My Cardboard Balcony

The Yo-Yo by Belinda Roddie   The yo-yo snapped back into his hand like a dragon's head on a frail string, golden eyes gleaming for sustenance, and the coyote howled a eulogy for the reptilian barbarian god of war and carnage while the sparks in the sphere went red, red, red, red, dark.

When the prints were ready, David hung them out to dry and watched the images ooze out in red patterns before him. Upstairs, his wife was making dinner in the kitchen, the TV blaring an old Seinfield episode with the same old bass transitions. In the backyard, his sons were playing catch. As his eyes focused and unfocused, David morphed in the red glow around him, completely at peace.