My Cardboard Balcony

Little Harp by Belinda Roddie It didn't have forty-seven strings, but the strings it did have bounced slightly in the breeze from the bedroom window, so that when Oliver fell asleep, he was soothed by the chorus of several small voices echoing from their thin chambers as the sounds of color began.

"I don't understand. You want me to rewrite the entire essay?" I nodded from behind my desk. The pencil I was trying to sharpen just wasn't being cooperative. "You clearly showed no comprehension of the very book you were reporting on," I remarked. "You didn't even get the setting, or even the protagonist's first name." "Sure I did," my lowest scoring student protested. "He's Bob." "No, he's not. He's Bartleby, and that's not even the protagonist." "Just let it slide!" I sneered. "I would prefer not to."