My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie The last thing I had expected was for the drawing I had completed to wink at me. I had made her simple, straightforward - black lines, minimal shading. Her body hunched over that single lump of stone I had rubbed into existence on the thick paper of the sketchbook. Her fingers dipped in the inky blackness of what would have been a pond if I had been keen enough to use blue. She was flat, colorless, and oddly shaped. But she had eyes. And she could wink with them. I closed the sketchbook in one simple snap, and for a minute, I thought I heard sniffling. Like someone was crying. But it was simply the snoring of my chubby tabby cat from his cushioned tower in the corner, and I was able to proceed with my day as normal. I'm not an artist by any stretch of the imagination. I sketch, yes. I use pen and pencil. But I've never had that creative touch to me. Doodling has been something I've done for years, mostly to pass the time and steer off boredom. M

Under the dome of the ancient cathedral, we bathe in the orange glow that comes from the skylight. The skylight turns all gold to fire, all silver to white, all bronze to earth. We wait for the sun to set before we begin our evening prayers. We count the beads one by one, descending from our necks, all different hues and types. We collect the gems of ancestors' tears, and we bathe in the stars that grin from the skylight.