" "Depends on the town itself. Denka sounds more desert-like. Grappi's like...I dunno, kind of Italian-ish?" The brother and sister enjoyed creating these worlds together, and today was no exception. Their fictional characters were off on an adventure, and they had to plot out the map and continents for them to explore.

Look! Out there! There's a sailor with golden beetles in her hair. They scurry as she hoists the silver sheets, and she scales the ivory mast so that the sun makes the little boat glitter like it emerged from an oceanic treasure chest. Listen! The bubbling from the foam is singing. The mermaids all coo to the sailor and attempt to woo her. She is oblivious to their crooning. She is in love with the sea.

by Belinda Roddie Baby, you can deck my halls any day. You can trim my tree, light my menorah, and spin my dreidel. You can string my lights and hang my ornaments; I don't care. And you can certainly unwrap my presents. I've got lots of presents for you, hon. Just pull my ribbon and let it unravel. Open up my box, and you'll find a treat. Yank my tinsel and Okay, this has to stop. I cannot for the life of me write you a seductive holiday letter. Okay? Just stick to sexting and make-outs sessions after binge-watching TV, and we're good. We good? We good. Love, Charlie This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.

I had heard that the newest teacher, Miss Danforth, was very strict, according to my older classmates. However, on the first day of class, I felt drawn to her. She was quite young to be teaching, with very short hair, a bowtie tucked under her small, square chin, and hands as big as my father's so that when she gripped a whiteboard pen, it almost disappeared in her grip. "I don't like going by 'Miss' Danforth," she told the class, "but simply by 'Danforth,' if you wouldn't mind."