Brat Farrar (bratfarrar) wrote,
Brat Farrar

Fic: Postcards to various locations [Original]

A while ago it was the thing to have a separate journal just for fic; a while ago, I tried to actually fit in. I don't bother much with that sort of the anymore, but it means that I have several years' worth of fic stashed over on gentle_edgar, which most of my readers probably don't realize even exists. So I thought it might be a) fun to share the better bits over here, and b) wise to move things over to an active, paid account where there's no real worry about it suddenly being deleted. To start with, a small array of faux postcards from my 'whimsy is a genre, right?' stage of writing.

Addressed to Iowa

My dear,

I met a snail yesterday, and he insisted on telling me all about the tea party his sister held last Thursday. There was no reason at all why I should have been interested, except we met in the tea aisle, where I was picking up some vile Beijing concoction for Jemima (which cost an outrageous $20 that she now refuses to reimburse me for).

I would say the incident reminded me of you, but it didn't. However, I thought you might be amused by the image of me cornered by an old and garrulous gastropod intent on describing china patterns and seating arrangements. You may be sure, I'll keep a wary eye out for him in the future.

Nothing much of note is happening here. Abelard is recovering from his six weeks spent pining for Heloise, and I've been forced to return to Kant, drat the man. It's like trying to read a coded message that was left out in the rain.

Hope you are well, and that your studies aren't interfering over-much with life and vice versa.

Yours, as always,



Addressed to Pennsylvania


Louise has been asking about you. (You remember her, don't you? The one with the St. Bernard and those flying pigs who get into everything?) I told her that you were being overrun by unicorns, and had resorted to taking potshots at them with your blunderbuss so as to save your marigolds.

Unfortunately, it turns out that she's one of those people who believe that if animals are making a nuisance of themselves, it must be the human's fault. So I apologize in advance should she take it into her head to camp out on your porch in protest. It's too bad Toby isn't a better watchdog. He certainly looks ferocious enough - or would, if he didn't always have his tongue hanging out and would stop wagging his tail on occasion.

I must run. The anchovies are staging a strike, even though there isn't anything for them to strike about, and I must go sort things out.




Addressed overseas


I don't think Mrs. Morrison quite understands the concept of "Johnny has gone for a soldier". She keeps giving me sympathetic looks and patting my shoulder and asking me how I'm holding up since you've run off and left me. I hold my tongue, but only because she lets me off an hour early on Fridays if she thinks I look tired.

The bathroom sink's started leaking, but I'm letting it go for now. Apple spends hours balanced on the edge of the sink, watching the drip, and honestly? It makes me feel a little safer knowing there's water always running somewhere in the apartment. The wards here are positively antique, and salting the entrances goes only so far - particularly since Apple likes to sweep it all away with his tail.

They finally cleared the gremlins out of the elevator, so I don't have to climb four flights of stairs while juggling groceries anymore. Mother sends her love, and will include cookies once she figures out how to get them to you intact. Guard yourself, please. I'm expecting you back in six months, and you don't want to disappoint, do you?

As ever, yours and yours only,



Addressed to Iowa


I have been meaning to write you for ages. How are you? How is your hair? Behaving itself, I hope. Last I saw you both, it looked a wee bit truculent.

The weather here has been positively schizophrenic--can't decide whether it's winter, spring, or summer, sunny or depressively overcast. Right now the wind is whining past my window like a tired and overstimulated child--albeit a child strong enough to knock you off-balance if you're not careful. This place is a bit of a wind-tunnel, I'm afraid.

A ladybird declared war on my lamp the other day, and began dive-bombing it quite determinedly--and, I'm glad to say, fruitlessly. But it made a terrific racket. Eventually it gave up and sulked in the corner by the window, but the lamp didn't seem to care.

Hope your semester is going smashingly!

Ever yours,



Addresed to Iowa

Well, dear, I have come down with poet's flu. You would be quite amused, were you here to hear me--I keep bursting out in doggerel. It's rather annoying for me, though. I daren't go out in public, not since I made a hideous rhyme involving bits of people that aren't named in nice society. And in front of the assistant dean, too! I was absolutely mortified.

On second thought, maybe it's best you aren't here--I wouldn't wish to inflict this on anyone. Anyone I was fond of, that is.

Hope you are well, or at least in better shape than I am in.




Addressed to Louisiana

My dear, I hope you are well.

Such a lot has happened since last I wrote you, I scarcely know where to start.

Perhaps with the most obvious: the upper story of the house is currently flooded with sardines. They clutter the corners and fill the doorways, and each night have to chase them all out of my room and plug the gap under the door if I'm to get any sleep--a chore that can take upwards of 20 minutes! We haven't yet discovered the cause for them being here; Rupert blames the weather, while I suspect a prank gotten entirely out of hand. If we're lucky they'll migrate come fall, but the summer will be rather overwhelming, I'm afraid.

Yours, as ever,

Tags: all fiction, original fiction

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