Gibberish: Flash Fiction Friday - Badges
September 26, 2025
Scoot’s Assignment: Write about a badge, with the phrase “quizzical quality,” a character who likes to send postcards, and the sentence, “What do you think it’s made of?”
Tiny Portals
Julie knew how much I loved to send people postcards. I loved finding pictures that would speak to the recipient, augmenting the necessarily short message I would write on the flipside. It was a challenge to boil down my good wishes to fit on a four by six inch piece of paper. So when Julie spotted Mr. Lim’s stall in the park, she knew I would love it. She was right. The postcards were exquisite: tiny, hand-painted bits of artwork.
As I examined a card that depicted a forest of perfect trees, an elderly man walked over to me. “I am Mr. Lim. I see you have found something that pleases you.”
“Oh yes, I like this one very much. They’re all lovely, but this one makes me feel like I’m walking through a cool woodland,” I replied. “How much is it?”
He grinned, gazing at me through a cockeyed pair of glasses. “Normally $20, but for you, nothing. I can see the badge of imagination shining on your soul, so I know you’ll be able to fully appreciate my magical portals.” As I raised my eyebrows slightly, he urged me to, “Go ahead. Please give it a try. Most people are not imaginative enough to truly understand my work.”
So I stared at the postcard. And slowly, the park disappeared, along with the surrounding city. Huge, ancient trees, impossibly sublime, rose up around me. A cool breeze filtered through the leaves, carrying soft rustling sounds and sweet forest scents. I felt completely relaxed and happy.
Something brushed my arm and I was back in the park, still standing next to a smiling Mr. Lim. “Did you like your little trip?”
“It was wonderful! How did you do it? What is this card made of?”
“What do you think it's made of?”
I hesitated before asking. “There’s paper and paint, of course, but there's also a quizzical quality that I can’t quite place,” I replied.
“Correct.” He swept his arm towards the racks of beautiful images. “And the quizzical quality that you sense is made up of dreams. That is the source of the magic.”
“Why are you giving this to me? I mean, I love it, but you don't know me.”
“Ah, but I do. Your heart wears many badges, and I can read them all, but I needed to test you to see if you would be able to immerse yourself in the painted dreamworld. I am very old and will soon have to retire. I need an apprentice. Would you like the job?”
I accepted the position immediately and have never regretted it. We don't make much money, but it’s enough to live on. And the opportunity to offer refreshing retreats into a beautiful dreamland more than makes up for our often empty pockets.
Like breaths of fresh air.
How lovely! And that definitely sounds like a dream job, ahem.