My Cardboard Balcony

In Search Of Discipline by Belinda Roddie In spite of everything they taught me - every reminder, every motto, every ink stamped and telegraphed Courier font opus ordering me to stitch a zipper on both corners of my lips - I lost my temper again. Lost my mind in a confined space, a makeshift office with a costume closet where I could hide and pretend to be anyone else from any other point in time. At first, I felt twinging, then seething. Bubbling, hot, reaching boiling point faster than I thought, as if I was standing atop a mountain peak, screaming down to the village below, "I think this is actually a volcano I'm perched on! Run! Flee! Save the women and children!" But I didn't erupt. The anger was quiet. It didn't yell, or howl, or slam its already bruised fist against a desk or glass coffee table. It didn't string profanity together like a candy necklace that would get too stale to eat in record time. It used to be, when I was

Walter plays the cello, while Zelda plays the flute. The cellist looks best in a floral dress, and the flutist is good in a suit. They perform conciertos together, to filled up houses and halls. And once the applause has finally died down, they celebrate at galas and balls. They drink champagne and smile before going home at first light. And they'll practice their latest pieces until the dawn mutates into night.