Move your mouse over here!
Previous page

The Post Cards

Today isn't working.

Five thirty in the p.m. and nothing. Very nearly had something concrete earlier on: the germ of an idea. But the germ turned to be viral and came out as a sneeze.

- Gesundheit! it said in its best American.

Nothing of interest. Nothing of insignificance even. Right now I'd settle for intangible. After all it is only a post card. No bugger's going to read the back. In the nick of time the American comes back in, his face covered in phlegm.

- Oh my! I says.

- You're what?

- I'm frenetic, pleased to meet you. And you are?

- Cautious normally. I tend to carry a handkerchief in my pants. But not today.

- Since we have a special relationship, I could lick it off for you.

- Ah! The British bulldog's favourite dumb pastime, slobbering over his master's face.

Just then the virus bursts back in and the American erupts into another fit of sneezing. I gesundheit politely. Keeping track of phlegm trajectory as I back off, I leave the antagonist to his own narrative devices. The card, without a postmark, turns up inside a parcel from P. containing the badly translated sentence, made worse by the typo, I'd written in exchange for some pan, quel fromage, van, et un lit. His note read:

- Seeds all doing well. P.

He lost his company protection. Got the maximum. Fifteen years for eight plants. I got my first ever published sentence back.

- Diverse aspects of the town at the foot of the the Canigou, altitude 2785 miles.

Story by:

Phil Doran

submitted at 11:53am

29 May 2009

Phil Doran's web: