You don't have to be traveling afar to send postcards to people 'back home'. You can be a pen pal and write to people around the world. You can also join groups like PostCrossing. "A project that allows you to send postcards and receive postcards back from random people around the world".

But, what do you write on a postcard, especially if you aren't traveling, seeing new places and faces?

You can write almost anything, fairly short to fit on a postcard. Introduce yourself. Write about some interesting thing you did, or saw, or heard about. Write about your location - whatever image your postcard shows. Ask questions about where they live - you have their mailing address so you at least know where they live.

Don't assume you have nothing interesting to write about. If you are traveling and sending postcards home to family and friends you certainly have new things to make note of. Silly things that happened along the way. Something that you did or heard, smelled, touched, watched, or tasted. What do you think about the places you've seen. What would your family/ friend like to know about: history, hobbies, different customs, sports, food?

If nothing else, just write about your day. A postcard can be a snapshot of your day, your adventures, your ideas.

Don't forget to use good penmanship. Postcards are usually hand written. Although you could try out mail art, someone still needs to read or understand what you write.

What could you write about if you were sending a postcard today?

I've had this idea for a couple of weeks. Just the idea of a robot left with a zombie sort of creature. Zombie is so over-used so I didn't use it. There is no plot really. It just moves along until I stopped writing.

It was loud for so long I didn't notice when it became quiet. The wounded continued to gather. I did what I could for them. It wasn't enough, they moaned always, but didn't complain. My owner mingled with them all. Often I had to search to sort him out from the crowd. I didn't miss him asking for my services and the service I could give now seemed to make very little difference to him. But, you understand, it was a contract I was built to honour. What is death... no heart beat but still mobile with brain activity. So I stayed.

I didn't need much myself. A sunny spot to recharge without being bumped into. Clean water was harder to find. There were rivers, streams, even skimming from deep enough puddles. As the crowd of wounded migrated around I'd have to find water where I could. I liked being clean. Fresh changes of clothing were easy. There were so many empty places to restock clothing supplies. Of course, I didn't need food. A little touch up of fluids which I could find in wrecked or abandoned vehicles. I carried some steel wool for those odd spots that would get a touch of rust.

We seldom encountered what I cam to think of as fresh people. Some of those were wounded too but, not the same. They would run from the wounded crowd. I'd have to be vigilant and not get in harm's way when they attacked the crowd. I didn't help the fresh people, even when one would notice me, see that I wasn't one of the wounded, and try commanding me to attend them. I was under contract and that hadn't changed. Besides, they just wanted to use me, my services, and I wasn't interested in providing for them.

My life, I think of it as a life, would have gone on that way forever, or a very long time at least. But, one day I noticed the quiet. Not complete silence. There were still moans from the wounded, the odd wild or feral animal, wind blowing, all of those sounds. The overhead noise from bombs, rockets, airplanes, and all the war mongering was gone. I stopped to listen and waited for it to continue. It didn't.

What did it mean? Did people run out of things to throw at each other? Did the war run out of people to keep throwing things?

The wounded didn't notice, but they weren't very aware of much at all. I began to wonder if there was anyone left to communicate with at corporate headquarters. Could I find someone to talk to? I tried. I'd find a location with a bit of height and search for signals, even the old radio waves. I would hear fresh people talking, but no one I could report to and get updates from.

I wasn't easily surprised but the day the androids came... I was extremely surprised. There was no sign of them and then, there they were. A pack of them, assorted sizes, functions, and state of repair. My people! I decided my contract with my owner was null and void. The first big decision I had ever made for myself, about myself. I was nervous as our group moved away from the wounded. But, most of them didn't notice, just kept moaning and wandering. I did say "good bye" to my owner, to let him know I would be gone. It seemed polite.

The biggest problem with writing comedy or humour (for me) is trying to be funny. Chances are, when you actually try to be funny you don't succeed. Humour tends to be impulsive and it works best when it isn't expected.

The funniest stuff isn't someone having an accident or getting hurt. Pain and suffering are not funny. Though people will laugh when they are nervous or upset. Is that really the kind of laugh you, as a writer, are looking for?

Humour works best when it takes us by surprise.

Sleep gets in the way
before I've hardly started
time is quicksilver.

I wrote this haiku this morning.

I often feel so many things, people, etc take over the time you have, the need for sleep being just one more of those. I love the time I am immersed in something. Learning something, sorting out something tangled, or reading a book with a good, deep story. There are always interruptions. Sleep is at least from myself, my body and brain needing physical care. Still, I resent it, a divider of days. "You can't stay up all night". But I can and I have. That early morning time before most people are awake, when the sky is a dark purple and the birds are warming up for the day. It's wonderful. It's quiet and a bit chilly and private. Only seconds, maybe minutes and then there is a sound in the house. Someone else is awake and its gone. That little bit of time, outside the world, family and things to do. It's something that is still fully mine. But it pops like a soap bubble and is gone.