A new story inspired by this postsecret postcard. The message reads: “Whenever I finish a good book I eat the last page”.
By Eleanor Capaldi
It started as a test – if you could eat it, you were accepted, approved, like a pending loan application.
Small, crumpled and fairly flat, the scrunched up bit of paper sat in between my thumb and forefinger. The tips of my nails making a chipped polish frame. Stray indecipherable text rippled round it. Rotating my index finger, it lay there like a seed for an expectant bird. I scrunched my eyes up too, as if it were on a slide under a microscope and I was angling for a revelation. I popped my head forward and took it, fishing it up tongue first.
The anti-climax in the room was palpable. The entertainment to be had was in the goading, in seeing the concertinaed lips of nervous first years.
That first bite came from a stray corner of a magazine page, slightly glossy. One thing led to…
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