Postcard Prose

My latest effort in guerrilla literature, ironically dropped in a shoe store as I was buying new shoes.

Friday 29 June, 2012

Payless Shoes – Centro Shopping Centre, Seven Hills

Shoelaces

My father sat me down one Saturday morning, my school shoes in his hand.

“We’re staying here until we can tie our laces,” he said.

There was over and under, loops and rabbit ears, going around trees and over fences. All I saw was a tangle of black spaghetti.

My father pontificated as I struggled in the art of mimicry.

“Shoelaces are like life,” he said. “At first it’s tricky and complicated. It’s fiddly and frustrating. Sometimes, it’s the little things that trip you up.”

Looking back down to my shoes to try again, I looked at my father’s feet. He was wearing a pair of slip on work boots.

And, yes, I did put the postcard into a box of slip on shoes.

 

Saturday 9 June, 2012

Rouse Hill Town Centre Food Court, Sydney, Australia

Hand Writing

The calligrapher traced her name with his forefinger, following the loops and curves of the black ink, barely touching the fading parchment. Returning to the start of her name he traced the handwriting again, imagining her face, conjuring her soul and knowing her identity. She was there, encapsulated in her handwriting. He closed his eyes and created a vision of her name in the darkness of his mind, following the form of letters she wrote on the parchment. Opening his eyes he selected a pen and wrote her name, breathing life into the ink as it flowed like blood.