My Cardboard Balcony

Like Marilyn Monroe by Belinda Roddie When my brother and I had settled outside during a small get-together at a friend of a friend of a cousin's friend's quaint little house, the black and white silhouettes of our fellow partygoers were beginning to dim under the flickering light of the ceiling lamp whipped by the fan blades, its bulb chains cavorting and caroling. We shared a potion of choice and dipped our feet in the swimming pool where last September's foliage had made its way to brown chlorine outbacks heading west to new lands. No sooner had the bubbles cleared my fluttering lips that I noticed the little blond girl perched on the diving board, giggling and drinking directly from a bottle of pink champagne. She teetered for a moment, and a gentleman in gawky glasses and a sports jacket caught her before she descended into the murky childhood memories that the concrete basin hid from us, rimmed with the timid residue of autumn. My brot

In the heart of the festival, two boys were dancing together. They wore bright red paper hats crafted by one of the elderly villagers, and their shiny new brown loafers with bright silver buckles kicked up loose pebbles scattered on the cobblestone. The musicians and drummers sped up the song, and the boys did nothing but dance faster. Sipping from a tankard, I watched the two children whirl arm in arm like a tornado in its wake.