you and me – POSTCARD #52
The ‘You and Me’ postcard project is back after a long, lame hiatus… which to be fair was mostly spent writing a novella that’s hopefully to be published around June to hopefully blow your socks and jocks off.
But back to ‘You and Me’. For anyone that is new or needs a refresher, the deal is this….
A project between you and me. 100 postcards. 100 stories. You send them. I write them. Each one in less than 300 words.
If you’d like to be involved please send me a postcard with a word or phrase written on it. It can be bought, found, made, stolen in any shape you like. Shoot me an email in the contact tab if you have any questions or you’re just the friendly type.
Send postcards to
you and me
PO Box 92
Fitzroy, 3065
Victoria, Australia
Thank you to Sheamus for sending in such a beautiful card and also for being so patient about seeing it up here with its story.
x
sometimes
Sometimes he remembers everything.
The sun forces another hairline crack down his spine and hewould smile if he could. His frozen arms grip the edge of the world and he watches the specks below him move with the city around them. Once water rushed through his throat and poured like vomit away from the masonry he perched atop. He would vomit and watch lovers embrace under umbrellas in the rain, their shoes spraying small fountains as they ran. He watched them grow older, their steps less sure, sometimes slipping and breaking a brittle bone, growing into smaller specks until they were gone entirely.
Sometimes they climb and stand behind him, catching their breath at his view, their hearts beating hard from the height, their blood hot in their throat as if they too would lean over and open their mouths wide. Small and great specks lean behind him and have their photograph taken as their decomposing skin flakes onto the ledge beside him. As their skin gathers in funeral piles beside him the specks laugh and clutch his likeness in their hands. They take their proof home and take it out from time to time as they grow smaller and remember how the world looked back then. As the city burns around them. As buildings collapse. As the new specks devour everything and grow large.
Sometimes he knows nothing. Not why the dryness of his throat causes particles of powder to crumble from his empty mouth. Not the ravaged city below as his insides float to the surface. Not that he smiled for the first time as the church shuddered with an explosion and he tilted over the edge. He only knew he would have opened his arms wide as the ground rushed to meet him if he could.
Leave a reply to R.S. Bohn Cancel reply
I’m a writer who hates writing bios. They always come off too cool or too eager. They often mention cats. I write mainly short stories and I’m working on a collection to send out to the powers that be. I live in Melbourne, Australia. I like lowercase titles. My cat’s name is Sunday.
nice one Yase! Love the ending! Like the pathos and sense of soul, encased in stone.You’ve been quiet lately-productively so! On a personal note, I miss your colours too! Deb C
Thank you for reading, Deborah. Your thoughtful musings on my pieces are such a treat.
xxx yt
Glad to see your back Yase!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Cheers, Pauli! I hope you didn’t shit your pants with all those exclamation marks! ❤
I join the chorus in celebrating a new you-and-me postcard. Love this one, from the rainwater vomit to the last line, which is absolutely perfect.
Thank you! I hope to get another postcard from you for the second half of the adventure.