Travel notesIssue 18 | June 2013

The Weatherman is a Liar

by Annie Virginia Robertson

Prague, Vienna, and Salzburg lied to us as we travelled childlike through their bellies, waiting for ice to come dripping from their mouths and onto our heads,
Each day the weatherman knocked on our door to tell us that today was the day, that snow would come falling like the end of a millennium and all that hush.
But his clothes were always wrong. He wasn’t wearing boots and his hat was permeable.
We should have known, the way mothers know when something is wrong and the house starts to feel closed in and dim and all the soft, soft carpets make you want to crawl out of your skin.
But we kept following the promises; we were rail cars bumping into the next country, easy and stupid like trees lined up around the mountains where there is snow on the ground.
And I swear we saw the weatherman standing between the trees, wearing shorts this time, looking up at the sky.
It snowed for five minutes while we rode the train into Salzburg. It stopped when the doors opened.
The news was on, saying tomorrow again.
I began to worry that all the snow on the ground was sprinkled there by the locals, set up for us like a nativity scene, just as promising, just as mythical. And the weatherman turned the temperature down on the ground each night just enough to keep it frozen. This is his best senior prank and he was voted most likely to kill off his own mother with a shotgun as well as most likely to blow an interview, have coffee breath.
His high school girlfriend doesn’t leave the house, only watches sci-fi, and keeps her blinds drawn.
I don’t think it’s ever snowed in Salzburg. I think the weatherman is crumbling. He’s wearing sandals now.

About the author

Annie Robertson has fallen down in about ten of Italy’s best cities and remembers each by their souvenir scars. She has wandered graveyards in Prague, become bosom buddies with Schiele and Klimt in Vienna, and talked to ghosts in the catacombs in the belly of a mountain in Salzburg. She has lived inside of Greyhound buses going back and forth down the coast between life and love. You may find her work in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.

Read our current issue:


Two poems by Anne Babson
Vignette, Townhouse, 9 a.m. by Troy Cunio
Night Becomes Day Over the West by Megan Foley
Yukon River Aurora by D. B. Goman
Two Poems by David Havird
Cretan Love Letter by Emily Linstrom
Holland by Rick Mullin
Fear in Kenya by Kristina Pfleegor
The Lounge Lizard by Ed Shacklee
Two Poems by Sarah J. Sloat
Night Flight by Vicki Stannard
Koinonia Farms by Alina Stefanescu
Thessaloniki, Four a.m. by Anastasia Vassos
Imaginary Oceans by Jason Warren
Two Poems by F. J. Williams

Postcard prose

It’s Salty by Kelly Hill

Travel notes

Anchorage in the Great Land by Karen Benning
The Value of Small Money by Megan Hallinan
Screensaver by Sandra Larson
Thirty Cents by Tommy McAree
Gokarna by Kate McCahill
Going Places by Rachel Miller-Howard
Susanville CA: Notes From The Road by Susan Volchok