Postcard Story #002 – Boys Don’t Cry

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

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.