My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie He roared ferociously into the microphone, and as he strummed on his vintage Gibson guitar, I could see the blue veins bulging out of his tree stump of a neck. In fact, they were everywhere. Spindly veins and capillaries could be seen through his nearly transparent skin - up and down his biceps, across his forehead, even in the exposed flesh of his shins where his jeans were torn like streamers across the flanks of his legs. He was practically half man, half spider web as he played, but that never perturbed the howling audience, who sang along to his guttural growling, more coherently forming the words than he was. This was Harold Shaw, considered one of the greatest lead guitarists of his time, and people still loved him. He was fifty-two years old now, over a decade younger than his former bandmate, Martin Gordon. Of course, Martin Gordon was nowhere to be seen. Even if he were alive, he would not have dared dream of joining the Anderson Council line-up again

The archery class instructor was six feet tall, muscular, frowning, and twirling a stray arrow between her gloved fingers. It was as if an Amazon had arrived to teach us how to shoot bulls-eyes. Every part of her skin was tanned to a golden tone like leather in the sun. And when she finally smiled, there was still a glow of authority behind those white teeth.