Friend, please wear latex gloves and a surgical mask as you read this
postcard. Gently coat its surface in Lysol mist. Touch only the
corners. Use tongs. Burn after reading and bury the black ashes deep
within the dirt. Do this in your neighbor's yard, the one who
practices trombone as the sun sets, or that fellow who has a peacock
for a pet. To be safe, take Echinacea capsules afterwards, gargle three
tall glasses of salt water, wet your earlobes before taking a hot bath.
Hopefully you'll be fine.
It is day 36 now and I am still sick. I have the usual symptoms: sore
throat, headache, nausea, stuffy nose, the late night chills. But each
day that passes brings with it a new, unfamiliar symptom: temporary
blindness, paranoia of evil robots, fingers detaching and rummaging
through old boxes stacked in the garage, strange telepathic
conversations with my rabbit, Lucy. Last night she told me that the
dining room chairs have decided to wage war against the window blinds.
It's been cooking up for years. Lucy and I plan to watch how
the carnage unfolds from the living room, nibbling on cheddar popcorn
and carrot sticks. We'll send word on who emerges the victor.
From the trenches,
I'm rooting for the window blinds.
- - -
Photo detail on main page courtesy
of Bob Travis.
Read CL's story, "Those Who Lose Things."
w i g · l e a F