Dear Wigleaf:

I'm in bed with a fever right now and therefore unable to contribute to the "Dear Wigleaf" option. A shame, because the bed I happen to be occupying is in Istanbul. If I were feeling myself, I'd send you a postcard like a magic carpet, with a whiff of spices from the marketplace and an echo of the muezzin's call to prayer, which would part the curtains for your readers on a glimpse of the tranquil Bosporus as the sun sets behind the grand mosques . . . or some such Orientalist nonsense. But unfortunately like every ill person, especially when away from home, I'm obsessed with trivia — how the shower in this flat knows only extremes, either scalding or freezing with any touch of the knobs; how the screenless windows let in legions of mosquitoes and their gift of further fevers, and how our internet service provider, Turk Telecom, censors all the porn sites, denying me even that meager relief. Nobody wants to hear about stuff like that. Maybe a rain check?


Edmond Caldwell

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Read EC's story, "Breadcrumbs."

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