Today I stood on the library steps under a cloudless blue sky. I looked down towards the lake, just visible, like a bright beacon of blue, past the brick and concrete buildings and the green dome of St. Georges. It’s the tail end of summer, but all I could see was a swirl of stinging snowflakes, and Frederick, his heart thudding like a missed train. There he stands, his overdue books tumbled on the steps, their covers obscured by snow. There he stands, his left shoulder registering his recent collision with the librarian. Like a memory, I can see it and feel it, and I reach to pull my fictional scarf up around my sun-blessed face.
Telegrams with a limited number of words, sent slower and cheaper than a regular telegram.