My Cardboard Balcony

The Ginger Southern Gentleman by Belinda Roddie The ginger Southern gentleman had a twinkle in his forest eyes as he strolled along the withered paths all tucked away within the midst of Stephen's Green. He rolled an umbrella around in his hand, but no rain fell from the graying skies. The fold of his jacket crinkled just from the touch of his fingers. The sun beat down like gold dust against his brow, and it didn't seem as if he were a foreigner at all or a tourist in the cold Dublin stream of passerby, coming from Liffey's pall, which cast reflections in cold cuts of light. The gentleman belonged in Irish night.

The silhouette of Bernie was nothing but a decoy, constructed of the finest materials. Those items used for said conglomeration of a six-foot-tall individual were including but not limited to feathers, velcro, duct tape, denim, flannel, fallen tree branches, and some very coarse wire meant to look like his steely gray hair. After finding the dummy, the authorities looked everywhere for the real incarnation. But all they could find were scarecrows.