My Cardboard Balcony

Look At The Mess by Belinda Roddie Look at the mess you made, you little fool! I ought to box you 'round your little ears and deal you such a sharp, mean blow that you'll dread waking up each day throughout the years. You deserve every scar and every bruise you earned from me, and your idiocy just gives me a chance to paint more tattoos with my fists, ignoring you when you scream. Some people might call me abusive, and I say they're full of shit; they can't judge me. I show my strength because I am a man, and I know how to raise my family. And you dumb brat, I'll mold you as I wish, 'til you're just like me. That should do the trick.

Man, have the updates to the OneWord website been spotty lately! Again, no new OneWord today. I hope it becomes more consistent soon!

...Stays Here by Belinda Roddie The dress that doesn't belong to you now has an accessory it didn't come with: Impermanent, easy to clean, but at this moment, it shines with a crimson sheen around the collar, which doesn't exactly complement the color of the skirt or bodice. That's some heavy lipstick, my friend. Did you buy that by the box, and now you're literally just running your mouth across some poor dame's neck? Wait until Daddy finds out: wait until the snarling mouth of his Glock G19 gets a chance to speak up about it, too. And Mama will fulfill the stereotype and cry and cry and cry until she's shriveled up like a corn husk in the summer blaze. The dress that doesn't belong to you sure looks good on my sister, doesn't it? The way the sleeves accentuate the shoulders, punctuated by the muscle gained by weight training in college. The bristle of the hem against ankles that like to bend the wrong way when she walks to...

Here they come, circling 'round the ranch like belted vultures. Their wide-brimmed hats accentuate their pointed, dripping beaks. Their wattles shake and shimmy with each cackle erupting from their lips. They have revolvers on their hips, and they share the same whiskey in a stain glass bottle.

What Happens Here... by Belinda Roddie The exit is thirty doors down, but if you make two lefts, you're in a whole different level of Paradise. There are luxury suites filled with glitter and cheap champagne. All the necessities coated in rouge. Each knee blackened with smoke from fat men's cigars. Jawline speckled with lipstick scars. You're hoping you never find your way out of this maze, and in the end, it's not your say. Because in three days, all the gamblers, cheaters, and whores will be evicted and turned into salt.

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

Cradle Of Nowhere by Belinda Roddie Sweet baby's sleeping in the back of the Wrangler, not paying any mind to the coyotes prowling 'round the flattened tires. Their jaws are already set as if they're biting something gristly, but the lullaby from the stereo is enough to send every animal under the eclipse into dreamland.