My Cardboard Balcony

The Violin That Sang by Belinda Roddie The violin that sang all on its own needed no one to charge its battery of repertoire, no fingers to caress the strings that lay awaiting for their touch. It was a lonely violin, but a marvelous instrument, a vibrant one, a daring one in a world where the art lay not with the device, but with the man or woman who could allow symphonies to stir brains. When brought to the stage, it would sit upright, the bow hovering in front of its wooden face. It could hum Mozart or Beethoven in deep, tranquil delight, so lonely violin caught ears each night.

Zaine was on patrol. He had not expected Lavonne to be with him, but she was, hovering around the curb that joined the main street with the residential. The turrets of each home and shelter caught the line of the artificial moon so perfectly. Steely silver against brick. So faux. Lavonne lit a cigarette and Zaine could see the orange light from far away. He cocked his gun and waited.