Dear Wigleaf,

I wrote my first stories fibs on postcards sent to my persecutors parents from a girls jail camp during my eighth summer. They were so perceptive troubling that my mother displayed hid them in a glass case kitchen drawer for decades.

Chronicled are the terrifying mundane weeks of a girl first exploring the craft of creative nonfiction manipulation. A girl who subsisted on abused marshmallow Chapstick; was forcibly separated from a sister who heroically resisted begged transfer to the remotest gulag archery unit.

These insights fabrications prompted my detractors kin to see me as a bold truth-teller worry requiring suppression a court-ordered editor. Years later, on a multi-generational crusade family vacation to this great nation's last wilderness Mom's home state, my gifts delusions would finally become legendary.

We'd spent days hours lost strolling in the woods Mall of America before our dramatic flight from peril Minnesota, when we grew delirious from foraging power-shopping and I bestowed forced 50 postcards upon each brave pilgrim relative.

Camped out in the wilds Macy's furniture department, we wrote deliciously dangerously unsupervised lines of lively micro fiction misinformation to everyone we knew about bear wrestling, shrooming, and avalanches.

These discoveries lies told in our pop-up writing workshop jest and boldly duplicitously sent by me from a rustic outpost mall post office proved our making downfall—us, known since, one and all, as The Noble Mundell House of Raconteurs that pack of lying weirdos.

All hail the power of the postcard!

Yours truly,
Lynn