Category: writings

Family, and a poisonous corpse

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

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

What postcards have taught me (so far)

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.

Dear Postcards . . .

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.

Postcards from . . .

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
Icelandic horse

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.

House: You’ve Gotta Shank Someone on the First Day, or They Don’t Respect You

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If you missed even one episode of the previous season of House — the last one — you might not have recognized “Twenty Vicodin” as part of the same show. That guy looks like House, you might have thought, but what’s he doing in that blue shirt?

Some things change.

After the season finale cliffhanger that left us with House on the lam in some tropical place after smashing his car through Cuddy’s living room, it seemed like there was nowhere left for the series to go.

Except, of course, for jail.

Continue reading “House: You’ve Gotta Shank Someone on the First Day, or They Don’t Respect You” →

Mythbusters: Of RPGs and MPGs

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How do they come up with this stuff?

I’ve been watching Mythbusters since the beginning, and at this point I’m generally surprised and impressed that they can still find “myths” to test. “Bikes and Bazookas” half qualified, with Adam and Jamie comparing the idea that motorcycles are better for the environment than cars, and the junior Mythbusters testing a scene from a movie.

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New Girl: New Guy, New TV, Silly Hats for All

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Usually, you unplug it first.

After a pilot that was generally cute, funny, and almost as life-affirming as the end of Dirty Dancing, New Girl returned this week with the all-important second episode. The biggest change between this week and last is a change of roommates: the Black roommate from the first episode (who may have had a name but as far as I could tell was just called “Coach”) is out, and a new Black guy, Winston (Lamorne Morris), is in. It seems Coach (Damon Wayans Jr.) was unavailable, but I know a lot of viewers are out there scratching their heads over this one, wondering what was wrong with Coach or whether the show’s makers thought that viewers simply wouldn’t notice the switch.

Continue reading “New Girl: New Guy, New TV, Silly Hats for All” →