General

The balcony grew from the walls of the house as generous arms from a host, or perhaps those of a mother to cradle her infant child. The metal had a patina of ocean greens and blues, or perhaps it was more the hues of a mossy forest floor in softened early light, yet either way it was beautiful.

General

The balcony was a concrete ledge, square rough edges and a rusty rail, but it was my oasis. I filled whatever space my table for one did not occupy with potted plants and in the spring and summer seasons it was a riot of color. On my balcony I could enjoy the breeze, the sun and even sometimes sit out in misty rain. Below the city flowed in it's tense way, bustling and honking. But ten floors up I was far enough removed from it to be a passive observer, not troubled by it's strife.

By sydneyvosse01, October 18, 2014.
General

I'd always been fond of balconies. I felt that if I could only manage to stand on one long enough, the right one, wearing a long white trailing gown, preferably during the first quarter of the moon, something would happen: music would sound, a shape would appear below, sinuous and dark, and climb towards me, while I leaned fearfully, hopefully, gracefully, against the wrought-iron railing and quivered. But this wasn't a very romantic balcony. It had a geometric railing like those on middle income appartment buildings of the fifties, and the floor was poured concrete, already beginning to erode. It wasn't the kind of balcony a man would stand under playing a lute...Besides, it was only five feet off the ground.

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, April 26, 2012.

Found in Lady Oracle, authored by Margaret Atwood.