Dear Wigleaf,

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,

Charles

P.S.

I'm rooting for the window blinds.






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Photo detail on main page courtesy of Bob Travis.

Read CL's story, "Those Who Lose Things."

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