My Cardboard Balcony

Common Era by Belinda Roddie Get me a beer and a ham sandwich with all the damn fixings: I'm itching for something stronger than five percent alcohol, but anything to get my brain wading in the waters of a new world will suffice in this brand new dystopia. Keep this bar air conditioned, since it's too hot outside to dance anymore. Once the dead pig settles in my stomach, I'll sidle over to the pool table and pretend that the sky isn't falling after all. Maybe a pretty lady will leave lipstick all over my new shirt. President's brand. It's all supposed to be great again. Does anyone carry a box of cigars? I haven't smoked a good one since Florida got weighed down with sea salt and sadness. Shame, too; it had good beaches. Margaritas on me, boys. Tequila's rare these days, and the guacamole hasn't had real avocados in it for almost three years. Once I finish my beer, I'll groom myself in the one stall bathroom, while the d...

I feel like the term "American idiots" is redundant, don't you agree? Especially when it comes to choosing who runs the country. Then again, who knows if I'll be allowed to spout off like this come next year; free speech is a fragile thing, isn't it? Anyway, a whole bunch of racist, Xenophobic, sexist idiots gave my country to an incompetent, erratic blowhard who couldn't be trusted to throw a water balloon, let alone send off a nuke. Yay!

An Unexpected Tragedy by Belinda Roddie This wasn't supposed to happen: Your tiny hands, dipped in gold, squeezed me in places still raw and tender from a lover's touch. You drew me in with scary stories of the Other, dressed in masks on the opposite side of the stage you set up for yourself. The spotlight was on you; it could not shine for anyone else. This wasn't supposed to happen: You played the tune of authoritarianism well. All you needed was the trumpets squealing behind you, announcing your dramatic entrance into the abyss that you created with your words and jeers. You reminded all of us that the tapestry we've woven together, of many colors, can be easily set on fire and burned to nothing. And it is difficult to reconstruct a vibrant culture out of ash. My hands shake, and I am confused. I wonder if I should drink, but I know the booze will only make reality seem like a mirage. But the mushroom cloud still rises from the ruined landsca...

To every banker, bartender, and butcher, don't vote for the orange man. To every merchant, musician, and moocher, don't vote for the orange man. No matter your occupation, this country future's in your hands. So to every American who gives a damn, don't vote for the orange man. I voted. You need to vote, too. And do not vote for the orange man.

Ballot Box by Belinda Roddie In the ballot box were sixteen snakes all curled up in a ball, trying to sleep away the nightmare that unfolded in the US of A. Don't look now, but we are only hours away from a national nightmare of our own making. It's our own fascist bread that we're baking. The stakes are higher than the vampires we're staking. Cut the lights and wait until dark to cry.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked. "Comfortable? Rested?" "Agitated," she replied, and as she spoke, something felt wrong. Her mouth felt fuzzy, as if it were full of cotton. "Hmm, well, not much we can do about that until the drugs kick in." The doctor scratched something down on her pad, which made the patient shudder.

No update on the OneWord website today. Oh, well!