June 30, 2012

Dear Postcards . . .

I haven't always loved postcards. In fact I've downright hated them, for reasons that I now see are unfair. So, I've written a conciliatory postcard . . . to Postcards.

Dear Postcards, This bad blood between us has gone on for too long. It’s not your fault that you rarely say anything meaningful; it’s just the nature of the form. You can’t help it if you arrive three weeks late, usually after the sender has returned home, & that your trivial information is thus always woefully out of date. You’re a faded image, a piece of the past. Furthermore, it’s not your fault that—once upon a time—I received banal cards crammed with tiny, insignificant writing. Nor are you to blame for my pathetic analysis of those cards; the sender did not love me as I wished, & that is that.  It’s in the past now. Let’s forget it & move forward. Together, we can be interesting. Yours, Emily

And now I've got the Beatles' song, "Dear Prudence," in my head. And the Internet here is so slow that I fear uploading any more photos will take approximately the time it took some glacier to form this fjord we're in. So look for more postcards soon!

And remember, if you want to look for them in the meatspace mail, sponsor me in the Clarion West Write-a-thon.

June 28, 2012

More Postcards!

If you have no idea why there are postcards here, click back a couple pages until it makes sense.

Dear mom & dad, I found the church where you were married. Just like in the old photograph, the roof like a staircase leading up to God. The happy couple radiant in black & white. Flowers, & the imagined sound of church bells.  When I was young you told me, “Leave the past be.” But I’m only human. When the machine fired up, how could I resist? A simple trip, a chance to stop a war, to save lives. It worked.  So here is the church from the old photograph. I do not know what became of the happy couple, the flowers. The church bells are not ringing. I really hope you receive this postcard. Love, Your son, the time traveler

Dear mom, Jeremy isn’t coming home.  First, dad dared him to wear a sparkly pink hat we saw. He said he’d pay 1000 NOK if he wore it for an hour (about $167 USD). So of course he put the hat on. But then people started shouting & running. There was a monster in Trondheim! I never saw the monster, but I heard something about snakes. We ran & hid in an alcove off the ground. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Jeremy had turned to stone.  The doctors say there’s nothing we can do. And dad refuses to pay, saying that the hat is no longer pink or sparkly. Anyway, I’ll be home soon. Love to the cat! Emily

June 27, 2012

Postcard Madness, part II

As part of the beautiful blending of travel and Clarion West Write-a-thon, my 100-word postcard story project continues. I must be quick, as internet access is fleeting here in the scary world of my imagination. Remember, it's not too late to get one of these one-of-a-kind storylets. Just sponsor me in the Write-a-thon for $20 or more!

//begin transmission// Reached the new planet. Reached it faster than anticipated. Attached find the last image we captured on the way down. Gravity is strong here.  Planet is covered in frozen H2O. Highest lifeform encountered is a mech with four bumpy wheels & 1-3 pairs of bright eyes. They emit a constant growl & occasionally disgorge a clutch of small bipeds from an orifice on their flank. Neither they nor the bipeds have detected us, flattened into warm crevices in the rocky hills. Sensors report pressure building, molten rock rising into the vents we hide in. Soon planet will explode. We cannot move. Thrusters smashed in landing, & not powerful enough to lift us anyway. Send help. Planet not fit for habitation. //end transmission//

Dear BJ & Zedd, Our trip’s been interesting. The ship is nice, or at least it was when we boarded. The scenery is gorgeous, & the weather perfect. In hindsight, though, a cruise deep into a narrow fjord seems ill-advised. First came a mighty wave that rocked the ship. Then another. Like the trembling puddle in Jurassic Park, only we’re in the puddle, on a boat that suddenly seems tiny. They towered over us, yelling in a lilting language. They roared. They stomped their feet and nearly toppled us. More came down from the hills throwing stones the size of busses. Between them they have our exit good & blocked, though it seems their quarrel is not with us. It’s been days now, & we’re low on supplies—especially wine! We huddle belowdecks away from the splashing & bellowing, plotting our escape from here & hoping, desperately hoping, not to feed the trolls. How are things with you? Best, Emily & Jeremy

June 21, 2012

Postcards from . . .

Ah, the postcard. "We saw this. It was nice. Wish you were here." Boring, right?

Because 1) I am on holiday in Europe, and 2) it is Clarion West Write-a-thon, and 3) I'm feeling guilty about not being able to focus on my more lengthy commitments, for the next three weeks I'll be composing a series of micro-stories in postcard form.

Here are the first two (apologies to Gordon and sis-in-law if you see yours here before you get them (which seems pretty likely)):

Dear Gordon, My name is Clyde, & I’m an arctic fox. I came from a faraway land, but one day a foxy lady fox swished her tail & I chased it across the frozen sea. Thick snow came & I soon lost her. Sometimes I wonder if she ever was real.  The ice made my paws cold, so when I saw some land I stepped off onto it. And then—wouldn’t you know—the ice retreated, & I was stuck here. I am the only mammal on this entire island.  I am lonely.  Will you be my friend?  I’ll share some of this tasty puffin with you.  Love,  Clyde the Arctic Fox

Dear Emily, I’m an Icelandic horse. Or “horsey,” if you prefer. They call me Dreamer because I have a dream. They call me lots of things, actually, & some of them are not very nice. But that’s another story. You see, I need your help to fulfill my dream. Oh, but I haven’t told you what it is yet. Promise you won’t laugh?  I want to be a unicorn.  As you know, all horsies can turn into unicorns if only girls love them enough. But you have to really, really love me. I promise if I turn into a unicorn I’ll fly to California & you can ride me &—WHAT!? Unicorns can’t fly?  Well, shit. Yours truly, Dreamer p.s. don’t I look cuddly? love me!

Want one? Sponsor me in the Write-a-thon! For a mere twenty dollars I'll send you a story of about 100 words, on a genuine European postcard (probably to be posted from Seattle).

June 14, 2012

I, Frost Giant

I am notoriously late to most conversations, living as I do under a rock. So it was only a few days ago that I saw The Avengers (and that was because I had to catch up by renting Thor and The Incredible Hulk, and I needed to do that because I have never been a comics reader--yes, my geek credentials are quite thin, actually).

But since I have finally seen it, I can finally comment on the apparently controversial line about Loki being adopted. In case you missed the controversy, start here.

Obviously, they're brothers.

Before I saw the film I was aware of the line, which was summed up to me as, "They use adoption as an explanation for Loki killing a bunch of people." Perhaps awkwardly, my first response to that was, "You mean I get to kill people because I'm adopted? Why didn't anyone tell me?"