Concentrate of Thailand

Feeling misunderstood on an international level, Thailand felt they needed to promote an awareness of their customs and culture. Unfortunately, with the global economic downturn, they lacked the resources to do a full on world wide public relations effort. What they lacked in wealth, however, they made up for in two things: top notch researchers and pineapples. Through careful crop breeding and flavor manipulation, they distilled all that they felt it meant to be Thai and genetically encoded the taste of Thailand into their world famous pineapples.

When bottles appeared on store shelves and in kitchen pantries across the world, no one noticed. Not until the cracked open the safety seal and took that first sip of the nation's new pineapple juice did they notice the new flavor contained within. Like the nation's Buddhist past, the juice was a perfectly balanced blend of flavors with no one part overpowering another. Their taste buds danced to “Phleng Chat Thai,” and they savored the flavor of sixty-six million people with a GDP per capita of $9396. Mingling with the rich sweetness was the taste of tropical forests, green fields, and towering mountains. It tasted not of rice, but a thriving rice industry, and a culture deeply enriched by its agrarian roots. Though the pulp had been removed, the juice still had hints of respect toward one's ancestors and elders, and a strong spirit of generosity. It packed the energy of soccer and muai thai with the tranquility appropriate to the golf capital of Asia. Those who drank the juice felt a certain kinship for the small nation that they had not known before. True to the country's hopes, appreciation for Thailand blossomed in markets where the juice could be purchased. The effect was short lived, however, as people soon stopped purchasing the bottles. Though the experience was pleasant, former customers said, the juice didn't taste much like pineapples.

- Originally mailed to M. Blackwood of Los Angeles, California

Invisible Exits

Many people carried a very ill opinion of the owners of the Cornerstreet Cafe. They thought they were manipulative imprisoners of their clientèle. People who attended their establishment often felt trapped, like they were being held in the restaurant against their will. They would complain about being barred from the exits by iron fences or bathroom signs on a blank wall.

The owner and former magician Mister Santos Lizanne did this deliberately, but not the way people imagine. People said he put signs up where there was nothing, or made certain parts of his cafe impossible to reach. This was utterly false. However, through clever use of paint and lighting and forced perspective, he made the way appear blocked. He felt too many people in the world lacked faith in humanity and trust in each other. They had grown cold and distant and clung to the words taught at childhood, “stranger danger.” So he used optical illusions to show them that they could trust people. That if the sign said there was a way out, you could believe that there was a way out, even if you could not see it.

Mister Lizanne was a man of his word, but you just had to trust him on it.

- Originally mailed to D. Murphey from Ocean Springs, MS

B-Boy Cat

All the ladies love a bad boy, and for cats, it's no exception. Coleridge T. Whiskers lived by his own rules, and beneath his fur had a belly tattoo that read ALLEY LIFE and across his back, YOLNT. When he was supposed to be studying, he would throw his notebooks on the floor and practice his sweet b-boy backspins instead. In fact, there was no contest he wouldn't attempt to settle in a dance off: who took a sweet feline home, who rode shotgun, who got the last hit of catnip.

At school, the teachers would get on to him after breaking into a butterfly-windmill-backflip into a headspin in the middle of a lecture. “Mister Whiskers,” they would stay, “behave this instant!”

“You must have me confused,” he would say. “Mister Whiskers is my father's name. You can call me Coolcat.”

The teachers would roll their eyes, but the girls would swoon. “You're heading down a bad path, Mister Whiskers,” they would say, but he wouldn't listen. They were talking to his dad.

He did end up poorly. Too many fights, too much attitude and he got kicked out of the house, just another homeless alley cat begging for scraps and digging in dumpsters. Sometimes, he and the other strays would descend on the same can only to find one fish bone to nibble on. Coolcat wasn't worried though. He had a dance move for just such occasions.

- Originally mailed to M. Wilkes of Ridgeland, Mississippi

Message in a Bottle

There was once a woman who stumbled across a bottle beside the sea, and inside she found a message. It was from a man who lived on the island on the horizon. The two countries being cut off from one another for reasons too myriad and complex to enumerate here (suffice it to say, there were lawyers involved), he wondered what things were like across the sea. How did they live? What did they eat? Were they happy or sad? She sent a boy to fetch some paper and a pen and sent a reply. “Slow and easy. Fish and fruit. Mostly happy. You?”

For years they corresponded via bottles (for there were no laws against bottles), and in time, their unusual discussions blossomed into romance. Many a message, when not professing their undying love to one another, worked on the serious business of finding a way to meet. Boats were out of the question (lawyers), it was too far for a bridge, and flight was a thing not yet invented. They despaired at the prospect of never meeting.

One day, our beloved heroine had a most brilliant idea. If the lawyers had no issue with bottles, a giant bottle she would make. She gathered the glass makers of the island together to make a bottle big enough for her to ride in. When her bottle was complete, the islanders gathered to see her off. They loved her so, but could not imagine keeping her from her love, and so with a heave and a ho, they shoved her and her bottle into the sea. After several days of bobbing about at sea, she washed ashore on her true love's lands and climbed out. She looked and waited, eager to surprise him, but he did not come. Finally, she asked a little boy what had become of the man she loved.

“He built a giant bottle and cast himself into the sea.”

- Originally mailed to M. Taylor in South Korea

Hay Racing

In the backwoods of Tennessee where wifi is unheard of, men will race anything to pass the time. Naturally they raced cars and horses, but one can't race horses every day and cars need gas. After a while, they began racing cows (ridden) and pigs (no jockey). Still, too much cow racing and the milk got weird and pigs required special pens to make them go in the direction they needed. Too much work. Chickens wandered about aimlessly and would escape the special pig tracks. Turtles and frogs were too indifferent. One day, Bartholomew Magee came up with the notion of racing hay. The bales were already round and would roll well, and besides, the crop needed to be gathered up anyway. Why not make the finish line the collection point? So they did. Though it took some thinking, they even overcame the only real obstacle. Convincing the hay to race. In the end, it was a simple matter. They motivated the hay the way most people are motivated. They told the hay it wasn't good enough for the far end of the field and let hay prove them wrong.  

- Originally mailed to A. Anderson of Portland, Oregon

Swamp People

I followed her down the muddy path that traced its winding path from the back country road to the swamp. It twisted like a snake through the woods so much I had no way of knowing which way I faced or which way led back to my car. I did not care, though. When I saw her standing by the road, her slip the color of bone in the shadows, I had to follow her. Not to help her, mind you, though she did look every inch the damsel in distress the little girl lost in the woods. No, not to help her, but to help me. If I just went with her, my every wish would be granted. She never said this aloud. Something in those mournful eyes told me everything I ever wanted, desires I never knew I had that now stirred deep within, all could be mine if I just went with her, down into the swamps. So I did.

Now I stand barefoot beside back country roads, wearing jeans and a shirt the color of bone, and with my deep mournful eyes, I promise travelers everything their heart desires if they but follow me along winding paths down into the swamps.

- Originally mailed to C. George in San Diego, California

Unfortunate Appearances

On Regulus IV there exists a strain of hypersentient fungus who learned to live in peace with all their world. No longer did they have any predators and they bred only when resources were sufficient. They were experts in all sciences and mathematics and philosophy and had long ago diagnosed the nature of evil and purged it from their world. Their language, however, was a subtle one, full of shades of meaning, shades of color, pheromones, and timing. Few civilizations ever reach such states of enlightenment and sophistication. Unfortunately, the first men to land on Regulus IV never learned the language because they never considered a fungus could be sentient. As a result, on official records from then on, this amazing race was listed fungus phallus, the penis mushroom.

- Originally mailed to H. Longino from Gulfport, Mississippi

Corona Piñatas

“Every adult deep down wants to be a kid again,” Marilyn Stephens would always say. This philosophy ultimately led her to open her own party planners, Inner Child Party Services. They had many of the usual children's affairs, bouncy houses, slip-n-slides, and the like, but with more alcohol. The ice cream was Bailey's and Kahlua flavored, and the cake was Guinness chocolate. That which didn't translate directly, she would often retheme. Instead of clowns and Spider-Man, entertainers would show up dressed as Donald Draper or Leelo Dallas. Pin the Tail on the Donkey, for the sake of decency, involved sticking other body parts on other things. Musical chairs was likewise made more interesting and adult themed. For the most part, her party planning business was a huge success, though she almost lost it all when she first introduced piñatas. For the longest time, she puzzled over what to stuff them with, before settling on an amusing recursion. What better thing to stuff a Corona piñata with than bottles of Corona? Fortunately, the alcohol instantly disinfected the many wounds from all the broken glass.

- Originally mailed to C. Nowell in Newport News, Virginia

Recursive Shrine

Wanda Oslomeier visted a Tibetan monastery once as a child and it inspired her beyond words. When she was finally old enough to buy her own home, she built a small reminder of that shrine and placed it on her coffee table. To her, however, the shrine seemed empty. One replica bell and one clay monk hardly captured the life-changing majesty of the secluded temple. So she expanded. She got rid of her coffee table and began to build a diorama of the room in which they housed the bell, but a room on its lonesome was a sad thing to behold, so she cleared out her living room and recreated the monastery's entire meditation building. Of course, this suggested the monks lived one-dimensional lives, so she had to tear the house down around her display to make room for the homes, and then her yard became their farms from whence they drew nourishment. But where were the views? Those breathtaking vistas she had known? Those must be recreated as well, so she bought out the neighborhood and created the mountains and forests surrounding.

Then she remembered that, as the monks taught, nothing exists in isolation. We are all connected. So she expanded her diorama and it engulfed her town as she recreated all of Tibet. It spread as she created artificial continents and oceans. She recreated the Great Wall of China, the bustling cities of Hong Kong and Tokyo. She carved out a scale version of the Pacific Ocean, Hawaii, and the West Coast. Then she reached her home and realized to do her diorama justice, she must create a miniature version of her miniature world, and from there a smaller once she reached her home again, ever recursing downward and downward into infinity.

- Originally mailed to H. Witten in Oxford, Mississippi

Music Video Girl

She lived her life like a music video, backlit and out of focus. She would stand up at inopportune times and sing her feelings at the top of her lungs. She would trash wherever she was to show how much angst she had inside. She was a woman who lived without consequences, and why not? People in rock videos never had to answer to anybody. There were those who called her behavior mad, but what did she care? Every moment was a rockstar moment, and just like her MTV inspirations, she was able to solve all of her problems in five minutes or fewer.

- Originally mailed to S. Sartin in Atlanta, Georgia  

The Judas Cow

“Tomorrow when they open the gates, do not follow me,” the cow they called Judas said to me.

“Why not?” I asked, for I was new to the pasture.

“They take you do your death!” he cried.

“That is absurd. Everyone knows they take you to Sunshine Valley where the grass is always tall and green. You don't get to go because you have no faith.”

“It is true! None who go ever return!”

“Here we have this field where there is hay and a roof over our heads and room to stretch and graze. I am milked daily so that my udders do not swell. If they wanted to kill us, why would they take such care of us?”

“They intend to eat you!” Judas said. “They carve the flesh from your bones and devour your body.”

“Nonesense. They have no claws, no sharp teeth. They lack the speed of wolves. Ha! As though these few creatures could overpower us or consume so many.”

“I know what I know,” said Judas and walked away.

The following day, we followed him up a ramp, but he was diverted at the last minute to another pen, his punishment for having no faith in Sunshine Valley. As I walked up the ramp, however, I couldn't shake what he had said. I decided, though too late for the decision to actually mean anything, that even if we were being led to the slaughter, the caretakers have been nothing but kind to me. I will not do them the unkindness of breaking our trust now.

- Originally mailed to J. Cox of New Oreleans, Louisiana

The Forest and the River

The forest and the river got into a bit of a feud one day. A few trees had grown into the river and the river felt quite put upon, and rightly so. A river changes its boundaries very slowly, but forests spread much faster at a consistent rate of regular slowly.

“But river,” said the forest, “every few years you overstep your bounds and enter me. What say you to that?”

“It is only a temporary visit, and only when my relatives from up north come to visit,” the river said. “Besides, you grow richer and stronger every time I do, so where can the harm be?”

The forest considered this and said, “But river, without your visits, I would never have been able to grow so big and so far. It is you who allows me to enter your banks.”

Now it was the river's turn to consider what the forest had said. The forest was correct, he realized. Sure his visits to the forest were not long at all and the trees would be in the river longer, but the river visited the forest often and the forest visited the river only rarely. Besides, the roots made homes for the fish, which made the river more beautiful, and who could object to that? From then on, the river was more forgiving of the few trees who overstepped the banks, and the forest was more forgiving when the river came to visit, for they were always both the better for it.

- Originally mailed to P. Walker of Diamondhead, Mississippi

Serious Sideburns

“Too wiry,” said one judge.

“Agreed,” said another, “and the hairs go in every which direction.”

“I don't know,” said another. “I like the swoops. Sideburns aren't meant to be tamed house cats. They're wild face beasts. I give it a solid eight.”

“Wild face beasts? Do you even hear yourself?” cried the first. “Look at the shape, the way it arcs away unevenly from the ear!”

“And who even knows how even the outer trim is!” agreed the second with a very serious high five.

“The arc is distinguished. Besides, real mutton chops have a curve to them. Why shouldn't facial chops?”

“Don't be so literal,” said the second. “You can't possibly think this is a good sideburn. Look at the uneven, almost abrupt shift from thick and dark to scruffy and light! If you give this sideburn a high rating, it compromises the integrity of the entire World's Best Sideburn competition, and then where will we be?”

“It will be chaos!” cried the first.

“Anarchy and chaos!” cried the second.

But the third would not budge and his eight stood.

Twelve hours later, WWIII broke out. Nineteen hours after that, it went nuclear, and by the end of the week, man had been reduced to a pack of irradiated savages picking at the bones of civilization. Centuries later, historians would misattribute the end of civilization as we knew it to strained relations between the US and China.

- Originally mailed to M. Krell in Horn Lake, Mississippi

The Long Road

There is a road with no outlets, no cross streets, no place to turn around that stretches from Calhoun, West Virginia to Red Hills, North Dakota. There are no gas stations or towns or even cellphone reception. Just mile after grueling mile of worn pavement and trees. About a hundred and fifty miles in, the road begins to line itself with old cars long abandoned, having run out of gas years ago with no pickup to come and get them. When the cars die, when there's no where else to go, families start walking, taking with them only what they can carry. The fashion clothes from the blue vinyl interiors and weapons from windshield wipers, hubcaps, and shards of broken window to hunt for food as they walk. Children are born. Old ones die. The road gives and the road takes. They say those who reach the end arrive with new eyes, eyes of the warrior and the hunter, eyes of the way, the path long forgotten by man. Many who survive the trip turn around and return down the beaten asphalt path, back to the wilderness and the trees and the savage life they have come to accept as real where they walk by the sun and feed from the plants and never ate meat they did not know, dried and turned to jerky on the old blacktop, for such is the way of the road.

- Originally mailed to J. Womack in Brooklyn, New York

Going Underwater

After taking hurricane related flooding for the fifth straight season, the residents of Makepeace, MS decided they would no longer fight the inevitable. If the universe wanted their beloved town beneath the waves, so be it. They hired mechanics to make their vehicles amphibious. They installed airlocks on their homes, and those top scientists not already modifying their genetic code for improved lung capacity and/or gills worked diligently day in and day out to waterproof the cable TV infrastructure. When the first major storm made landfall the following year, all the residents of Makepeace waited in rapt anticipation. After months of planning and waiting, Submersion Day had come. The storm was only a category one, however, and the town only partially flooded. They were disheartened, sure, but the American spirit is an indomitable beast, and they tuned their waterproof televisions to the Weather Channel and waited. There would always be another storm.

- Originally mailed to J. St. John of Picayune, Mississippi

Party Time Express

Charles Lambert, though much maligned at seven p.m., was the undisputed king of the after party. Early on, when he would show up at shindigs with the Party Time Express, everyone laughed and teased. “Where are the clowns?” they'd ask, or “When do we bob for apples, grandpa?” He got no respect until nine at the earliest.

But once the libations started flowing, once the party was good and hopping and everyone was sauced like pasta, they lined up beer in hand a whooping at the top of their lungs to ride his bright and colorful train. He'd drive them everywhere, around the yard, through the kitchen, or down to the corner store for a beer run. Once people loosened up and finally remembered they were there to forget they were adults for awhile, then the world was his oyster. His primary colored, drunk friend filled oyster.

- Originally mailed to A. Perkins of New Orleans, Louisiana

The Trespassing Mermaid

The Greenleaf Apartments had decent units and lovely grounds, but had a hard time getting its name out there, and thus suffered financially. That's when Darcy O'Shea had a brilliant idea. They had a well maintained olympic sized pool that no one swam in. If they could get a mermaid to take up residence, everyone would want a Greenleaf 2BR/2BA. Darcy changed the water system from chlorine to sea salt. He filled it with fish that mermaids were wont to eat, and then stocked the shallow end with all manner of shells, seaweed, and pearls so that whoever moved in could fashion any sort of wardrobe imaginable. It only took two weeks before Darcy heard the telltale splash and saw the redhaired sea-she swimming about, enjoying the bounty he had prepared for her. Luring her in, however, was only the first step, for now he needed a way to keep her there. Others suggested bars or shackles, but Darcy, being a touch more considerate and ever mindful of mermaids' respect for rules, simply placed a “No Trespassing” sign by the gate leading out of the pool area, knowing the mermaid would be too polite to cross the fence.

- Originally mailed to C. Stover in Ocean Springs, Mississippi

Vodka Robbers

Contrary to the hyperbole people like to throw around, during Russia's vodka shortage, the popular beverage was never worth its weight in gold. It was, however, worth its weight in silver, which, though no where near as pricey, would still end up costing a man as much as $550 just for the run of the mill stuff. Sure, a person could make their own, but the cost of distilling supplies, ingredients, time, and skill made most just bite the bullet and buy a bottle.

Its value, however, created a brief but fascinating barter market in which vodka, while not legal tender, may as well have been. People even bought safes and established vodka savings accounts at banks, where they could keep their precious liquor and set withdraw limits of two shots per day. Unfortunately, this gave rise to a new, virtually unarrestable band of bank robber, who would charge in, guns brandished, and demand, “Give us all your vodka!”

Sure catching them was easy. They could often be found stumbling about in fields. Given the nature of the theft, however, there was rarely any evidence left to convict with.

- Originally mailed to P. Brown in Clovis, New Mexico (whom I am told has a vodka allergy, ironically enough)

The Gathering Storm

The twelfth annual The Gathering Storm, a convention for clouds, took place on the weekend of July 27th-29th in Oxbow, Nebraska. It allowed the various clouds of the world to gather, share news and gossip, swap job techniques, and generally socialize outside of the office. The convention began with the president's Harrison B. Nimbus's oft-quoted “Clouds: Above It All” keynote speech, in which he asked his vaporous brethren to take pride in all they do for the planet. Afterward, the clouds attended the seminars on topics such as when to rain (“The Grass Is Long, Looks Like Rain,” “Parades: A How-To,” and “Withholding Affection: Why We Drought”), panels on how to rain (“California: Just Pour,” “Attracting Water Vapour: A Growth Roundtable,” and “Gradual Intensity: How Sprinkling in the Morning Means More Drenched People in the Afternoon”), and the seldom attended lectures on where to rain (“Farmland Needs You!” and “Hurricanes: How to Choose a Strikezone BEFORE the Last Minute”). The the weekend ended with a mixer, which like most cloud mixers, had a lot of shouting, turned into a pissing match, and ended with everyone storming off.

- Originally mailed to H. Ainsworth from Gulfport, MS

Dapper Plastic Aliens

People often look at the symbols older cultures created, or the works of art that can only be seen from the sky and they assume that long ago, extra-terrestrials came to earth to give us a scientific jump start. Of course, it is easy to look at symbols from another culture and make inferences about their meanings because we have no associations of our own to muddy up the process. This is why many of of the same people who point out the extra-terrestrial influences on the past completely overlook the signs that aliens still guide our scientific development. For instance, the Chinese are aware that without alien intervention, we never would have developed plastics. International relations being what they are, however, they cannot risk their position by making such a “ridiculous” claim. Instead, they create symbols much as the people of old did, imprinting upon containers from their takeout restaurants the following image. Most mistake it for a brand or something that simply means plastic. Only the few removed from their own personal experiences with Chinese takeout see it for what it truly is: a starman in a nice suit, surrounding himself with plastic. Theorists still debate, however, whether he is wearing a tie or has a fu manchu mustache.

- Originally mailed to B. Bowser of Brandon, MS

Apologies

Ladies and gentlemen, if you requested a post card in November, let me apologize right now for you having not received it yet. The pictures are taken, the stories are written, but I just finished spending a week packing and a week moving 160 miles to a new city, and somewhere in there, the photos got packed away before I could scrawl stories on the backs of them. Operation: Make This Pile of Boxes Look Like an Apartment is in full swing. Once I find the pictures, I'll sit down, write 'em up, and mail them out this week.

If you are a reader and you did NOT request a postcard this month, you will never notice this delay. The pictures and stories are already uploaded and scheduled to post, and we are still three months ahead on post cards on the blog. Your daily dose will continue without hiccups.

Nonviolent Kidnappers

Jillian Wabash was kidnapped and held for ransom in 1996 by a sect of pacifist Buddhist monks. The monks, who had seen a great many ransoms in movies, knew they had to send some part of their hostage to prove to her parents that they were serious. Unfortunately, being non-violent by nature, the Buddhists could only bring themselves to cut off the child's hair. When her parents received the package containing a lock of hair and a note made of letters cut from magazines which read

“Dear sir and madam, we have your daughter and are taking excellent care of her, ensuring she receives three healthy meals a day, a warm bed, plenty of exercise, and proper education while she is in our custody. If we receive three million dollars in unmarked bills, we promise we will not harm another hair on her head. We apologize for the hairs we have already harmed, but we wish to assure you they will grow back and that for the time being, we have shaped her hair into a fashion that is stylish and esteem raising while still allowing her to learn that style is but wind, full of force but no substance and the esteem of others is but an illusionary boulder on the path to enlightenment. You may leave the money behind the dumpster at McDonalds on Washington Avenue.”

The Wabash family, after careful consideration, determined the monks would probably be able to do a better job raising their daughter than they could, and so for the next ten years, they politely replied to each new delivery of a lock of hair, “Thank you, but we do not have the money at this time. We appreciate you looking after our child in the meantime.”

- Originally mailed to T. Danley in New Orleans, Louisiana

Motivational Doors

The Life Cafe decided early in its planning stages that all of its instructions would be presented in the form of motivational phrases and life advice. Their doors told people to “Push Hard.” At the order counter signs advised customers to “think before you act!” and “plan ahead!” Urinals advised customers to “be a straight shooter” and the signs above the bathroom sinks told customers to “do as you would have others do.” To cut down on food waste, which attracted raccoons and homeless people, plates and bowls had messages like “Don't give up!” and “Always finish what you start.” Their no refunds policy was followed with “You can't please everyone.”

The trickiest part of their grand vision was finding a way to convey food allergy information. Though they couldn't find any appropriate phrases about peanuts or shellfish, they did make a habit of listing ingredients and following the words of Titus Lucretius Carus particularly useful. “The food of one may be poison to another.”

- Originally mailed to J. Dunn from D'Iberville, Mississippi

Ghost Church

There is a small country church that only appears when it is raining. To say where this church is, however, is impossible except to say down lonely roads wherever it is raining, for indeed people have reported seeing the church in countless cities spanning several continents on the same day, perhaps during the same storm. There are those who say that it is a ghost church whose congregation of the dead and the damned beckons new parishioners to join them. They say the church is atoning eternally for some past sin. Perhaps. Who can say with certainty, for if legend is to be believed, none who enter are ever seen again to tell tale of the sermon. Of course, legends have a tendency to exaggerate, and if the church truly does appear all over the world, it would not be impossible for a man to enter in Topeka, Kansas and step out in the Amazon rain forest, and how should he get home then? He has not been taken by the ghostly church, but the difference is semantic to those back home. Then there are those who dare to wonder where the church's inhabitants go when the rain stops. To this, I say, I do not know, but it is always raining somewhere, so should you find yourself in a strange church on a rainy day, rest assured that if you step outside after the sermon and find your are not in Kansas anymore, you may at least take comfort in the fact that you are not lost forever, but merely misplaced for the time being.

- Originally mailed to D. Garner from Biloxi, Mississippi

Rain God

 

 

“I feel incomplete,” he says to me, “and I don't think I'll ever feel whole until I find my other half.”

“Don't you know that even if you find another to merge with, you still won't be whole?”

“You don't actually believe that nonsense, do you?”

“I do,” I say. “If everyone here united as one, we would still only be a fraction of what we could be. We would still feel something missing deep within our souls.”

“And you have all the answers, do you? Where we come from, why we're here?”

“I do,” I say. “The Holy Word tells us that life is a cycle. We are here to help others grow, to bring life into the world. We sink to the earth, we rise to the heavens, we return to earth again.”

I brush off his skepticism.

“We think we are individuals, unique and singular, but we're composed of millions of tiny little molecules. This is a pattern for everything, for as we are made of microscopic bits of matter, we too collectively make up a much larger whole which we shall return to one day, and there are those who believe that larger whole is part of a much larger whole which is in turn just one building block in a much larger universe.”

“How can someone so smart believe in the ocean?” he asks.

I want to protest, but a sudden gust of wind pushes him into me. There's a brief moment of resistance as our boundaries press against each other. Then they collapse and we rush into each other. There is a moment of confusion as our personalities swirl amongst the other, exchanging doubts and fears and beliefs, bonding and becoming one, a new being born of the old.

I look around unsure of what I know. I want to believe, but there's an emptiness inside me, and I look around for someone to complete me, to be my other half and fill that missing part.

- Originally mailed to W. Murphree of Rosenberg, Texas

The God Cloud

 

One day in late January 2013, God came to earth in the form of a large glowing cloud. Many religious orders across the world were surprised he had returned so early (since most did not believe it would happen in their lifetimes), and the conspiracy theorist bemoaned that He was twenty-nine days late. Though the glowing cloud never spoke, everyone assumed it was God because nothing could penetrate it and it tended to fill those beholding it with a sense of peace.

The most surprising thing about God's return, however, wasn't the date or the shape he took. It was that nothing changed. The Christians all assumed the cloud was their God, who glowed with the peaceful love of Jesus or burned with the righteous fury of an angry God looking to smite those nations that lost sight of His commandments. The Muslims knew the cloud to be their one true God because the Qu'ran mentions stars falling, and the glowing cloud appeared as though a star had fallen much closer to the earth. The reincarnationists viewed the cloud as a collection of all souls waiting to be reborn. The atheists decided even if it was God, they still wouldn't worship because of all the evil he let slide. Even the scientists continued on as they always had, saying that God or no God, it must be studied, quantified, and understood, for why do we have minds if not to understand the mysteries of the universe?

In the end, the glowing cloud drifted across the face of the world, and the world learned to shrug it off. No one behaved better because it was closer. People still prayed for lotto numbers and sports team victories instead of world peace and an end to poverty and hunger. The only real change was that many churches were constructed with transparent roofs, so preachers could point to the cloud when it was overhead as proof that what he said was true, or else why would God have chosen to be above this church at this very moment?

- Originally mailed to C. Munn in Keller, Texas

Instructions Innovator

Harrison Traxler shook up the instruction writing industry with his innovative One Step philosophy. “Who has time to follow a whole page worth of instructions?” he would ask, and his protégées would cry out “No one!” Early in his career, he struggled with his own theory, often creating complex, rambling sentences, struggling to make each detail fit within one step. Even his early successes, including “favor to taste” and “cook until done” often required a second step or at least a few more ideas crammed up next to his diamonds in the rough. It wasn't until his Exxon Pump Operations commission that he really hit his stride. Soon, he was churning out dozens of one step instructions a day. Under his guidance, Alcoholics Anonymous reduced their twelve step program to one step, “Stop drinking,” and Ikea saved a fortune every year in manufacturing costs by simply printing large on the side of each box, “1. Assemble the pieces properly.”

Not all success can last, however, and soon, one of his own pupils would simplify Traxler's process even further and steal his glory with the One Word instructional paradigm. Ikea boxes simply said “Assemble,” and TV dinners “Microwave.” The Ten Commandments became “Don't” and students spent thousands of dollars to listen to professors say “Study.” Traxler never rediscovered the success of his youth, and died penniless and alone, still developing his One Letter philosophy. By the end, all he produced was “Y?”

- Originally mailed to P. Brown in Clovis, New Mexico

Mail Call!

Still a few spots left for new recipients. If you're interested in getting a postcard or you think someone you know might like one, shoot me your address at sean.arthur.cox@gmail.com. Send in requests any time.

Hipster Food

 

It's hard to believe this unassuming photo would change pop culture history. In the early part of the 21st century, portions of society known as “hipsters” would routinely share digital photographs or “pics” of their food before eating it, though the reason for this practice is the subject of much debate. Historians do agree, however, that Hugo Carpenter (1983-2092) changed this practice on a fundamental level in 2013. While others posted “instantgrams” of food to Facesbook, a primitive social media network where people bragged, plagiarized, and complained to win the most Likes, Hugo decided to embrace the hipster philosophy of celebrating a thing before it is another thing by sharing a photograph of his dinner “before it was food.” Soon, others emulated this food regression, which in turn inspired Noah Wilkins (1998-2088) to share an image of a cow in a wheat field with the caption “My cheese burger before it was ingredients.” This photographic regression escalated with photos of lakes which were “sodas before they were well water before they were clouds” and parents who were “macaroni and cheese before buying ingredients after having a kid and changing their eating habits to 'whatever the brat will eat' (my parents don't understand me).” The trend culminated in 2025 when Arabella Jones wrote a hundred thousand word annotated caption to a photograph of pure blackness, tracing the origins of her sushi all the way back to the Big Bang. This comment would eventually be published as the best-selling book My Dinner Before It Was Anything: How I Won the Hipster Internet. Following this seminal scholarly work that combined physics with geology, anthropology, history, sociology, and many other disciplines, the hipster movement fell apart, and camera sales plummeted to pre-internet lows.

- Originally mailed to M. Haley of Lake Orion, Michigan

Boot Country

Boot Country, a sovereign nation located in the southern US, always struggled to get the recognition they felt they deserved on any sort of international level. With a population of only seven (fifteen seasonal) and an economy based on solely on cowboy boots, the country shouldn't have been surprised with the United Nations turned down their request to join. The UN questioned their very existence as a country. They imported literally everything, including their utilities and the boots they sold. They didn't even create the products the exported. The entire population except for the nation's president and the first lady were actually people with dual citizenship, living in the United States but working in Boot Country. The UN also accused them of being a sham democracy, claiming to engage in free and fair elections, but only allowing the president and his family to vote. Their counter argument, that the other five citizens only lived in the nation forty hours a week and thus didn't meet residency requirements, was shot down by human rights groups as an effort to “disenfranchise the masses and avoid giving employees health insurance.” Boot Country had no response to this accusation except to install a first aid kit in the break room commonwealth.

- Originally mailed to P. Goff in Madison, Mississippi

Bathroom Ghost

 

All my life, I've had an irrational fear of bathrooms. Once I wondered if perhaps it was religious in nature. After all, we're trained from birth to be ashamed of nudity and anything involving a toilet. Upon closer inspection, I realized that couldn't be the case. I didn't have an issue relieving myself in the woods and there I had no walls for privacy. No, my specific fear was ghosts in the bathroom, no doubt a result of countless horror movies. Bathrooms in horror movies are always grim, terrifying affairs with rusty pipes and flickering florescent bulbs that wash out all colors but blue and gray. For years, I convinced myself that this was an irrational fear, that while doing my business, I didn't need to cast my eyes about at every sound, peering deeply at every shadow, begging it not to move.

A year ago, as I finished bathing I found myself staring down a ghost, a skeleton hanging there in the shower where I had been only seconds ago. I trembled in terror. All of my fears, all those years of worry. They had been justified. How long had that ghost been there, I wondered in horror. Did he only now manifest, or had he been in the shower with me, my eyes too full of suds to realize. Did he see me? Had this suicidal skeleton been watching me? Only then did I realize the true nature of my fear. Maybe it wasn't the ghosts at all. Maybe all this time it was just the fear of someone walking in on me.

- Originally mailed to L. Sims in Hattiesburg, Mississippi

Lamp Trees

When a new state law prohibited the manufacture and sale of incandescent lamps, most people expected the city of Pasadena to switch to more energy efficient fluorescent bulbs. Instead, city planners played to the letter of the law, which was passed to make energy “more green.” Devoting their top scientists and researchers to the project, the city created a form of tree that grew its own incandescent bulbs and powered themselves using the tree's own photosynthesis. State officials tried to shut the project down, but the mayor quickly pointed out the city manufactured nothing. It was the tree that created the bulbs, and trees were not subject to laws. Further, the plants were not being bought or sold, but simply planted where new street lights would go. In the end, the state conceded the battle and was forced to admit that in terms of using greener lighting, few things were more green than a tree.

- Originally mailed to K. Valencia-Bravo of Olathe, Kansas

Gossip Cat

They spoke of a mysterious black cat, a ghostly being that lurked in high places like cabinets and closets and the tops of bookshelves and dressers. Out of the corner of their eye, they would see his tail swishing, and turn to see the silent creature staring them down with eyes that pierced the soul. “What did it mean?” they wondered. Some said it foretold death because several people lost loved ones shortly after seeing the cat. Some said it signaled financial ruin because its appearance coincided with the loss of a house or job. Still others said he appeared the day before they met their future spouse. Wild rumors circulated about the cat and more and more often the cat would be seen. The town was one large pulsing raw nerve as everyone shared stories about what happened after the cat appeared. The truth is, the phantom feline's appearance foretold nothing at all. They had been so focused on what sorts of things transpired after the cat appeared that they began to project their own assumptions about the cat on the chaos, forcing a pattern where there was none based on their own experiences. If they had looked at the issue from the opposite perspective and asked what had happened before the cat arrived, they would have realized the cat was no premonition, but a connoisseur of stories and gossip.

- Originally mailed to H. Ainsworth from Gulfport, Mississippi

Cropping the Universe

 

There once was a man who found he could crop his universe the way a photographer might crop a photo, simply cutting out whatever parts he felt didn't properly fit his vision. At first, he cropped large annoyances. He never much cared for Texas, so away it went. The news said North Korea and Iran were a danger to the safety of the world, so he cropped them out of existence as well. China threatened to overtake the United States as an economic powerhouse, so he cropped them. Of course, no nation exists in a vacuum, and soon all the industries that relied on Chinese products began to flounder. Critics raked him over the coals for destabilizing the world economy and demanded he bring these nations back. So he did what he could to improve his world by cropping out his critics. He cropped out those whose politics made him furious or whose views set him on edge. He cropped out the neighbor's dog that treated his front yard like a toilet (though he never put up a fence), and he cropped out the neighbor for good measure. Within a few short years, he had nothing left but his back yard, which overlooked a lake. He found if he cropped out certain trees and light posts, he could imagine he were on some lovely tropical island somewhere. Of course, weeds sprouted up, and it was easier to just crop that section of the yard than to tend to it. When he saw a storm cloud coming, he cropped out that portion of the sky and as the trees started dying from drought, he just cropped them out as well. Soon the entirety of his universe consisted of a single speck of cerulean no larger than a pixel. For a while all was right with his very narrow universe until he grew bored of the color blue.

- Originally mailed to M. Hendry in Davenport, Florida

No Roof

He swore he would have a nice brick house by the time he was thirty. Also, he swore he would live his life debt free. When he turned twenty-nine, he realized he didn't have enough for a full house, but did not want to break either promise to himself. Instead, he built a lovely brick home with no roof. After all, a home missing a wall would easily allow in thieves, vagrants, and wild animals. No roof just let in a few birds and the elements. After planting a few trees and setting up some tarps, the rain was mostly settled, many home improvement stores stocked outdoor furniture, and he had convinced himself the birds added a touch of whimsy to his world.

- Originally mailed to K. Ballard of Owensborough, Kentucky

Balding Security

After pre-natal genetic customization became commonplace—albeit at a steep price—the beautiful became far more beautiful, genetically flawless in fact. The wealthy had their health, their looks, their brilliance, athleticism, and ambition all guaranteed from birth while the rest of humanity was forced to rely on the traditional crapshoot that had been genetic heredity for the past dozens of millennia. With every genetic and monetary advantage stacked against them, the lower class became more resentful than ever, until soon the world existed in a state of precarious balance, just barely avoiding civil war. The Beautiful People paid their guards and servants in single genetic enhancements for their children. Of all genetic modification, from eye color and skin complexion and bone structure and teeth straightness, the hardest to perfect—and the hardest for the poor to fake—was hair. There were too many variables. Sheen, shape, shade, volume, bounce, density. The odds of someone being born with “perfect hair” without genetic manipulation were astronomical. As such, security systems on both sides no longer cared to pinpoint faces anymore. Instead, they pointed their cameras straight down on the hair, searching for receding hairlines, implants, dye jobs, or split ends. The natural part could tell friend from foe better than any interrogation.

- Originally mailed to S. Sartin in Atlanta, Georgia

Beauty Parlors

The back alley beauty parlors were battle grounds in the war between the those who could afford gene scrubbing and those whose genetics were untampered with. Unable to afford professional genetic modification, the poor often resorted to places such as this, where unlicensed med school dropouts would tailor the DNA of the poor so that they and their children could be biologically better off, be it more beautiful, more athletic, more intelligent. The ruling elite of the wealthy, bred from the womb to be perfect in every way, would crack down on these clinics first with legislation and later with firepower. They claimed this was simply for the underprivileged public's own good, to protect them from shoddy workmanship that could do who knows what to their bodies. The poor, however, believed it was control, for how could they compete against the wealthy and gain a fair foothold when those with enough wealth and power could ensure their children would be more cunning than the naturals and their enforcement squads stronger and more agile.

- Originally mailed to C. Townsend of Gulfport, Mississippi

Thwarted Alien

It is a belief widely held by conspiracy theorists and ufologists that there exist just out of phase with our own world an infinite number of other realities neatly stacked atop our own. Those who scoff at tales of the long dead returning argue that ghosts are simply beings from these other worlds visible as through a window when conditions are just so and portions of the two parallel realities briefly graze each other. In the rare cases in which they overlap, we sometimes get reports of people vanishing without a trace or the appearance of people without a verifiable past.

On December 15, 1974, mankind quite unintentionally averted disaster when our world and another very different from our own intersected for seven and a half seconds. In that short time, a creature fueled by hatred and destruction crossed over into our own world. Thankfully, at that precise spot in space and time, we were building a parking garage and the beast found itself caught half phased within a concrete support pillar being poured. Because the parking garage was built by skeptics, they thought nothing of the haunting little round face in the middle of the completed pillar and dismissed it as a strange fluke in the cement.

- Originally mailed to J. Knight from Pascagoula, Mississippi

Cat Happy Place

Buttons did not care to be held one little bit. As a kitten, his mother told him his best course of action when the humans picked him up was to go to his happy place. Buttons tried, but he quickly learned that though his instincts were to struggle, to bite and claw and scratch and squirm, the humans would not put him down. How was he ever to get to his happy place?

“Silly buttons,” his mother would say. “Your happy place isn't a real place, but a state of mind.”

At three he learned that his mother was wrong. His happy place wasn't a state of mind at all, but a real place in a parallel world. A brown place. Brown like the dirt he loved to play in, brown like the rug the humans wouldn't let him pee on, brown like his favorite kibble.

From then on, when the humans picked him up, he would stare into the distance and let the Brown Place wash over him and take him away, and would only return when he felt quite certain they had given up searching for him and had opened a nice comfy book for him to sit on.

- Originally mailed to A. Navoy in Jackson, Mississippi

Plants vs Humans

Scientists often spoke about how long it would take the Earth to destroy everything man made if he were to sudden vanish. Most presumed this was simply a thought experiment. Quite the contrary, it was a warning. The Earth, they said, actively, consciously sought to destroy mankind. Vines, the conjectured, did not seek out cracks in walls because it was convenient. Instead, it deliberately sought cracks to further destroy walls and buildings. Root systems do not attempt to penetrate leaky pipes because they desire its water but because they know the pipes are ours.

Early man knew this. It is why he first domesticated plants, to show them who was boss. It is why he eats so many fruits and grains, to hurt plants' ability to reproduce. Our first campfires were not for warmth or cooking. They were warnings. “Forests,” they said, “we defy the trees you drop on us and your thorns that cut us. We hack them up and burn their bodies! We carve their corpses and make homes of their bones!”

The historical record is inconsistent as to who started this quiet war, but it will no doubt continue for as long as man and plant exist in the same space.

- Originally mailed to J. Hall of Jackson, Mississippi

Evil Balloons

 

Though most would scoff at the idea, birthday clowns and magicians and every sort of professional party goer will shudder and share their own harrowing experiences in hushed tones at the mention of evil balloons. Their tales cover the whole gamut, from balloons that maliciously pop right as the birthday boy is blowing out his candles, startling him and depriving him of his yearly wish, to those that cling to the body and refuse to let go no matter how much you shake. They recount tales of horror in which one high and mighty balloon holds an entire room of adults under its command, filling them with fear at the thought of letting him touch the ground. One clown told of a balloon that followed him after a party, gunned down his partner, and stole his car. 

Spotting these evil balloons is not easy, if reports are to be believed. An evil unmarked balloon and a wholesome, American-loving unmarked balloon look the same. One could watch their behaviors. Does this balloon stick to me? Does it burst at inopportune times? Unfortunately by the time one has identified the evil balloon, it as already struck. The best method is to draw faces on all balloons. Evil balloons revel in their evil, and will entice you draw an evil face. Once identified, your only course of action if you wish to preserve the lives of those around you is to leave the building, seal the doors, and burn the place to ashes.

- Originally mailed to B. Bowser from Brandon, Mississippi

Resurrecting Dinos

For as long as she could remember, Clarissa wanted a pet dinosaur. As child, she envisioned playing fetch with her pet stegosaurus, sending her pterodactyl to fetch frisbees that had gotten stuck on the roof, or in her more cruel fantasies, playing tag with her very own t-rex, knowing she would win easily against his tiny arms. After seeing Jurassic Park for the first time as a child, her whole world changed. Dinosaur pets were no longer mere fantasy, but an actual possibility. All throughout high school and well into college, she poured over the science and dived head first into any cutting edge research regarding paleontology, cloning, or a combination of the two. When a professor finally gave her the cold hard truth, that science couldn't bring dinosaurs back from extinction, she wept for weeks. Not one to give up so easily, however, she persevered and finally found success in the one avenue for dino resurrection left to her: necromancy.

 - Originally mailed to C. George in San Diego, California

Where's my story?

"What?" I can hear you saying (Superman loaned me his sense of super hearing for the weekend in exchange for my southwestern meatloaf recipe). "It's Monday! Why don't I have a story?"

Well, dear reader, this is the twenty stamp project, where I write twenty short stories a month and mail them off. You've had your twenty stories already. You'll get a new one on the first of the month.

Meanwhile, let's catch up a bit so I can give you the state of the project.

1. It's the end of the month, so the October stories have been sent out already. Yay! 
2. For those following, the blog is three months behind the short stories, so if you received a post card, the story is yours and yours alone to enjoy (plus any friends and family you share it with) and won't appear on here for three months. During October, we read the stories I wrote in July. Come November, we'll be reading the August stories. I haven't written any holiday themed stories yet, but when I do, trust that they will show up on the blog in a wholly untimely manner.
3. For a while I'd been printing up the photos at Big Box X (not the actual name of the big box store) and I was pretty pleased with the quality. However, BBX has decided maintaining photo printers is for chumps and so it's been down for the past two months. As a result, I've had to print them at Big Box Y, whose printer is in much better shape. It's just a shame the quality is lower. As a result, some pictures have been arriving scratched up and pretty awful. Further, the pictures are darker, so some of the details that helped form the basis of the story don't show up. There's a story you'll see in December about cows in a trailer. You can see the trailer in the photo, but the cows are almost entirely obscured by shadow now. I'll work on finding a new place to print pictures.
4. Also, inexplicably, the post office has been off their game. My first two months, all stories went out without a hitch. I had six returned (sometimes with no reason given at all). I'm not sure if they hired a new guy and he's none too quick (possible), if my handwriting has gotten worse (also possible), or it somehow has to do with the low quality of the photo prints. I've re-sent them and I think most if not all have made it. If I tell you you have one coming and it doesn't arrive in the month I told you you'd be getting it, let me know.
5. Which brings us to the new way of doing things. Whatever the cause of these postcards getting returned scuffed and damaged, I'm tired of spending extra postage having to resend them. So I started putting the post cards in envelopes, which feels like it's sort of defeating the purpose of post cards. Still, it gets pictures and stories to you more reliably and it makes things a little better for you. First, the addresses are printed instead of hand-written which makes them more legible and thus more likely to make it to you. Second, because I couldn't find cheap envelopes, I made my own, which lets me print up the story on a sheet of paper to include, which once again makes things easier on you if you can't read my teeny tiny chicken scratch script. Third, because the stamp isn't actually going on the postcard anymore, it left room for me to draw a one panel comic strip where the stamp would go, so hey, added fun.

Anyway, that's what we're looking at. No story tomorrow or Wednesday, but they'll start coming again the first weekday of each month. Hopefully I can get the printer issue resolved and get better quality photos again.

Until then, have fun, happy Halloween, and keep checking the mailbox!

Bartleby, Cattorney

Bartleby Black, Cattourney at Law (his marketer's idea, not his) took all proceedings with the solemnity of a church. It gave him no pleasure to conduct business in conditions such as these, surrounded by pop culture and other common geekery, but he needed to see the alleged forged issue of Detective Comics #27 for himself before he agreed to file suit. “My only condition,” he said, “is that you must handle the comic book yourself. I will not have any accusations that I have somehow tampered with the pages.”

“Besides,” he said. “I have no thumbs.”

- Originally mailed to M. Krell in Horn Lake, Mississippi

Rival Insurance

Attorneys Jerry Goliday (“Putting the I in Goliday”) and Phyllis Meeks (“Seek Meeks – Inherit the Earth) realized they had stumbled upon a gold mine when rival insurance agencies set up shop on opposite ends of the building. For reasons no one could prove, the rivalry between Martell from Progressive and Helen from All State soon escalated into a full scale war of words, with each attorney comfortably kept on retainer. On a good day, Goliday and Meeks made small fortunes on out of court slander suits, sometimes as many as ten before lunch.

Within five short years, Goliday and Meeks made enough to have their dream wedding in the Bahamas and retire someplace sunny. Helen was sent upstate after shooting Martell for saying some things that were not so progressive.

- Originally mailed to C. Sawyer in Ocean Springs, Mississippi

Modern Art

Earnesto Rivera felt his abstract sculpture perfectly captured the feeling of the modern world, crafted of cold and unforgiving steel, blue as his depression, but full of curves to symbolize the soft lies we tell each other to convince ourselves that everything is all right. The critics called it bold, daring, a triumphant masterpiece, but the public assumed it was a playground. Earnesto found this strangely appropriate, others innocently delighting in his suffering. Modern Art magazine praised its long winding paths that led nowhere. NouveauSculptr.com sympathized with its endless up and down theme. The children of Woodland Hills mostly preferred the twisty slide.

- Originally mailed to A. Anderson in Portland, Oregon

Water Tower

The summer had been a hot and dry one, and the local water tower felt pride in finally being able to aid his fair city, to water its lawns and cool its children, to make the grass grow ever green. On the day they were to open his floodgates to the parched world and let him give drink, a meddlesome rainstorm stole his thunder. “A conspiracy!” he cried, but who could argue with the cumulonimbus's alibi? He was from out of town, and the city had all dried up. He assumed if there had been a water tower, it would have been put to use already. The water tower sighed and put on his most patient face. The storm cloud would take the spotlight today, but the tower was no fly by night operation. No, he would always be there for his city, and one day, when the hurricanes came and people cursed the storm, they would turn to him for water pressure and on that day, he would hold his head higher than ever.

- Originally mailed to D. Garner of Biloxi, Mississippi

Talking Salad

Oscar Wilde once said “When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.” For many, this is much hoped for money that is inherited from a lost loved one or a job that creates more problems than it solves. For one vegetarian animal rights activist, the gods had bigger plans. She would pray at night that the savages of the world would understand the suffering their food endured before reaching its plate. In the morning, her soy latte bemoaned the pain of being ground and boiled and her salad lunch cried at the agonies of being ripped from the mother vine and hacked to bits while still fresh and alive. By dinner, her perspective on food had completely changed. She would eat only nuts and fruit that had fallen from the tree, and of course meat she killed herself, the free range cow having had a fair chance to fight back.

- Originally mailed to K. Ballard of Owensborough, Kentucky