Project: POSTCARDS FOR YOU

While it's fun to have more publications from established manuscripts (forthcoming this Fall; won't post the specs until the release-date nears), I get bored of my stuff somewhat easily.  Thus, I've begun several little side-projects, one of which I will share daily--or as close to daily as I can.

Simply put, this project is called Postcards For You.  Defying my usual dogmatic insistence on absolute freedom of experimentation, I have set two parameters for the project:

1. each postcard must contain 100 words or less
2. every day, for 365 days, a postcard must be written/sent

These postcards are e-postcards addressing YOU where "YOU" are "E."  They're mailed to a special, super-secret email which will serve as a vault for the next year. Initially, I intended said vault to remain sealed until the year came full circle, but I've now decided that sending the postcards to both the vault and the Renegade Prose blog might spark some ephemeral entertainment among our daily doldrums.

Admittedly, there will be days when I cannot send a postcard, however, I will write one each day regardless of when I can actually send it.  Therefore, some days, several postcards will be sent; but they will each include a date and number, which will prevent any confusion.

And with that, I will now display the first cluster of postcards (I began this project a little over a month ago) in their chronological order.  Over the next few days, I'll continue to post clusters of them until they're current, thereupon posting one per day (unless, as I previously mentioned, I don't get a chance to send one on any given day).  So be sure to tune-in here routinely for the latest postcard.

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5/22/11

#1

Dear E,

The world was supposed to end yesterday, and what better way to depart than with your fingers sifting my hair. I’ve mentioned that, quite often, I manage to expand the minutes between fingers and hair into alternate realities. Friday night was a great universe. I can’t wait for the eve of next year’s apocalypse.

5/23/11

#2

Dear E,

The drugstore no longer carries the poison Romeo used. Shakespeare didn’t respond to my Ouija-board request. So I guess I’m stuck with taking shots of Drain-O for now. Earlier today, I heard someone say this in a song: “I’m feeling out of bounds. I’m running out of time. I know there’s no such thing as either of them, but it doesn’t make it me feel any better.” After hearing someone else express these thoughts, I feel better.

5/24/11

#3

Dear E,

When I dropped by my parents’ house last night, I opened the pantry to discover that, apparently, my dad had also planned for the rapture. While everyone ransacked the grocery store for water and other necessities, my dad grabbed all the salsa he could. I told him he was smart for thinking fat-free; in the new world, everyone will be thin. However, dismay gripped him when I asked, "Where are the chips?" He scoured the kitchen until he saw me holding up a fork. He shrugged, took it from my hand, and said, "At least we have no choice."

5/25/11

#4

Dear E,

Greetings from Joplin, Missouri! I met some people at a local general store and soon we got real close. As we huddled below ground in the storm-cellar, we waited for the tornado to eat us. You’d be surprised by just how quiet people are when terror rattles a foundation. Since the cellar was pitch-black, my ears sharpened, and that’s when I heard the person next to me say, "I love you." But I’m not sure if his lover heard him because the wind was so loud.

5/26/11

#5

Dear E,

Today, I woke up with panic. Somewhere amidst last night’s dreams, I developed a taste-aversion to everything. I ate something chemically from my childhood; it was in a canister. This morning, I thought I would never eat again. Then, I thought of you telling me you want me to glide my tongue up-and-down and side-to-side between your asshole and your clit until you’re about to cum because this would make the sex much more fulfilling. Fuck-off, panic. I got a hungry shuttle.

5/27/11

#6

Dear E,

The lady working the front desk at the library refused my entry because I was holding a large iced-coffee that I purchased 5 minutes prior to arriving. "Should I stand over here and chug it?" I asked. She said, "You can drink it in that room—wait, no you can’t; it’s locked." "Well then," I said, "maybe you can unscrew my skull and just dump the coffee onto my brain so it saturates and I’ll get goosebumps and feel high." "Oh my," she said. Anyhow, I chugged the coffee. Then I found a cubicle, sat down, and lit a cigarette.