I bought six postcards at the Tate Modern last week, each featuring a different artist.
I’ve written a very short story on the back of each one. No, I didn’t realise Jan Carson has already done it.
It’s a fun exercise, so I thought I’d post the results here. Today’s is Tracey Emins, The Last Thing I Said to You was Don’t Leave Me Here II.
If you’re lonely and want to get some mail, drop me a line and I’ll post one to you. Second class, obviously.
Ready or Not
“Five, four, three, two, one. Here I come.”
They say risk can excite a tired lover.
Why not set the heart racing with a naked game of hide and seek?
This afternoon’s arena was the garden.
Tracey hid in the shed. She didn’t want the neighbours to see her moles.
Her skin never sat well on her. That’s why she found her shame more manageable when huddled in the corner, facing two walls.
She’d agreed to the game, hoping it would climax with a surprise shoulder tap or embrace. But she knew it’d all be shattered by the scratch of the latch against the door.
Hearing footsteps approaching, she wondered what would hurt the most. The floor splintering against her back, or the friction of premature penetration.
Henry Says 