My Cardboard Balcony

My Broken Violin by Belinda Roddie My broken violin still played a tune, even when the bow barely touched its strings, sort of like if a nymph in a lagoon loses her voice, but her body still sings, lissome and quivering. One day, I picked up my poor instrument and let the wood caress my fingers, cold and hard and slick, and I began to play a song that would only be heard by me. The snapped strings sprang up as if on command, the melody harsh yet unyielding as each sharp note rang and rattled the window panes. I finished the piece by giving my dear friend a kiss.

The teacher tried to take attendance, but it didn't help that half of her class was running late. Little did she know that a massive accident had blocked both sides of the road leading to the high school, so everything was backed up. As the police cars and paramedics trucks, with their sirens screeching and their lights blazing, tried to snake their way along the madness of honking automobiles and roaring motorcycles, Shawn, desperate to get to class, craned her head over her steering wheel to see the wreckage on full display.