I think I have to stop watching nature documentaries before bed. I like using them to unwind but last night my dreams were narrated by a talking panda. He was kind of mean too. Very sarcastic, which I have to say, I didn’t expect in a panda. He also seemed overly fond of dry martinis. He had a small bamboo stick instead of a swizzle stick with an olive in case you were wondering. But now it is time for the writing prompt so set those timers and let’s shift those mental gears.
Oh I like this. Not sure what the story holds but I think I will be spending my lunch time figuring that out.
Thursday, February 15th: The box was dusty.
The box was dusty. It had clearly been in the closet a long time. He frowned, not remembering putting it there or what was inside. He took the box to the kitchen table and opened the box. Inside the box was filled with postcards. He frowned and picked the first one. It was a painted image of Venice. He narrowed his eyes.
“Canaletto,” he thought pulling the name from the depths of memory. “I think he was the guy who painted Venice. Or one of them.” He was certain the were probably loads of painters who painted the city but he thought this postcard might be a reproduction of a Canaletto. He flipped it over.
“Thought you would like this. I am sitting with a coffee in an outdoor café and the waiter is bringing me a plate of delectable treats. I shall enjoy each one. As Always, R.”
He frowned and reread the message. Stephen thought is seemed strange. “No wish you were here, or any sentimental statements.” He was fairly certain people put those on post cards. The postcard was dated 1987.
“Maybe the 1980s were less sentimental.”
He flipped through the postcards and came across an older one. It featured an image of the Washington Monument. The image was a drawing rather than a photograph. Even after all the time the blue color of the sky was still a bright enough blue that it almost looked painful to look at. Wondering if someone just collected post cards, he flipped the card over and looked at the back.
“Had a hearty breakfast and went for a stroll. The weather is fine, each step a pleasure. As Always, R.”
Stephen frowned. The handwriting looked identical to that on the other postcard but was dated 1953. “So it could be the same person sending them.” He wondered if two people kept up a postcard correspondence for decades and if there was a matching box full of cards to this R instead of from him.
Ten til Midnight 