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So I decided I’d write some postcard stories – micro pieces of fiction or creative non-fiction inspired by a photo – as part of my effort to move away from this having turned into My Poor Dead Brother Blog lately. And this is the first one I came up with. I promise it’s a moment in time and not a full account of where my head’s at.


In the nightmares he’s still alive, and though that should be comforting, welcome, there is always a dark side. He’s alive but didn’t want me to know, hiding in the basement (neither one of us had a basement, but that’s dreams for you), living with his girlfriend in peace. Or he’s alive and I have to watch him die a gruesome death, another, different one, falling off a cliff to the rocks below, and there’s no phone service to call for help, and my clumsy fingers can’t manage to dial (which shouldn’t matter anyway since there’s no phone service, but that’s dreams for you). There was one earlier one, not a nightmare but a long boring nothing of a dream except we were on his couch watching movies like we did, and we were talking like only we could, and he made me a brown cow – or is it a white russian? – like he did for his girlfriend, because he had the ingredients and I liked them too but never thought to have them, except with him. But there’s always a dark side: I woke up and I can’t bring him back except in nightmares.