Repose Verse (reposeverse) wrote in repose, @ 2018-07-13 00:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | ~plot: postcards |
[Plot: Postcards]
[On Thursday, a strange man arrives in Repose. He has scraggly dark hair and sharp cheekbones, and he wears a suit jacket that is tweed and frayed at the wrists. The man arrives on the Greyhound, and he walks to the local diner. There, he sits in a back booth and spreads out with stacks of old letters and postcards. He spends the day scribbling in a notebook, ordering only coffee, and he stays late into the night. Locals who speak to him hear tales of lost loves and bygone days and old friends, and he shows them postcards that are faded and yellowed and loveworn on the corners. The notebooks he scribbles in, he says, is a memoir, an epistolary, an art long forgotten, and he speaks loudly and often about simpler times when people had to wait for the mail to come and bring words and love and stories. There's something magical about the man, whose accent is Northeastern and thick, and, after midnight, he pushes his horn-rimmed glasses up on his nose and collects his belongings. He makes the walk back to the Greyhound without incident, though he leaves a trail of postcards in his wake.
The following morning, the postcards seem to be everywhere. They swirl on the breeze and dance on sidewalks. The postcards catch in tree branches and flutter into open windows and doors. The postcards are blank now, if just as yellowed. The local grocery and craft stores all receive unexpected shipments of postcards that morning, and the antique store has vintage postcards prominently displayed. Lastly, Residents each receive a handwritten, personally addressed postcard of their own, one which provides them with a famous pairing for a writing endeavor that is about to begin.]