My Cardboard Balcony

The Ethereal by Belinda Roddie The Ethereal wore a waistcoat, so corporeally red that it was life force pulsating, rather than bleeding outward - the sustenance sustaining, not depleting, ebbing and flowing like a preserved tide. The pocket watch she bore changed colors, so that based on the hour of the universe (and hour is a term used very lightly here, with copious amounts of interpretations), it could be brass or gold or silver or even metallic blue, the sea coated in rust spewed from pronged chimneys. "You could use a fork," she told me, gesturing at my plate, which hadn't even been touched by the pale skin still clinging to the reminder of my youth. And one by one, the cherry tarts seemed more palatable, and I felt at ease - not desired to feel calm, but simply was calm, as if my mother had come into the room and offered a plate of homebaked cookies, to keep the nightmares appeased.

"It's not my intent to scare you," said the Ethereal, "but there is a difference." "A difference in what?" She cocked her head to the side and sneered. The gold pocket watch on her coat glittered a little, then turned silver. "In detection," she said. "Identifying threats. When you see a piece of bread, you don't wonder if it's a piece of bread, right?" "No. I just know." "Exactly," said the Ethereal. "So do you want me to be a friend, or do you know I'm a friend?"