Top of the stack

Tiny, shimmering white lines on dark, black flecked green surrounded by a brown grey brown of sometimes blown dust and sand. Fat clouds grown thin, panting from a mouth that hasn’t closed in minutes. Leaning down, the glove on his right hand pulled up exposing a pink yellow thumb to the morning whip of an asian winter sun, he readies contact — about to smudge the whitened leaf — ice?

Postcard:

I know I should have written sooner. It’s just there’s been things upon things. Pilings of must dos and should dos. Anyway. It’s winter here. Yesterday it snowed. I’ve seen snow — the kind that looks like shredded cloud — but this was different. It reminded me of that useless pokemon attack, sleepdust or some shit. The one where that drooped mushroom thing’d shake a wiggling smile and smother its enemy in a friendly flourish of sparkles. This town seemed put down, I mean. Like some family pet let go. Hell, it even had the the steel grey frame, frosted in that heady white fluorescence you only really find in operating rooms. You know the light, basically smells of disinfectant and piss. The town just shut up. It was just a whole nother thing. I think this place, you’d like it.

No need to reply.

Next.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.