Category: postcards from…

Postcard Bonus: Spooky Visitors

eskaftun
Spooky image of a man with a headlamp backlit on wet, rocky ground
Dear Marta,
The ones who emerged looked enough like those who’d gone down that when they walked up out of the mine, grieving women fell into their arms. “Incredible that you’ve survived so long since the collapse!” they said, and didn’t ask how. It was only later that the oddness became apparent. How they stood a shade too upright. Spoke too precisely. Never seemed to blink. Their children were grown by then. The ones whose weird eyes didn’t blink quite enough. They’re in control now. Mayor, city council, all of it. It’s fair enough, we suppose. They’ve never said so, but it’s clear they’ve been in this land far longer than we have.
Best,
Lisbet
Image of a light shining up into the night sky from the center of Stonehenge
Dear Earthlings,
The transmission will reach you in several thousand “years,” as it must travel at the speed of light. Assuming my people aim correctly, this beam will traverse a straight line across the universe until it lands in the middle of your receiving ring, forming the connection that will allow us to visit your delicious planet. This message contains the instructions for constructing the ring. Make sure to build it to spec, because we very much look forward to m/eating you.
Your devouringted friends,
The “Aliens”

Want to read more of these? Visit my patreon!

Postcards: Learning through Travel

eskaftun

Exciting postcard news: I have a patreon for these now! That is where you can see every postcard story that I write from now on, starting at $3/mo. One per week! Some postcards will still find their way here, but not all. If you enjoy these, I hope you’ll hop over to patreon and subscribe.

Image of the head and torso of a skeleton, among other decorative bones.
Dear Liam,
For one moment, I knew the meaning of life. I learned it in a crypt. I went as a tourist: go see the ancient bones, weird art made by monks in god’s name. But then the lights went out. Sort of. I could still see. But the other tourists were gone, along with everything modern. It was the kind of quiet that’s loud, the only sound the creak of a skeleton turning his skull to me. He told me the secret that only bones can know. I carry it inside me now, deep inside, but I’ll only know it again once my flesh rots away. Isn’t that oddly comforting?
Yours eternally,
Cole
Image of a long-horned unicorn in a very small pen.
Dear Elizabeth,
Evolution is fascinating! Prize stags’ racks get smaller. Elephants are born without tusks. Same with unicorns.
Today, at the Queen’s Bestiary, we met the oldest living unicorn. 700 years old and horn at least 4 feet long! The younger ones, captured in the last few centuries, just have dainty twee little horns. Today we learned—fun fact—unicorns simply refuse to breed in captivity. Yet they live forever. Poor things.
One wonders what would happen if they mated in the wild. Over generations, would their horns grow long again? Or are those genes lost for good?
Wouldn’t it be interesting if a visitor left a pen unlatched, and some horny unicorns escaped into the nearby horse pastures? For science?
—A Scientist

Postcards: Passageways

eskaftun
Image of a very iced-over door alone in an empty field, with a small person in the distance
Dear Freddie,
Magic is cryptic AF. Worse than one of those escape rooms. The huldufólk who took Victor said we’d find him “through the door” that no key could open. It could be opened by performing “our people’s folk dance.” We tried a lot of different things, let me tell you, because we’ve got roots from everywhere—polka, hora, square dance, even flamenco. (We also tried a blowtorch to melt the ice; it weirdly didn’t work at all!) I’m actually mad that what opened that fucking door was Henry doing the YMCA. Anyway, you’re welcome. We got your boyfriend back.
Love, Neil
Image of a very narrow street lined with bright orange trees.
Dear Sarah,
Go see the foliage, you said. It’ll be fun. Until the car broke down on some back road. Google maps showed a repair shop ahead. I started walking, but I went the wrong way, and when I retraced my steps, the road looked totally different. More trees. Bigger ones. Leafier. I thought I was lost again until I saw my car, almost fully swallowed by the trees. I’d only been gone a few minutes. There are so many trees between me and this supposed repair shop. I’m running for it, but I think the trees are faster than me. If you don’t see me again, treevenge my death.
~Laura

I’ve finally caved and started a Patreon account for these! Subscriptions start at $3/month for early access to postcard stories, and every subscription makes me more excited to keep writing. Hope to see you there!

You can still buy one-off postcards here.

Postcard: New job is a blast!

eskaftun
Retro-style travel postcard of a spitting volcano with rangers in the foreground.

Dear Nikki,
I really like my new job at the volcano. My coworkers seemed cold at first, but they warmed up after that busload of kids went into the cauldron. It was like something from a cartoon: a sign pointed straight off the rim instead of to the parking lot. Every year, it seems, there’s a bonkers accident and people fall in. Awful, right? Still, I can’t shake the feeling that locals are relieved it happened. Like they were edgy before and now they’re more relaxed. Anyway, hope you can visit next year. Bring the kids! We’re planning an amazing, up-close tour.
Love,
Tobey

Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
Wondering WTF this is? Start here.

Postcards: Transformations II

eskaftun
Image of a man wearing only shorts swan diving off a boat, with glaciers in the background
Dear Allison,
The giant seabirds of the Arctic are truly phenomenal. Early in our study, we woke to a thump that shook the whole boat. When we got on deck, instead of an eagle or an albatross, or even a walrus, we found a stunned, nearly naked man. He wouldn’t tell us how he came to be on our boat; he just demanded fish (we gave him a can of tuna) and hit on Bella for a while. Then he said “ciao” and leaped off the stern. We all gasped, thinking of the icy water below. But feathers sprouted from the man’s arms and torso and he soared, disappearing into the white of the sky.
That’s just one of the magnificent new species we’ve catalogued.
Wish you were here!
Dr. Pauline Frost, Ornithologist
Image of a wood-carved cat grinning with human-looking teeth
Dear Hattie,
We followed a new Sphinx legend to a northern land—found it, but it’s quite mad. It grinned with this manic set of un-catlike teeth. It asked Pete to solve a riddle, but we weren’t clear on the stakes—this Sphinx wasn’t guarding anything, and we weren’t questing. The riddle was nonsense, stuff about slithy toves and manxome foes, so of course Pete got it “wrong.” Can there even be a right answer to utter rubbish? The Sphinx bared her human again, and took her prize—Pete’s right hand. She rubbed it greedily against her left paw, muttering “14 more suckers to go.” On the plus side, Pete has a cat’s paw now and it’s pretty darn cute.
See you soon!
Alice

Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
Wondering WTF this is? Start here.

Postcards: Of Air & Ice

eskaftun
Image of a hiker at the end of a swooping tunnel of ice.
Dear Micah,

As surfers, we recognized the ice for what it was right away: a frozen wave. Deep within, two shapes resolved. One looked like a fur-clad man, tumbling. The other was a fearsome shape, giant and toothy, the largest shark we’d ever seen. I rubbed my eyes to clear the hallucination. The ice played tricks, we’d been told.

But Chad, transfixed, put his bare hand to the ice wall… and stuck. I laughed, at first: “Why not lick it, like a flagpole?” But before the heat of his hand could melt him free, the ice reeled him in. His hand disappeared into the wave, then his arm, and then his screaming face. The ice took him.

Inside that wave, the two figures of my hallucination remained. Only now the massive shark was nearer its prey. And the prey wore Chad’s red hiking jacket.

Love,
Your favorite surfer (at least now!)
Image of colorful kites against a blue sky.
Dear Al,

The rapture came, I think. It wasn’t what we thought. We all ascended—I was shocked! As we rose, we… changed, and not into angels. No halos, no wings, except this one chick who turned into a penguin. Another guy pudged out into this, like, turquoise teddy bear? Several resembled sea creatures. Me? My head became a dang jester hat. Yeah, worst of all of them. When the wind shifted, we fell back to earth. Now I’m all deflated and stuck out here. Is this hell? IDK. Anyway, if you’re still ambulatory please come help.

Love,
Joe

Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
Wondering WTF this is? Start here.

Postcards: Three complaints & a love letter

eskaftun
image of a leprechaun crossing sign
Dear Council,
I’m writing about the recently installed Leprechaun Crossing. Yes, it has reduced the number of wee corpses local residents have to scrape off the tarmac, but it comes at a cost. The water’s gone green in the houses within 500 meters of the crossing. Food goes moldy in the refrigerators. Garden gnomes are found in compromising positions. And there’s been a sharp uptick in green turds. From time to time a golden coin is found, perhaps left in recompense for this mischief. But when we take those coins to the pub they turn to dust.
Please consider moving the Leprechaun Crossing to a less populated area.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Murphy
image of a very not-amused-looking owl
Dear Bernadette,
This has gone too far. I humored you saying you were a wizard and your school letter was coming. I took you to the theme park and paid for a plastic wand you pretended was made of unicorn hair and gnome toenails (or whatever), but I thought you understood you weren’t taking any magic train to school—just the same orange bus. You waved your plastic wand at me and said some fake-Latin gibberish, and I was rolling my eyes when my whole head rolled backward and I saw my own feathery(!) butt.
You turned me into an owl? Not cool. Put me back.
Yours,
Dad
p.s. You are SO not going to magic school.
image of several people in front of a sign reading "lost persons area"
To Whom It May Concern:
I wonder if you’ve found a person I lost. It’s been a while. A few decades, perhaps. In my defense, I thought the person would find her own way home. I didn’t account for the short in the compass in her left breast. How could I have predicted she’d attempt to feed a lost baby person? That wasn’t in her programming.
Please respond quickly, and I don’t want to hear you only keep found persons for 90 days or somesuch, nor do I care to quibble about the personhood of robots. I do not expect to be judged about the length of time elapsed. Not all experiments succeed and let’s just say that time travel devices short out easier than boob compasses.
Best,
Mr. William Meier
Image of weird bumps on a seashore
Dear Eldritch Horror of the Deep,
They used to say the earth had seven seas, all of them our domain. But they are all connected so why haven’t I found you in my millennium of searching? Alas, I must resort to the old way, using part of my precious one day on land to dry my hands, write these words to you, and stuff them into a bottle to toss into the waves. When waves return. It is peaceful now, the sky awash in blood. What a day! I only wish they were yours, these thousand pulsating eggs I’ve lain upon this unsuspecting shore.
With ineffable madness,
Your Eternal Monster Queen

Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
Wondering WTF this is? Start here.

Postcards: Wish wisely

eskaftun
Image of gem-encrusted everyday shopping items in a shopping cart
Dear kids,
It’s so cliché to go out for groceries and…
So I’m walking to the store and I kick a Pepsi can, and it goes “Hey!” I pick it up and this genie puffs out and says “Thanks, bro. You get one wish.” One? Cheap-ass genie. But okay. So I wish for riches, jewels & stuff. The genie fucks off, and I trash the Pepsi can and go shopping. I pick up some cereal; it turns to jewels. Ice cream; jewels. Oh, shit, I think. I heard about this Midas shit before. I go back to the trash & look inside all the empties until people point and stare. No luck, except all the freaking trash turns to priceless bejeweled artifacts. So…
Hug your ma and stay human. I’ll miss you!
Love,
Daddy
image of a brass statue of a woman with a cart
Dear Tina,
You’ll be the most popular woman in Dublin, they said. Never really wanted that, but they also said my wee ones’d never want again. So I let them dress me in up in giant fluffy sleeves that are forever in the way yet fail to cover the twins? Really?
Statuification starts at the feet, so when the bloody sleeve falls down again my hands have already brassified. I can only glare, and of course then my face sticks like “Really?” And the worst part: while my own children and theirs knew who I was, these newer ones don’t—so their grubby fingers polish the very tits that fed their ancestors. Really?
With eternal irritation,
Molly
image of tipped over red telephone booths
Dear Jody,
My mild-mannered alter-ego was on vacation when a giant started attacking London. Stomping through the Thames, kicking bridges, climbing Big Ben like King Kong. Really boring stuff, honestly. Still, a job’s a job.
I couldn’t believe my luck, finding a whole row of phone booths in this age of mobile phones. But while I was changing into my superhero costume, the giant decided to play dominos, and I found myself in a tipped-over phone booth with the door stuck shut! No problem, right? I should be able to burst out of here easy using my super strength.
Well, it didn’t work, okay? Send help.
A not-so-super hero

Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
Wondering WTF this is? Start here.

Postcards: Of monsters and mammals

eskaftun
Image of colorful petroglyphs and a grazing animal
Dear Janka,
Multi-headed dinosaurs, titanic snails, plodding yet hungry cave bears, and giant humanoids used to maraud into our village, stomping homes and eating whoever they came across. No one knew where they were coming from, until one day a group of us stumbled upon a rock face and saw the monsters in the rocks going about their slow lives. As we watched, a hungry head on a long neck emerged from the wall and swallowed up George in one crunchy bite.
Now we send animals out toward the rock face to graze. Some return, and some do not, but the attacks have stopped. It’s a good trade.
Visit soon! It’s safe now!
Paula
Image of two whistle pigs, apparently cuddling
Dear one,
I’ve returned home, to Narnia, to our little burrow, at your request. I hope you’re enjoying the rest of the vacation we saved and scrimped for all our lives. It does not bother me that you sent me home so early. After all, you did tell me to check one last time that I hadn’t left the gas on. “I’ll worry the whole trip,” you said, and I laughed at your silliness and hurried you into the cab to the airport.
What bothers me is that you were right to worry. Stay in Austria. Of our burrow, only ashes remain.
Love,
Your loving husband
Black and white image of an alpine horn blower at Mt. Pilatus, Switzerland
Dear Klaus,
I’m writing in regards to our community’s alphorn blower: please send a new one. I’m aware this is the 7th such request we’ve made in two years, but it’s not our fault that two of the fellows you sent were drunks, another took a nasty tumble getting up to his station, one fell ill, one rushed off to care for an ailing relative, and the last simply abandoned his post. There is no truth to the rumor that we have a yeti problem around here. But send a replacement post-haste, because only music can calm the
Viele Grüße,
Emil
Image of a furry creature with antlers and wings, holding a pipe and a walking stick, in an alpine meadow.
Dear Vicki,
Hiking in the Alps, I come across a fox, a pheasant, and a deer smoking from a glass pipe. Naturally, I joined them. The smoke was strong, and soon the clearing spun. I woke some time later with an itch in my wings, flapped them, and with horror realized they would no longer bear my weight. For I had clear memories of flight. And of digging deep into burrows my antlers would now prevent me from entering. And what would the owners of the hostel think of me? I wondered. It wouldn’t do to dwell on it. Fortunately, though my woodland companions were nowhere in sight, the pipe remained.
Peace!

Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
Wondering WTF this is? Start here.

Postcards: Transformations

eskaftun
image of salt pillars from the Dead Sea
Dear Nancy,
Nothing lives in the Dead Sea, right? No fish, no plants, not even any microbes, or so they say. So when the … masses … started to rise, we were assured that it was only salt, that it had been there all along, formations growing just under the surface. But we could see them changing, shooting up faster than the water level was dropping It’s as safe as ever, they said. Just protect your eyes.
By the time the scientists arrived it was too late.
The rest of the tour group will not be coming home. But the good news is that we’ve discovered a new species.
Saltily yours,
Sally
Image of the baby Jesus in a church in Bethlehem
Dear Kris,
Peter always had a thing for Baby Jesuses, stealing them from nativity scenes. The one from Bethlehem would be ultimate souvenir, he said. I worried about him getting shot. Ha!
Despite the crowd of true believers, Peter grabbed Baby Jesus and started to pull him away. But the thing didn’t move. It stretched until there were two heads and two sets of prayerful hands and when the mitosis ended there were two Baby Jesuses. Peter tucked one under his shirt.
Outside, he tried to move his prize to his pack, but it had melted to his flesh, which now seemed made of plastic. He screamed as we pulled on Baby Jesus’s legs, but they just sucked into Peter as plastification spread. In the end, the rest of us stared in horror at the plastic Baby Jesus lying beatifically where Peter had stood.
With regrets,
Mary
Image of brightly colored sheep grazing near the Ireland coast
Dear Rachel,
Easter started out pretty much as expected. Religion, brunch, an Easter egg hunt. I let Millie join the other kids and enjoyed an Irish coffee. But she returned crying that the eggs had run off. Run off? Had someone given her an Irish coffee? We went onto the field and where there had been colored eggs, now there were colored sheep. Pink ones, yellow ones, green and blue and orange spotted ones. One egg remained, and on closer inspection it clearly didn’t come from a chicken. It was huge, and getting bigger. Until—you guessed it!—it hatched into a fluffy sheep. Who knew?
Love,
Jacob

Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
Wondering WTF this is? Start here.