fiction · Postcards

Postcard #2


Dear Jack,

It’s the festa this week. Got me thinking about when we were kids.

It seems almost unthinkable now, but our parents would let us run wild on feast nights while they gathered in some crowded bar outside the church. Crazy. We roamed those festooned streets unsupervised, weaving between the legs of adults like feral lion cubs among giraffes. We’d howl at the fireworks and goose-step alongside the marching bands. Hop, two, three, four!

Best of all, we’d raid the toy stalls, blowing all our pocket money on treasured trinkets: light-up yo-yos and slide whistles and cap gun pellets that we’d hurl to the ground so they’d explode in a loud crack! Remember when we pooled together to buy that electric blue water pistol? We thought it was the coolest thing ever. We filled it with disappearing ink, hid behind street corners and fired away at strangers, spraying their Sunday best in squirts of sapphire. Ha!

We did the same to Chloe and she burst into tears and told on us. Then Dad snatched the blaster out of my hands and chucked it into a bin outside Joey’s pastizzeria. I think we went back for it the next morning, but it was long gone by then.

Man, that seems like forever ago. Wish you’d visit. It’s been too long.


photo by Davinia Marie

words by Dean

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