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I got a postcard from Australia the other day. It didn't tell me that the weather was nice, or that the person was having a good time. No, it said this:
He cried when I told him I had to leave. Unlike the ones who had been before him, however, he did not beg or bribe or blackmail. He cried, and his tears were beautiful spiraling rainbows that collected on the sand. After a time he wiped both eyes with his sleeve and looked at me.
"Thank-you," he said after a few croaks, "for everything." He smiled, a ghastly affair considering his red, puffy eyes. "Is there anything I can offer you in true thanks? I-I do not know what is appropriate at such a time as this..."
"You have already given me plenty," I said, wondering if this was a ploy or the truth.
"I do not think so," he said. "All I have not lost, all I have gained - all thanks to you. But you, what have you gained that could compare to everything I owe you?"
"Memories," I said, stretching back to stare up at the clouds. "It gets boring, after awhile, only having so many years to remember."
He laid next to me, resting his hands on my stomach. "Do you think I will be all right, on my own?"
"You're a smart boy"
"I will miss you," he said, smiling.
"I will remember you often," I replied.
"Maybe," he said, after a time, and by his tone I knew his intention. "I could talk to your father..."
"And live your remaining years as a rat? Don't talk nonsense."
"Fine," he said, and rolled, unbuttoning my shirt. "I won't talk," he said, and began kissing my stomach.
But it was I who cried when he left me longing.
All on a postcard (obviously, it was all smooshed together).Written Scrawled in gold ink. It was AWESOME. If a little odd, coming from Pen.
So in that spirit, anyone want a postcard fiction from me? I can't promise anything near as neat, though I can promise blue or black ink. :)
He cried when I told him I had to leave. Unlike the ones who had been before him, however, he did not beg or bribe or blackmail. He cried, and his tears were beautiful spiraling rainbows that collected on the sand. After a time he wiped both eyes with his sleeve and looked at me.
"Thank-you," he said after a few croaks, "for everything." He smiled, a ghastly affair considering his red, puffy eyes. "Is there anything I can offer you in true thanks? I-I do not know what is appropriate at such a time as this..."
"You have already given me plenty," I said, wondering if this was a ploy or the truth.
"I do not think so," he said. "All I have not lost, all I have gained - all thanks to you. But you, what have you gained that could compare to everything I owe you?"
"Memories," I said, stretching back to stare up at the clouds. "It gets boring, after awhile, only having so many years to remember."
He laid next to me, resting his hands on my stomach. "Do you think I will be all right, on my own?"
"You're a smart boy"
"I will miss you," he said, smiling.
"I will remember you often," I replied.
"Maybe," he said, after a time, and by his tone I knew his intention. "I could talk to your father..."
"And live your remaining years as a rat? Don't talk nonsense."
"Fine," he said, and rolled, unbuttoning my shirt. "I won't talk," he said, and began kissing my stomach.
But it was I who cried when he left me longing.
All on a postcard (obviously, it was all smooshed together).
So in that spirit, anyone want a postcard fiction from me? I can't promise anything near as neat, though I can promise blue or black ink. :)
no subject
There is that side of things of course. ;)
I guess driving to the shop is much easier.