Pedals and Postcards

Photo by Alexandr Podvalny on

Amelia took the window seat at the coffee shop and watched the tourists enter and exit the bike rental shop. It wasn’t the routes taken that interested her. (She had ridden and walked every possible route in the area.)

It was listening to the stories afterward, the journey taken and destinations still to go. Some of the storytellers were sketchers, others ramblers, and some, successful suspense spinners. She didn’t admit to jotting down possible vacation ideas on napkins later pocketed then shared with her children.

Some days, her eldest enjoyed looking through the guestbook on the counter of the bike shop and hearing bits of trivia from the owner. Her youngest asked if there was anything she could keep. One summer, in her neatest penmanship of crayon on paper, her youngest wrote a request: “Pleaz send me a postcard when you get home. Thank you.”

Amelia didn’t know what to make of that idea at first. On the one hand, she prepared for disappointment and the need for comforting. On the other, would strangers send cards *to* a place they visited versus from?


JJust having a ball,

Nothing new, nothing at all.

No,  won’t break a window or aim for a car.

No, my mind isn’t that far gone.

Just having a ball,

Nothing old, nothing new.

No, I don’t need something to do.

Leave me be with these oranges three.

Just having a ball

Keeping one in the air.

Another here, the other…

Somewhere, oh why bother?

Just having a ball

No need to shout.

I’d rather stay in

I don’t care if you go out.

Just having a ball

Go ahead and fume

When you leave the room

I don’t care at all.

Just…where did it go?

No, no, not so fast – please talk slow

They were marbles, you say? I didn’t know.

Well, they’re lost now….oh.











Hell may have its many layers

And Houdini his many tricks

Virtually, every courageous artist and

Outrageous liar knows when they’ve been licked.

Connected like a red-white string, the truth and lies – the gray of reality.


Whether it was a cursed artifact or some supernatural thing.

Rotting away, some dead writer’s soul

Imagination was the key

To making what was once private and flat

Inventive prose on paper becoming rock-solid fact

Neverland emerged as did the road to Oz

Given the fantastical reality birthing, gives the writer cause.


Somewhere the story spinning

Lines that

Obliterate the once-fifth wall

Wanderers now in our world

Like a life-size adventure chosen

Yet still the fiction’s woven.


Imaginary friends now real

New doors in the air

To take the average person

Outside, outer space, anywhere.


Over hill and under

River, raven,


Escaping the many layers of hell

Rash reality forgotten.



*Inspired by the weekly writing prompt on SnoValley Writes!