the polaroid smells of wood-smoke, the acrid and choking scent that accompanies something burning. It is prepared for postage to one Casimir Drake alongside the snippet of a local newspaper, a postcard, and ashes that may have once been dangerous but were now dust. Look closer?
i. the polaroid: old brick buildings on the outskirts of town, consumed in flame. Sparks dance in the night air, the fire so hot that even firemen flinch. Why else would they just stand there as the fire burned?
ii. the newspaper: a tragic accident, spelled out in dark ink: an old man who fell asleep, an oven left unattended, an ember of a cigarette caught on old carpet. The place went up like tinder.
iii. the ashes: proof of ruin, the fate of those who would defy fire-breathers.
iv. the postcard: wish you were here! a joke, a threat, a status report. With love, from Archer Drake.