Tag: postcard stories

Postcard Story #006 – Apocalypstick

~ Henry ~ Leave a comment

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. This last one features Claes Oldenburg, Lipstick in Piccadilly Circus. Which means I should probably buy some more.

If you’re lonely, and isolated by Coronavirus, and want to get some mail, drop me a line and I’ll post one to you.

Second class, obviously.

Apocalypstick

Claes Oldenburg, Lipstick in Piccadilly Circus

Her son asked, “What was it like before?”

So she told him.

“Before they arrived, we ‘Tasted the Feeling’ and rejoiced at the ‘Tick Tock, it’s Guinness O’Clock’ sign.“

“Now such celebrations are over. Piccadilly’s Circus Lights don’t draw crowds, they just light up the six Lipsticks of the Apocalypse.“

“First we laughed, thinking it was a prank by Yves Saint Laurent or Mr L’Oréal. Lipsticks designed for giant, unblemished girls, who hung out on the side of buildings.“

“The bodies crushed below swivel cases were ignored and when the wifi stopped working, no one really cared.“

“As time went on, instead of worshipping watches or handbags, we learned to give our devotion to our matching shade.“

“But whether nude, coral, orange or red, the truth was that each tint was made from the tallow of horses that rode the apocalypse, and we turned to evil.”

“So honestly son, not that different.”

Postcard Story #005 – Boiled or Fried?

~ Henry ~ Leave a comment

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 Sarah Lucas, Self Portrait with Fried Eggs.

If you’re lonely and want to get some mail, drop me a line and I’ll post one to you. Second class, obviously.

Boiled or Fried?

Sarah Lucas, Self Portrait with Fried Eggs

How did he like his eggs in the morning? Today, a side of shells would do.

The fat bubbled.

Three days AWOL, but she’d come back. He’d found her at the bottom of the stairs.

He wasn’t angry. All was forgiven. He’d offered her breakfast, hadn’t he? 

So what about her reaction to, “Boiled or Fried?” A half-arsed kick at her cigarettes was something.

The fat spat and caught his arm hair.

It was years ago. They hadn’t even been married. 

He’d give her one more chance to forget it. Across the kitchen he shouted, “Where the fuck have you been?”

No response.

He gripped the pan tighter. She probably still wanted some breakfast, didn’t she? 

Instead of eggs, how about a little snap, crackle and pop?

His flicked wrist sent two eggs, soaked in dripping, straight onto her chest. 

His accuracy surprised; her indifference did not.

Postcard Story #004 – Ready or Not

~ Henry ~ Leave a comment

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

Tracey Emins, The Last Thing I Said to You was Don’t Leave Me Here II

“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.

Postcard Story #003 – No Final Notice

~ Henry ~ Leave a comment

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 them here. Today’s is Jeff Wall, A Sudden Gust Of Wind.

If you’re lonely and want to get some mail, drop me a line and I’ll post one to you. Second class, obviously.

No Final Notice

Jeff Wall, A Sudden Gust Of Wind

“Why were you at Five Pearson Drive yesterday?”

The door slammed in his face. His mornings began with accusations, not kisses.

Walking his route, he buried the thought of infidelities in his sack. The weight freed him to revel in delivering final notices.

Today, that satisfaction drove him down Pearson Drive.

Approaching number five, he pulled out an envelope stamped, “Final Reminder. Payment Overdue.”

Bypassing the letterbox, he hammered the knocker.

The door opened and as the letter was exchanged, he tapped it, saying, “Looks like trouble.”

Smiling, the man at the door said, “I’ve got something for you.”

A letter of divorce. So the bitch was fucking him.

Instead of going for the jaw, he threw off his sack, emptying the letters into a gust.

Because undelivered bills go unpaid, and sometimes misery needs a little more time to mature.

Postcard Story #002 – Boys Don’t Cry

~ Henry ~ Leave a comment

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 Lucien Freud, Girl With A Kitten.

If you’re lonely and want to get some mail, drop me a line and I’ll post one to you. Second class, obviously.

Boys Don’t Cry

Lucien Freud, Girl With A Kitten

Anita sang,

“I would say I’m sorry,

If I thought that it would change your mind…”

Only to catch Jeremy wincing and trail off on the third line. 

Jeremy seized the microphone, words still scrolling on the screen. He said,

“I can’t cover it all up with lies,

Robert Smith doesn’t hiss or scream.”

His kitten clawed at the sofa’s upholstery. A distraction for delaying Anita’s wavering lip. But the diversion was momentary, and soon his words cut deep.

Karaoke had been his idea. Why was he such a pig?

Inflamed, she grabbed his cat and squeezed it like a microphone. 

No need to sing into it, that’d muffle the crunch of bone. 

Anita smiled at Jeremy and said, “Let’s see if boys don’t cry.”

Postcard Story #001 – The Last Splash

~ Henry ~ Leave a comment

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 Ed Rusha’s Pool #2.

If you’re lonely and want to get some mail, drop me a line and I’ll post one to you. Second class, obviously.

The Last Splash

Ed Rusha, Pool #2

She remembered the last splash, her board’s reverberations and exclamations of glee come chaos.

Since the final pool party, she’d missed the touch of dainty toes and sandpaper heels against her spring.

She recalled the morning after, waking dry mouthed, with the bitter taste of iron against her basin and scarlet scum thick across her tiles. 

A folded sign now read, “No diving. Less than two metres deep.”

And they no longer came.

For no fun’s to be had in treading water.