My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie The fire reached out and grabbed Erin, dragging her into the hearth. It grabbed her with long, curly fingers - not curling, but curly, like the springs of hair bouncing along the nape of the teenage girl's neck. She could not pry away from the flame's grip, for fear that touching the orange hand would burn her very badly, and in resigning herself to her fate, she plugged her nose and mouth with her hand and refused to breath in the ash that swirled about her. She emerged in the fireplace of Madam Stalwart's cottage unscathed as usual, the smoke rising from her pretty spring dress and her soot-filled locks, shaking puffs of gray away from her arms and legs as the fire slithered away from her feet. It had done its job of taking Erin to the woman's home, a violent hot Hermes with claws instead of winged anklets. Now the mantel above, serving as the upper lip for the mouth of the hearth, gleamed with candlelit teeth as Erin wrenched herself from its na

It was the sound of stomachs rumbling that caught the attention of Lawrence the Chef, who hovered over his many black pots and pans that bubbled with what he perceived to be tasty goodies. The stews were stewing, the boiled potatoes were boiling, the soup was...souping, and all was well. He took a large ladle and scooped up a cooked leek, sampling the flavor and grunting a noise of approval to himself.