My Cardboard Balcony

The Descendants by Belinda Roddie You cradle an entire generation in your arms when you hold a baby. When she sleeps, you hope she dreams of a better future that she can contribute to. When he cries, it sounds like a song, even though he may just be hungry or need a diaper change. And as they get bigger, you wait for the inevitable, but the outcome surprises you every time.

The soldier fell in love with the general, and the general fell in love with her. They both knew it would be forbidden, so they met in secret on Vane Hill, just as the sun crested over the top before making its descent. They held hands and kissed under the same elm tree, and every day, the general would promise to end the war as quickly as she could, so they could both go back home, build a cabin together, and live happily ever after.

Long Live The King by Belinda Roddie You tickle the underbelly of the beast that's dreaming of caramel and sugar, the images all of different colors, but all still painted in something sticky and serene. Once the laughter finally subsides, you see the prince emerge sluggishly from the rotting hide, and as each tuft of fur disintegrates, you are left with the sullen monarch before the revolution. Guillotine, guillotine, where is your lullaby now? What syllables do you have to comfort us with before our minds are separated from our flesh? How many songs can we sing before the anthem becomes sterile and obsolete? We float above it all, the screaming crowds who wave severed fingers piked on pitchforks. You tickle the underbelly of the beast, and the caramel turns to powder, the sugar petrified before it reaches eager and hungry mouths.

"And what are you supposed to be?" Rachel blinked. She stared down at her notepad, then back up at the senator, who was shooting daggers at her. "Um...I'm a reporter, sir. From the Times?" The senator scoffed. His enormous wrinkled jowls quivered as he sneered at Rachel. "Well, here's your sound byte," he growled. "You can take your precious little newspaper and shove it right up your - "

When It's Cold by Belinda Roddie When it's cold - when the leaves grow frosty fingers to grip the rail of the stairwell with, and the world grows sluggish like a blood-chilled reptile settling in a pile of Mother Nature's rags - I find comfort in your arms, which drape over me like curtains shielding me from an ever more intrusive audience. Take care not to let me shiver, for I can cause earthquakes and raise islands along both your skin and mine. The erosion only keeps our pores open for so long, and between us, the heat exchanged could cause smoke if we rely on too much friction or light a spark with our quick tongues. I am not around to hear your lamentations. I sleep through them, and the dreams I carry over mountains cry out for milk and bread while my mouth is a desert waiting for a storm. They say the last time it snowed here was forty years ago, but the rain is plentiful, and the gutters are clogged by wet percussion and mud. It will s...

I hadn't seen this particular relative of mine in quite a while: My Uncle Tobias, who had transitioned seven years ago, and who had sobered up after decades of trying to lay down the booze. Now he was standing in front of my house, a full beard around his jaw, holding a pumpkin pie. "Thanks for having me," he said in a voice that was lower than mine - which was rather impressive. I smiled and escorted him into the kitchen, where my mother was still working on the mashed potatoes.

NOTE: Because of a website error, I was unable to post on OneWord.com for two days. However, it appears that the prompt was still updated both on Saturday and Sunday, even though no one could access them or respond to them. So I set a sixty second timer for myself and completed both prompts for my blog, even though my posts will not show up on the OneWord website. This is the Sunday OneWord. It all made sense now; all the data confirmed it. I was left to stare at the results on the computer, the sweat moistening the rims of my googles, my lab coat feeling heavy and cumbersome on my shaking shoulders. My mentor, Doctor Bernard, was just as paralyzed as I was. She examined the numbers slowly, carefully, as if trying to convince herself that they weren't real. "It's...unexpected," she mumbled. I stared at her. "Unexpected?" I repeated. "Doctor, we're fucked."