The story you’ve been telling about us isn’t true. “House of straw?” How dumb do you think we are? We had three little houses. All made of brick and fully wolf-proof. The wolf loped off with his tail between his legs. We thought for many happy years that was the end of it.
But the wolf returned with a champion, a flying reptilian beast. “I’ll huff and I’ll puff,” the beast said. We didn’t believe her—her fiery breath took us by surprise. I barely got out in time. My brothers crisped like pan-fried bacon.
Moral? There isn’t one. Build your house of anything you like, it won’t save you from a dragon.
Love,
One Little Pig
I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m a big fan of your work. I mean, really. You’re like the king of the angels! I was coming over to tell you so, and you got all aggressive with me. The swords! The holy rage! But I think now I see the problem. See, all of us serpent types have kind of a bad reputation, but it’s really a broad overgeneralization. I’m just a fancy snake.
Please don’t slay me.
Yours,
the “dragon”
I need some advice. I have tried everything to catch this little pest, but boy is he fast—and lucky! He evades all my traps, no matter what I do. He’s led me from the desert all the way around the world. Seriously, there’s snow here!
Anyway, you seem like the same kind of lucky as this little bugger. So how can I catch him? Right now, I’m thinking that I can dislodge a boulder from some of these cliffs when he runs under. Seems like a pretty solid plan, right? Nothing could go wrong, right?
Your pal,
Wile E. Coyote
End the embargo, they said. What could go wrong, they said.
There is a remarkable resourcefulness to a little island country that’s been starved for years, forced to make due. Cubans make MacGyver look like a useless dilettante. We let them have access to the internet and new cars. Seemed so simple.
Now the Cuban flag hangs in Washington, DC. Tomorrow we learn how to roll cigars.
Regretfully,
Hillary
Do you remember Bestefar? He loved us with all his icy heart, before he died.
It snowed last night and this morning I felt compelled to trudge through the knee-deep wonderland to visit him. The snow covered the tombstones, but I still knew where Bestefar’s was. I dug down. Instead of the familiar plaque my mittens brushed a pane of glass. A window.
And there he was, standing behind it. He slid it open, and the snow didn’t fall in, it fell down. The world was sideways, and I had to climb up to get through the opening.
We are waiting for you, and the next snowstorm.
Big sis
Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
Wondering WTF this is? Start here.