postcards from… – Page 3 – Emily C. Skaftun

Postcards: Travel travails

January 31, 2013September 10, 2024 eskaftun

Postcard of the Opera House in Oslo — Dear Mom,

I’ll be home a bit later than planned. Another two months, maybe, with good behavior. Prison is pretty nice here, though.

I can sum up Oslo in a few words:

Opera House,

Bowling ball,

WORTH IT.

See you (relatively) soon,
Jeremy

Postcard of sculpture in Vigelandsparken — Dear sis,

I told you sending Sammy on vacation with us was a bad idea. He basically wouldn’t stop screaming & throwing temper tantrums unless he was eating candy. So despite misgivings about feeding your son an all-sugar diet, we sent a steady stream of chocolate & lollypops his way. In a strange little shop we bought lollipops that sparkled. Actually, they were almost luminescent. Sammy sucked on one for a while, then threw it down & launched into another fit. Exasperated, I said, “If you don’t stop that, you’ll freeze that way.”

And damned if he didn’t.

We think Sammy looks good this way, & he’s certainly a lot quieter. We’re getting quotes today on shipping him home.

Love,
me

Postcard of two puffins regarding each other — Dear Cat,

The Iceland trip was going great. We went on nature walks, sat in blue hotsprings, ate exotic food (like puffin!). One night, it was barely dark enough to be called night, but we saw a bright shooting star. Jeremy said, “I wish we could stay here forever.” The next sensation was weird, like being squished & exploding, & I thought I was passing out or dying. But then it stopped & I looked at Jeremy, & his big nose was even bigger, & bright reddish-orange. It was a beak! We were puffins. So I guess we will be staying in Iceland forever. I just wish I hadn’t eaten that puffin meat. I know how tasty I am, & I don’t expect to survive for long.

Best wishes,
Emily

Postcard of an ice cave in Iceland — Dear Beth,

I was about to break up with Dumbass. Yay, right? We walked near the cliffs, & I said, “We need to talk,” & like a DUMB ASS he shouted, “NO!” I heard a rumble, & I was sure he’d started an avalanche, but instead of rocks coming down, a strange silvery ship hove into view. With an unearthly light, these beams shot down all around us. They looked like shiny icicles, but they soon turned as solid as steel. It looked a bit like a dance club. We were left alone for hours in a cage made of the things. And we didn’t end up talking, much.

Anyway, your nephew will be born in six months. Here’s hoping he’s not a little Dumbass.

Love,
Your sis

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Things that will eat us

July 24, 2012September 10, 2024 eskaftun2 Comments

1) Travel. Why is it taking me so long to get back into my regularly scheduled life? I don’t know. I guess I can’t complain about that.

2) Aliens?

Postcard of a volcanic plume erupting out of the ocean — Dear Mr. President,
I work on a derrick far offshore, & I seen something you should know about. We’re not alone. Humans, I mean. At first we thought the things were dolphins, but their faces weren’t right. Bobby tried to make contact. I didn’t hear what he said, but I think he offended them. Their heads went underwater. Then it was quiet. Then in a huge puff of steam and whatnot, the aliens zoomed right into space. I tell you, it was impressive. I thought we were about to explode or sink or both. so, I don’t know if they’ll be back, but maybe you should prepare, just in case?
Sincerely,
Buck
p.s. I didn’t vote for you, but if you protect us from the aliens I will this time!
p.p.s. Bobby says he’s sorry, whatever he said.
p.p.p.s. I’m not crazy.

3) Injuries. This week has taught me that I am not cut out to be a caretaker. Get well soon, mom. For lots of reason, including that I miss my life. To the extent that I have a life right now it isn’t my own: I’m living at her house and driving her car. I miss my cat and my husband and my bed. I’ve slept in it shockingly little this summer.

4) Bears. No kidding; they will eat you.

Postcard of a polar bear on its hind legs

Dear human friends,
You didn’t have to run away. I won’t eat you; I only eat seals & fish. I only wanted to hug your friend. Bear hugs are awesome; everyone says so. It’s not my fault he struggled.
Please come back.
I saved your friend’s wallet & camera for you. There are some really good shots in there.
Love,
Clyde the polar bear

Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.

Family, and a poisonous corpse

July 14, 2012September 10, 2024 eskaftun

It seems troubled family is on my mind.

Postcard of woman in red dress near a waterfall — Dear Tyler,
We’d hiked all day to get to the waterfall, like the guidebook said. It was supposed to be awesome. But we got there & there was no water. None. Like, the rocks were dry & there were dried-up fish bones in the riverbed. Then this lady in a bright red dress totally appeared out of nowhere. She looked creepy, man, right away. But Sam whistles at her. Her creepy eyes flash red & she spins around pointing at him & says, “Blood for water!” Then the waterfall starts back on like she opened a faucet. We all scrambled out of its path, but I don’t know what happened to Sam. We never found him. I think the witch got your brother.
Sorry, dude.
Robbie

Postcard of tiny plane and huge volcanic ash cloud — Dear Dad,
You’ll be happy to know that Susie is still a virgin—or at least she had this tribe fooled. After your last letter I tracked her halfway around the world, to a beautiful little island. She thought she had it made, because the natives were treating her like a princess (like you). She told me to get lost. But I stuck around long enough to decipher some stone carvings: virgin, volcano, sacrifice. Standard stuff really. I got to her just in time, swooping into the caldera in my little plane to pluck her from mid-air (who’s your favorite child now?). We’re on our way home now.
To recap: The good news: Susie is a virgin.
The bad news: there’s one less island in the ocean.
Love,
Eric

Postcard of Edvard Munch's "At the death bed" — Dear Gramma,
I’m sorry you’re dead and won’t receive this card. But I want to thank you for a couple of things. 1) Your snickerdoodle recipe. Because of it I was in the kitchen pulling cookies out of the oven at your wake when uncle Dwight decided to open your casket. Moron. Which brings me to 2) whatever chemical or bacteria or voodoo curse you had yourself buried with. It actually melted them, the whole aggravating lot of them. I had just time to watch as they dissolved into ghostly wraiths before I ran for it. And now I am free.
I love you, gramma. Rest in peace,
Kelly

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What postcards have taught me (so far)

July 11, 2012September 10, 2024 eskaftun

1) I can write really small when I need to.

2) A picture really is worth 1,000 words. Most of my mini-stories are meaningless without the postcard image that inspired them. This is fun, leaning on those images and letting them fill in the gaps between the lines.

3) Sometimes fewer words are better. At first I tried to cram a whole story into these little spaces (hence the tiny writing), but as I go on I see that sometimes the suggestion of a story is far more interesting. One of my favorites is only 43 words. Again, I’m not sure this works without the images to do the heavy lifting. Maybe in some cases?

4) I’m not really sure at what point something becomes a story. Am I deluding myself that these qualify? Probably.

Anyway, more to come. I am home now and recovering from a month of travel. Next on the priority list is revising the novel. But I promise to keep postcarding, too. This silly idea, born of the Clarion West Write-a-thon and sleep deprivation, has the feel of a lasting obsession.

Postcard of a seal's face — Dear humans,
You think I’m pretty cute, huh? You think my fur is soft? Yeah, I’ve got cousins in the zoo, & they tell me about your squeals. But guess what? I lost a brother the other day to one of you squealing bipeds. Dude took a club & just beat him like Rodney King. We don’t have video cameras up here, but don’t think you’re getting off without a riot.
We may look cuddly, but it’s only skin deep, & we won’t be your shoes anymore.
I am a baby seal. And I will f*ck you up.
You’ve been warned,
Snuggles

Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.

Postcards: two fishy love stories

July 5, 2012September 10, 2024 eskaftun

Because most of the postcards at the Munch Museum were prohibitively expensive:

Dear Sis,
I should have known better, but he seemed so nice & charming when I met him at the bar. He drank aquavit, which is disgusting, but he was paying so I had a few. I really am a mess! Now my passport & money are gone, & all I have left is this sketch he made of us. And I’ll have to give that to the police. Oh, I should have known better; his pickup line was, “Anxiety devours the soul.” I just thought he was artistic!
Please send money (& better taste in men!) And don’t tell mom and dad.
Love,
Salome

And, in case you ever wondered what happened after The Magic Fish ended:

Dear wife,
Or ex-wife, I suppose. They say there are many fish in the sea. And there are, but the only woman I want to reel in is you. You were greedy, yes, but it was only the lure of fishy magic that left you restless. I am sorry that I could not provide what you wanted. Please return to me. Our shack feels like a castle when you’re in it with me.
What are the odds of there being two magic fish in the sea? I don’t know. But for you, my love, I’ll fish until I find out.
Love,
Your humble fisherman

Postcard of a fisherman's boat full of fish

Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.

Postcards! Again!

July 1, 2012September 10, 2024 eskaftun

I really am having a jolly time writing postcards to and from a variety of things.

Dear anyone:
I don’t know why I’m writing this. There’s no postman here to carry this card, & he’s not coming. We can’t even get to the nearest “town”—if anyone’s alive there. The virus hit Nordkapp hard, & the world (if it’s out there? Are you?) has forgotten us. But let’s not dwell on that. We’re safe for now, hunkered in this odd chapel under the rock at the end of the world. We have plenty of candles, & enough food for a few hungry weeks, courtesy of the cafeteria & gift shop (& other sources, but let’s really not dwell on that). We also have plenty of souvenirs. Would you like a stuffed baby seal? A magnet? A keychain? Will these sweaters & animal skins keep us safe and warm? We miss you, other humans
The Survivors (for now)

Postcard of creepy moon at Nidaros — Dear Mother,
It was a dark & spooky night, a full moon hanging above the Nidaros churchyard. Being a man of science, I knew the chill in the air had more to do with the northern latitude than with spirits walking the earth. But what of the other creatures? It was then I saw it: too large for a dog, too upright, too knowing in its malicious glare. Could it be, finally, a werewolf? The thing lunged at me, I drew my pistol, & after that I do not know what transpired. I woke in the morning, oddly full, but otherwise unharmed & totally myself. I’ve concluded that my sighting last night was a hallucination.
I’ll be home in a mere four weeks.
Your son,
Jeremy

Image of two polar bears — Dearest Mama Bear,
By the time you receive this note I’ll be gone. I know we always seemed like a perfect storybook family, but ever since that little blonde girl broke into our house, I’ve been thinking about things. Like, why do we live in a house? We’re bears! But you know I never wanted to be anyone’s Papa Bear. I’m not cut out for it. I’m still young, & there aren’t so very many of us polar bears left, & I’ve got wild oats to sow. Please tell Baby Bear that Papa loves him. And that I’m sorry we never gave him a real name.
Yours with love,
Clyde “Papa” Bear

Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.

Dear Postcards . . .

June 30, 2012September 6, 2024 eskaftun

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.

Postcard of an old building in Bergen — 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!

Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.

Postcard Madness, part II

June 27, 2012September 10, 2024 eskaftun

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.

Postcard of illustrated giant trolls in a fjord with a cruise ship — 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?
Emily & Jeremy

Postcard of satellite image of Iceland, covered in ice — //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//

Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.

Postcards from . . .

June 21, 2012September 6, 2024 eskaftun12 Comments

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)):

Postcard of an arctic fox — 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 your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.

Category: postcards from…

Postcards: Travel travails

Things that will eat us

Family, and a poisonous corpse

What postcards have taught me (so far)

Postcards: two fishy love stories

Postcards! Again!

Dear Postcards . . .

More Postcards!

Postcard Madness, part II

Postcards from . . .