I’m happy to announce the results of the 2013 Postcard Fiction Contest, images of the winning entries above. My grateful thanks to everyone who sent in a postcard. I’ll just copy the stories here. Second runner up with “The Right Time” on a WTC postcard is John Williams-Searle:
The Right Time
When the elevator stopped between floors, the stockbroker looked up, annoyed and then startled.
“What are you doing here? You’re dead.”
A man in chef whites shrugged.
“Guilty as charged. It was mid-September and I was late for work. I hated that place. Crushing debt. My wife insisted we look at vacation homes. My kids were brats. I just stepped out.”
I knew it! How many people did that? My wife and I argue about it. She says I’m an idiot.”
“Wives do that. The life insurance helped mine forget. She recovered in the Hamptons and I make omlets.”
“I went to your memorial service. She seemed distraught.”
There was a slight lurch as the elevator started moving.
“Well, now you know. What are you going to do?”
“Hope I’m in the right place at the right time.”
First runner up, AKA Miss Congeniality, comes from Seumas, who sent his entry on a lovely picture of the Sheikh Zayed Mosque in Abu Dhabi:
Singing in the Rain
Nothing keeps the sleet from seeping down yer neck. Forgot my umbrella and not even a shop doorway to huddle against waiting for the bluudy bus. The busker laddie’s got a wee brolly rigged up, sticking out from a crack in the wall, fifteen feet away from the stop. He strums his guitar and sings. Danny Boy. Even through the wet, ye can hear the haunting, crackly timbre in his voice. My Da’s favourite song. Long gone now, poor bastard. God, I can hear him sing it, too. My cheeks are soaked, and it’s not the rain. I drop a few coins in the case. Here comes the bus. Bugger it. I can get the next one. Love you, Da…
And now for the drumroll —
WINNER and champion who will receive the $25 prize — all in pennies! Only joking — or am I? On a Frida Kahlo postcard and shamelessly playing to the judges with a gratuitous Fall reference, it’s mbilokur:
The skull in her hands stares at her, eye sockets like big empty shot glasses. “It is your death,” says the Brujo. “See? It even has your name written on it.”
“But I asked for a different…treatment…”
“Heh. The skull is a giant pill. Pharmaceutical joke. Either way, you must devour your death, or your death will devour you.”
“But the treat– I ordered the Mandrake Anthrax, not the…”
“Feh! That’s how you ended up here in the first place!”
A tongue flicked across the sugary teeth, or maybe it was a worm.
“Please, just one more taste…”
She feels the skull’s jaw opening as her surroundings fade to black…”
Congratulations to everyone who entered — it was a delight to read your entries and to receive such lovely postcards from different places. Thank you all for entering and why not send a little postcard story to your friends more often?