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In 2015, suffering from a dreadful case of writer's block, novelist and short story writer Jan Carson set herself the challenge of spending an entire year writing short pieces of microfiction on postcards and mailing these to friends around the world. When 2016 ended, she found it impossible to stop writing postcard stories. The stories in this collection represent the best of some five hundred postcard stories Jan has written since.
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POSTCARDSTORIES 2
POETRYPAMPHLETS
Elastic Glue, by Kathy Pimlott
Dear Friend(s), by Jeffery Sugarman
Poacher, by Lenni Sanders
priced out, by Conor Cleary
The Stack of Owls is Getting Higher, by Dawn Watson
A warm and snouting thing, by Ramona Herdman
Vivarium, by Maarja Pärtna
SHORTSTORIES
First fox, by Leanne Radojkovich
Postcard Stories, by Jan Carson
The Secret Box, by Daina Tabūna
Once Upon A Time In Birmingham, by Louise Palfreyman
Tiny Moons, by Nina Mingya Powles
POETRYANTHOLOGIES
In Transit: Poems of Travel
Second Place Rosette: Poems about Britain
Everything That Can Happen: Poems about the Future
The Emma Press Anthology of Contemoprary Gothic Verse
BOOKSFORCHILDREN
Wain, by Rachel Plummer
The Adventures of Na Willa, by Reda Gaudiamo
When It Rains, by Rassi Narika
Poems the wind blew in, by Karmelo C. Iribarren
POETRYANDARTSQUARES
Now You Can Look, by Julia Bird, illustrated by Anna Vaivare
The Goldfish, by Ikhda Ayuning Maharsi Degoul, illustrated by Emma Dai’an Wright
Menagerie, by Cheryl Pearson, illustrated by Amy Evans
For Hannah, who sings it far better than I’ll ever be able to say it.
THEEMMAPRESS
First published in the UK in 2020 by the Emma Press Ltd
Text © Jan Carson 2020
Illustrations © Benjamin Phillips 2020
All rights reserved.
The right of Jan Carson and Benjamin Phillips to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work respectively has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
ISBN 978-1-912915-58-3
EPUBISBN 978-1-912915-59-0
A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.
Printed and bound in the UK
by Oxuniprint Ltd, Oxford.
The Emma Press
theemmapress.com
Birmingham, UK
1. Botanic Avenue, Belfast
2. Annaghmakerrig
3. Annaghmakerrig
4. Clones
5. Edinburgh
6. Jaipur, India
7. Paris
8. Connswater Tesco, East Belfast
9. Brighton
10. Derry
11. Belfast Central Station
12. Belmont Road, East Belfast
13. Ulster Hall, Belfast
14. Antrim
15. Ulster Hall, Belfast
16. Bray
17. National Portrait Gallery, Washington DC
18. Madison, Wisconsin
19. Baraboo, Wisconsin
20. Ulster Hall, Belfast
21. Ballymena
22. The Hudson Bar, Belfast
23. Ulster Hall, Belfast
24. Drogheda
25. Loughbrickland
26. East Belfast
27. Botanic Avenue, Belfast
28. Bath
29. Styrsa Island, Sweden
30. Ballymena
31. Gothenburg, Sweden
32. Ulster Hall, Belfast
33. Antrim
34. Cathedral Quarter, Belfast
35. Edinburgh
36. East Belfast
37. Ulster Hall, Belfast
38. Kells
39. Ballymena
40. Cathedral Quarter, Belfast
41. Madison, Wisconsin
42. Belmont Road, East Belfast
43. Sally Gardens, Belfast
44. Botanic Gardens, Belfast
45. Sunflower Public House, Belfast
46. East Belfast6
47. Ulster Hall, Belfast
48. The MAC, Belfast
49. The Buff’s Club, Belfast
50. Dundonald
51. Belmont Road, East Belfast
52. Ulster Hall, Belfast
53. East Belfast
54. Queen’s Film Theatre, Belfast
55. Bedford Street, Belfast
56. Castlebar
57. Queen’s Film Theatre, Belfast
58. Ballina
Acknowledgements
About the author
About the illustrator
About The Emma Press
JANUARY 4TH 2015
Jason O’Rourke
In the year 1974, 4% of the American population applied for tickets to attend Bob Dylan’s comeback tour. Things were different in 1974. With online booking services as yet unavailable, eager concert goers lined up outside record stores and venues, or sent cheques and postal orders in the mail, hoping they wouldn’t boomerang back, un-cashed. In the year 1974, twelve million Americans politely asked, in writing, for Bob Dylan tickets. Eleven and a half million were disappointed. Elsewhere, in America: Watergate, Ted Bundy, the Cold War, and other more pressing disappointments.
JANUARY 8TH 2019
Diane Holt
A situation is unfolding in the front bedroom of the big house. The poet who is occupying this particular room for a period of some fourteen nights has left his spectacles back in Dublin. And though this oversight (pardon the pun) will have little impact on his ability to read works by W. B. Yeats or compose long villanelles on mostly pastoral themes, it will unfortunately render the same man incapable of discerning objects at a distance greater than two feet.
‘Good job I’m short-sighted, not long-sighted,’ he explains to his fellow poets and artists when they gather for dinner in the big house kitchen.
‘Indeed,’ says the sculptor who’s over from Brussels, and the children’s writer from Donegal.
But the ghost who haunts the house’s residents cannot bring herself to agree. She has spent all week pacing the floors of the poet’s room. She has hovered, and sashayed, and evaporated once. He has mistaken her efforts for the grunts and shudders of an old house settling. She cannot face the indignity of making herself more obviously spectral. Yet if she continues to haunt in her usual manner, tthe feeble-eyed poet will leave without knowing he has even been visited.
JANUARY 11TH 2018
Inga Zolude
After lunch, several of the writers went swimming in the lake. Swimming in the lake was a thing they associated with writers from the past. Hemingway, for example, and possibly Keats. The lake in question was brown and muddy. Frogspawn clung to the edges like the jellied skin on potted ham. The swimming writers swore that the water was quite warm for January, though it was entirely possible they were comparing the water to something much colder than a January lake: ice cubes perhaps, or the Arctic tundra. During the swimming, the non-swimming writers stood around the edges of the lake passing witty comment and taking unflattering photos to be posted later on social media.
After swimming, the swimming writers said they did not regret swimming one little bit and felt invigorated by the experience. The non-swimming writers said they did not regret not swimming one little bit either, and felt ‘absolutely foundered’ just watching the whole thing. Secretly, the swimming writers were so cold they could not stop shivering all afternoon and found themselves incapable of even holding a pen. Secretly, the non-swimming writers felt pissed with themselves because once again they had not fully embraced the moment. They wondered, as they often wondered, if this inbuilt reticence was to blame for their writing, which rarely seemed to fulfil its own potential.
JANUARY 12TH 2018
Jackie Law