She had a quiet day mending action men, flipping pancakes and reading bedtime stories. She found an old postcard on the mantle. There was a deer close by a stream taking a drink. She turned it over. Trev on Tyne. She searched the rivers on the map. They reminded her of the veins in his arms. That place she wanted to go. Ye olde river.
There was something written on the back.The ink was fading.
"Shall we float like lillies in a Monet painting."
Who is Monet?
"Let's drown in the thunder of our own raindrops."
I don't have a raincoat. Furthermore, I don't swim.
"I have painted the town red for you. All the shutters, windows, anddoors . "
Thank you but I prefer green.
"I will make the wine cold for you."
Isn't that a Carly Simon song?
"I will just stop here."
Don't stop, just pause.
Who is Monet?
"Let's drown in the thunder of our own raindrops."
I don't have a raincoat. Furthermore, I don't swim.
"I have painted the town red for you. All the shutters, windows, and
Thank you but I prefer green.
"I will make the wine cold for you."
Isn't that a Carly Simon song?
"I will just stop here."
Don't stop, just pause.
One day, the postcards stopped.
Point and shoot. He had been teaching his grandson how to hunt. His first shot had grazed the side of a deer. It ran away. They called it a day after a few hours. There was nothing much out there, the end of hunting season. Most quotas full.
He turned on the radio of his spare pick up truck-the one he used in case things got messy. The red and the rust blended well together. Small town-small station. They hadn't bought a record since the middle of the 80's. Tammy Wynette was standing by her man.
They slammed on the brakes. A deer in the middle of the road. Left right left right. It had a wound in its side. He swerved but, hit it broadside. It flew up over the hood; an antler piercing the windscreen.
They got out to move the deer to the side of the road. Then thinking again, by truck or by gun shot, it was fresh death. Threw it in the back of the truck. Hung it up in the smoke shed to drip dry. A few months later, a fine meal and an excellent head above the mantle.
Point and shoot. He had been teaching his grandson how to hunt. His first shot had grazed the side of a deer. It ran away. They called it a day after a few hours. There was nothing much out there, the end of hunting season. Most quotas full.
He turned on the radio of his spare pick up truck-the one he used in case things got messy. The red and the rust blended well together. Small town-small station. They hadn't bought a record since the middle of the 80's. Tammy Wynette was standing by her man.
They slammed on the brakes. A deer in the middle of the road. Left right left right. It had a wound in its side. He swerved but, hit it broadside. It flew up over the hood; an antler piercing the windscreen.
They got out to move the deer to the side of the road. Then thinking again, by truck or by gun shot, it was fresh death. Threw it in the back of the truck. Hung it up in the smoke shed to drip dry. A few months later, a fine meal and an excellent head above the mantle.
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