A postcard arrived from San Francisco telling of Medjool dates and fresh calamari. It wasn’t from anyone they knew. Still, the snow kept falling and the postmistress said it had to mean something.
Tom had placed his pencil as a bulging bookmark in the thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians and gone out to feed the cats, grab more wood for the fire. They say the icicle must have measured near three feet, pierced his shoulder like butter, just nipping his heart–blood loss, shock, cold–anyone’s guess now that the doctor’s gone to Alabama, but it’s clear he’s not in real good shape, and Virgil, the dentist, is a whole lot better at teeth. Still, he’ll see what can be done. You know Tom was in love with that Fletcher girl. Too bad, but there you are, the arrow doesn’t always find the heart it’s aimed for.
Meanwhile, the dogs are barking. Must mean Ruth’s home from Richmond with the gossip. But it will be hard for her to beat that postcard. Squid like in the movies! Hard to imagine a day goes by without some miracle or another.
About the author
Marc Harshman's travels include the Black Mountains of Wales again and again, Denmark, Iceland, Iceland again, the Isle of Skye, Iceland again, and the…Read the full bio
Issue 19 · December 2013
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Postcard Prose