My Cardboard Balcony

Risen Indeed by Belinda Roddie I ate my way through Easter Sunday, listening to sweet hymnal wet dreams that caressed both of my inner thighs with holy water and flat wafers: The crisp, pink crust of bread dyed with bad wine, seeping into each swollen pore, creating pustules shaped like the pregnant belly of Ursa Major, snarling over Christ's crucified carcass of wheat. You watched me fall asleep before the celebration was over. Wrappers once cuddling with buttercreams lay like shriveled dead skin against my sticky, sticky fingers, and somehow you doubted that I could be removed from my own tomb, complete with baseball games on the television and too much whiskey mixed with cider, the cacophony of my body rising against the lustful urges of the flesh, sticking its tongue deep down into my soul's constricting throat. The gag reflex was not enough to prevent the resurrection, and there I was, compromised in all ways except one: Life, life, life, a...

"Did you hear her sing?" "Yeah," Chris said, her eyes slightly glazed over as she attempted to smoothly pour a customer a shot. "I did." Rob raised his eyebrows. "Think anybody was recording it?" "Hmmm?" "Recording it." "Recording what?" "Her singing," said Rob with a smirk. "Maybe it'll go viral on Youtube. It damn well should." "Couldn't agree more," mumbled Chris, and she felt her heartbeat quicken.

Jeremy couldn't stop laughing, not even when he boarded the escalator and nearly tumbled down to the bottom due to his shaking and rocking and tilting. His guffaws could be heard in every store of the mall, with rich, elitist consumers pausing mid-scour of a pricey shirt rack to hear his never-ending cascade of bemusement. For a moment, we thought he had gone mad, but he wiped his eyes finally and began to breathe normally once we neared the food court; after all, he had to calm down if he wanted to eat.

Sometimes, if you think really hard, a story can write itself. Except when it doesn't. And it decides to kick back on a lawn chair with a hard lemonade and a pornographic magazine. Lazy fucking bum. This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.

Look at the poster on your sister's wall! She swoons for ladies with short hair and dimpled smiles, dressed in suits or leather jackets and letting a cheap cigarette dangle from between their curved lips. Your father thinks she's sick, true; he debates aloud whether the good ol' "therapy" will do the trick. But he knows he can't make any decision without my approval. Next week, I'm taking your sister out shopping for the prom, and whatever she ends up donning, she can take any damn beautiful girl she sets her eyes on.

Introspection? Bah. I'm visiting my sister and her boyfriend in New York right now. I have no time for such shenanigans. But have a great night and a great weekend, everyone. Oh, and Happy Passover and Happy Easter!

Radiation by Belinda Roddie Under the mushroom cloud, we pick mutated flowers and sing.