My Cardboard Balcony

I Dreamed The World by Belinda Roddie I dreamed the world was made from bits of gold and silver crafted in a holy fire. They wrote about it in the tales of old and sang the sagas using flute or lyre. I saw the shadows holding hands at night and blades of grass kiss in the light of day. Each continent was teeming with delight and happiness brimming in bowls of clay. I dreamed the world was crafted by a smith whose anvil gleamed like old Apollo's eye and whose hammer sang and synchronized with the humming choirs with heads raised to the sky. I dreamed it all within a morning cold - I dreamed the world was made from bits of gold.

I was in the process of pulling myself out of my latest lethargic episode of misery when the doorbell rang, and the Grim Reaper was standing there. Only instead of a black robe and scythe, he was wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt and carrying a steel lunchbox. He offered me something from it, but I declined. "You just seem so sad," the Grim Reaper said to me. "How about a bag of pretzels?" "I think I'll pass," I replied.

The Reformation Of Speech by Belinda Roddie eventually, language becomes too sweet and too thick on the tongue and words begin to weigh a ton behind aching teeth given meaning before they have a chance to be born, given a purpose they do not have a say in when we get to that point in communication, we will mostly speak in static, in buzzing dial-up tones, trying to restart some process in our addled brains where all the holes are filled with rich and creamy sensationalism the fake is real and the real is fake the facts have grown legs where their arms should be we have mutated the truth to the point that no linguist can spare it, and the streams of our vocabulary run dry our observations reduced to the glaring obsolescence of a singular noun

Noooooo, OneWord website! You were so close to updating every day for a week! No prompt update; oh, well!

A Noble Cause by Belinda Roddie Suit up, boys - we're going to war against the bastard who stole my cheese sandwich from the refrigerator in the staff room last Tuesday. Don't ask questions. Just get your uzis and make it rain bullets.

"Jesus Christ, Charlie!" hollered Jacob, his face white. "Are you okay? You were screaming!" "Yeah," said Zelda. "I think everyone within a ten mile radius could hear you." Charlie was frozen at one spot, their hands shaking, their voice thin and helpless. "Don't," she whimpered. "Don't come any closer."

The Royal Hotel by Belinda Roddie Down in the basement of the Royal Hotel, there's a man who will harvest the organs of nobles. He'll sew up their wounds with a needle made of bone, and he'll kiss them on the forehead as their lips turn to silver. Down in the basement of the Royal Hotel, the man's wife cries so much that her tears fill the teapots kept in cupboards so dusty that the spiders stay away, and the whole space smells like cheap disinfectant. Up in the lobby of the Royal Hotel, two lovers roll their suitcases full of idols and wine. They will pray to their gods on the thirteenth floor, once sunrise has revealed all of Mother Earth's scars. And on the top story of the Royal Hotel, a prince from a remote nation feels pain in his side. As he wakes from bad dreams, he remembers his appointment, before realizing that he's also missing his spleen.