#62: "And if not - well, at least they'd see one another soon."
Titanic microfiction, Titanic art, + next month's theme
Howdy, friends!
From bunny ER visits to birthdays to the general state of my home country coinciding with the anxieties of my annual visa renewal, this month, chaos has been my mistress, even as I try to marry myself to routine with to-do lists and health calendars.
But one thing that’s anchored1 me all month long has been this newsletter or, more accurately, the Titanic. For this end-of-the-month letter to you, I’ve been hard at work painting subscribers miniatures and writing a short story for you all.
Today I’ll…
💌 share my first-ever oil painting postcards for subscribers and patrons,
💌 dish the voting results for this month’s prompt,
💌 take you on board the Titanic,
💌 and share a little creative news.
🚢 A month in postcard art
Although I’m a multimedia artist and live for basically every medium I can get my hands on2, there’s nothing I love more than oil painting. It’s a gooey, tactile mess, one I can lose hours in, and I approach my work with equal parts creativity and meticulous measurements.
But until now, I’d never considered oil painting for my subscribers. Then this month’s theme of the Titanic came my way, and those inky black waters and the sinking ship in that endless endless night on the Atlantic Ocean begged to be done up in oils.
My friends, I did exactly that.
The wet paint was an absolute nightmare to photograph, but I am so happy with how they turned out.
🗳 The votes are in
Patrons and full-access subscribers voted for this month’s postcard-fiction prompt:
Action: slurping a drink
Word: froth
Inspiration: The mail clerks on the Titanic
In case you missed it, here’s what you need to know about the Titanic’s mailroom and it’s 1.6 million letters lost:
#60: "The mail room is filling!"
My brain is currently filled with nothing but bunny fur and early-twentieth century history. As if researching the Titanic for two weeks straight wasn’t enough to launch me a hundred years into the past, I’ve also been reading Last Train to Paradise, Les Standiford’s book on Henry Flagler’s rather frantic and laugh-in-the-face-of-nature quest to build a…
Each month after voting closes, I give myself a measly 48 hours to write you a story set in whatever slice of history we explored.
This month, it felt like there was only one location I could explore: postal clerk Oscar Scott Woody’s ill-fated birthday celebration the night the Titanic sank.
🚪 April 15, 1912: a man retired from a party early
Here’s the postcard I wrote on:
And here’s the story:
Gwinn groaned in his bunk, shifting for the fiftieth time. The other four mail clerks laughed in the next room, still celebrating Woody’s birthday. But Gwinn?
A near-stranger’s forty-first couldn’t tear his thoughts from his wife. Would she even be alive once the ship docked? When the telegram landed in his grip in Southampton – Florence ill STOP hurry home STOP prepare goodbyes STOP – he’d gaped, frozen save his hammering heart, then requested the next return post home, cutting his shift in England short. And although the Titanic presently barreled ahead at record speed (and moping wouldn’t up Florence’s odds of survival) he couldn’t join his colleagues for another round with a smile. He needed to be home already, where, every time before she laughed, Florence’s forehead crinkled in surprise. And they had to hash out his travels over coffee, like they always did after he returned. Christ above, she didn’t even know he’d finally tried blood pudding – and cleaned his plate.
In the next room, a colleague slurped an ale; another guffawed. Gwinn’s eyes burned with fatigue – not tears, he wasn’t crying, for God’s sake. The paneled ceiling stared back at him. Was Florence even alive?
A sudden bang rocked the ship.
His colleagues swore, chairs groaning as they all rushed to their feet. Gwinn shot upright, dread frothing in his chest. Then the shouting began. Clad in his nightclothes, Gwinn crept to the adjoining common room. Half-drunk beers sat abandoned on the table, his colleagues gone. Shadows moved behind the mailroom’s cracked door.
He sprinted across the common room, flinging open the door. His gut lurched. The room was flooding. Water bubbled from beneath a shut door beside the sorting counter. His colleagues were heaving mail bags towards the stairwell.
The water gurgled – was it coming faster now? – and Gwinn scurried to help. As he and three men heaved sacks upstairs, a fourth rushed beyond to get help. The watertight doors should – would – stop the flooding, and any ruined mail would be on the men’s shoulders.
But as he lugged bag after bag, the frigid water rose, biting Gwinn’s calves, then his thighs, soaking through his nightclothes. Florence still needed to hear about the blood pudding. He’d survive this. So would she.
And if not – well, at least they’d see one another soon.
*****
That night in New York City, Florence’s fever broke. As she dreamt, she whimpered for her husband, tossing beneath the covers like a woman drowning.
💻 Your turn: write microfiction!
Using the same prompts above (slurping a drink/froth/the Titanic’s mail room), write a story of your own! Give yourself 48 hours or less to write it, and remember: the goal isn’t perfection. It’s putting your pen (cursor) to the page (screen) and making some art.
When you’re ready to share it with me, reply to this email, post it directly in the comments, or put it on a steamer ship and look out for icebergs. Reading your work is the highlight of my month!
(As always, if you’re feeling stuck getting started, here’s an article I wrote on microfiction fundamentals.)
💔 Get petty this February
My favorite months are the ones where all my subscribers are on the same page - and boy howdy, this month y’all were.
For Valentine’s Day, we’re getting salty, we’re getting saucy, we’re getting petty as hell… the snail mail topic we’re researching?
💔 🖤 Vinegar Valentines: the Victorian Tradition of Mean Anti-Valentines 🖤 💔
So sharpen your finest insults and let’s get going!
🌍 Updates in my creative world
After a ninth full request ending in a rejection, I finally got feedback from an agent on why my novel isn’t making the cut. It’s a tough choice, but I’m pulling it from sub to rewrite it and send it into the ether later. I am strangely very excited for it and feeling very guided by the universe. Good things are coming!
In the meantime, I’m making excellent progress on my other novel, a Wild West agoraphobe fantasy.
That oil painting in the beginning of this letter is nearly done and I am amped - and already plotting a third painting in this series.
I’ve started turning my originals into postcards! They’ll be in my shop soon (both on my website and on Etsy), so keep your eyes open for postcard packs!
My short horror story “Just a Regular Man” made the shortlist for the Uncharted Magazine 2024 Horror Challenge! It’s an honor to be among them.
As an artist, maybe most exciting is that I’m applying for my visa renewal in the next month, and have decided to take the leap and apply for my freelancer visa instead of my current one (renewable tourist). This will allow me to participate in markets around town/build my professional business here/be a real boy here in France. Can’t wait to sink my roots in with ya, Toulouse!
Anyway, I’m choosing to view the string of almost-yeses in my life as a sign that I’m on the right path towards everything I ding dang want.
Do you like the idea of oil painting postcards? What’s your favorite medium to get in the mail? I’d love to hear from you <3.
All my love and saltwater secrets forever,
Nikita, your Snail Mail Sweetheart
PS, because you stayed to the end, here’s a video of Gretchen playing in her sandbox and Anthony trying to figure out what the big deal is:
Too on the nose?
Seriously, after this I’m going to spend my Friday night turning a plastic end table I found on the curb into a sculpture. Happy 34-year-old life to me!