My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie That's the last time I let you order an extra hot caramel latte monstrosity. Now you can't feel your tongue, and the whole car smells like a unicorn farted out dulce de leche fumes. This is almost as bad as the time you got a caramel stuffed churro at the county fair and wound up with half of the gooey mess on the front of your shirt. No, you're sticking with tea next time, kiddo. Iced. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to order another mochachino explosion with extra whipped cream. This week's prompt was provided by Jocelyn Roddie.

The stories that we tell might seem new, wrapped up in bright, shiny paper and tied with ribbons that gleam in the light, presented in a way that appears surprising and original. In truth, they all contain the spirits of the ancient storytellers, their dusty fingerprints remaining in fragments on the pages. The epics and the poetry, the fairy tales and the folklore - those tales continue to speak to us, leaving tufts of warm breath in our ears.

I'm moved fully into my new condo, and mostly everything is unpacked. I hate my temporary one-hour commute (both ways, in fact). I did the voice of Batman for a student's Gotham-themed podcast. Christian Bale, eat your heart out. I'm nervous but also excited for the yearbook camp I'll be attending starting Monday. I'ma be a bridesmaid at my friend's wedding next week! I got to see my dad today; he visited my wife and me, and we had lovely conversations over pizza, salad, and beer. I'm also really, really tired. It's been a long week, people. I'm laying off the introspection for a bit. Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

My Kind Of Meeting by Belinda Roddie Last time I convened with the Russians, they brought vodka.

The lawyer and the physician met in a bar on 25th and Abbey. They drank from steel pipes, and they belched out fuel exhaust. The lawyer had returned from a court case two blocks away, and the physician had had to give a patient the "bad news." The "good news" would have been death, but it couldn't be that way. Not in this country.

Yes, This Is Madness by Belinda Roddie Yes, this is madness: Rich and brimming from the cup of life, encrusted with bright gems all pulled from rings, the bands left on each thumb and forefinger of kings whose fickle dreams keep them still longing for treasures of old. I wrinkle up each letter to my wife, and though I know her heart is built from gold, it grows too heavy to carry in life, and so I shall discard it soon enough. Do not think me a failure in marriage, but instead a scarecrow that has been stuffed with mud and salt that's far too thick to dredge. I waver in the field of my own mind, forgetting all the loves I left behind.

People try to tell you it's a lifestyle you've chosen. It's an option that you've taken as if the other one was inferior. They say that all your kisses are forced by some sort of hidden agenda that you've never seen published, or in a book on your nightstand. Best you can do is ignore them. That's what I do, anyway. What do they know about the way we love? It's as natural as breathing; we can't shut our lungs off.