My Cardboard Balcony

My Gift by Belinda Roddie The first time I heard music, I saw color. Green for F, blue for G, with the chromatic blurring in dark purples and grays when I could not comprehend the delicate skeleton of sound. As I got older, it became clearer: Everything was absolute. Caress the piano, and I could identify each separate sigh perfectly without looking at where the fingers of my accompanist lay. The flats and the sharps, the majors and the minors. Vinegar and oil, water and salt. The seasonings of melodies. I did not need a starting tone to get the pitch I wanted. When I turned twenty-five, things became slightly distorted. It was as if a knife already with a bite had been needlessly sharpened further. Every step on the staircase started to blend together. Flats were naturals; naturals were sharps. The congestion in my ears led to an unwanted, "heightened" state of being. It wasn't always noticeable, no - most of the time, all was well, and I

Joseph rented the apartment from his uncle for two years. After that, he bought himself a trailer home, traveled around the country a good five times, and finally settled on a blank space of land a mere three or so miles away from civilization. He was fine without running water, or electricity. He would always walk to the general store for things to eat. Potato chips, pretzels, made-to-go sandwiches. It got to the point that his poor, embarrassed uncle offered the apartment back for free, which Joseph of course declined.