My Cardboard Balcony

Redglove Starling by Belinda Roddie She wore a coat made of secondhand dreams and a hat brushed with cosmic daring, sailing on a ship with a thousand oars rowing toward an endless sky. I sat frozen on my stool, still spinning a frail olive in a fragile glass. Everything about me could break easily, but she, in contrast, was invincible. She was dragon's fire in a bottle, chainmail threaded with jewels and stars. She wore gloves as red as the blood of the gods, who still bowed down to her.

I could feel the heat radiate from the window, warming up the cold, white skin on my shoulders. Somehow, however, I remained physically frigid. As I dragged myself to my desk and picked up a pen, I began to wonder just how steadily I could write while my fingers visibly shook from under my gloves. When I tried to scrawl my own name, it came out in abrupt, illegible bursts.