Posts tagged "fiction"

haiti earthquake story writing fiction

Jan 14

-Five- 14.01.10

He stands, walks out of the room trying to find something, anything to distract himself. He watches the arrow slowly moving to the ‘off’ position, ticking along, then finally moves his soggy clothes from the washing machine to the dryer. He returns to the computer.

“Come on, come on,” he whispers.

Nothing.

He refreshes.

Nothing.

He refreshes again, this time willing some news into his inbox by squinting his eyes and holding his breath.

He clutches the sides of the keyboard.

Nothing.

His cheek is damp. His eyes are wide.

He has no idea if they’re alive. Buildings fell, many people are gone and the world shook.

His world is shaking.

“Please, please …” he begs.


story fiction postal carrier mailman letter ongoing

Jan 29

-Ten

Dear Postal Carrier,

(Is that what you like to be called, now?)

I don’t know who you are, in fact I’ve never even caught a glimpse of you. But I know that you exist; unless you’ve all been fired by now and replaced with faeries carrying dead trees, bleached and sealed. But then, why would there be size eight footprints leading up to my house?

I was at work the other day and a man told me that he didn’t mind me giving him the runaround because he is a letter carrier and he’s used to walking a lot. I guess it was a joke, but I got to thinking about your job. I started thinking about all the little idiosyncrasies that come with any job, but are not anticipated by anyone who hasn’t been exposed. Those moments, when in training, you look over at your coworker. She’s already pissed off that she has to take so much time out of her regular day and fake so much interest in you, the trainee. She keeps wishing that she had just woken up and gone through the motions as usual. She thinks about how she’s not being paid extra for this, you at her side like a dull child, when you look over at her and, with a cartoon light bulb over your head, say, “oh! I never thought of this before!”

Her eyes roll upwards. Yeah, neither did I until I started here in 1992. She hopes you didn’t see it and worries that she may have said it out loud. She puts an extra dose of enthusiasm in her voice.

“Yeah, I know, right?”

So, the idiosyncrasies. Things like knowing exactly who lives at a residence.

“I’ve never seen mail for this Greg guy, but it’s been three pieces this week. They must have a relative staying with them.”

When they move out.

“Hmmm. There’s a welcome mat. And the curtains are….rose? Who on earth buys rose curtains anymore? Pat and John never would have put anything rose in their house.”

How financially stable they are.

“Ah. She’s paid for the subscription to Psychology Today again. She must have got a raise.”

It must be strange. Like being an audience to a play. But the play is just the props, and you rarely get to see the actors. Instead, you have to piece everything together to get an idea of the inhabitants. And the audience is invisible.

Maybe you’re more like anthropologists.

Either way, I thought I would write to you to make you visible, to make your 3 hour walk more personal. Maybe even more entertaining.

I hope you don’t mind.

Signed,

That person who lives at 8493 Wellington Road South.


ongoing, fiction letter mailman postal carrier story mail drama

Jan 30

-Eleven

Dear Postal Carrier,

It’s cold out today. Are you allowed to wear extra winter gear? Is it all issued by the postal service? Does it have to match? Is it warm?

How do you pull yourself out of bed each morning on days like this? I mean, my mail wasn’t so important that I needed it today, you shouldn’t have to risk your health.

I was thinking about what to write you today, and I figured, what the hell.

Here’s my weird secret: I won’t let my cat die. Ok, it’s only one of my weird secrets, but it’s a pressing one right now. He’s sick: diabetes and kidney failure. Not to mention that he’s 16-years-old as well. And he howls. Lately, it’s been often. And the worst part? He pisses all over my furniture, which includes my bed. Daily.

I’ve taken to showering often.

And I’m ashamed to tell anyone. Every so often, it starts to come out, but then I make a joke of it, change the subject and hope that everyone else follows my lead.

I don’t like the looks.

It’s embarrassing. But I can’t let him go. I’ve had dreams, dreams where he dies, peacefully in his sleep, and I’ll wake up, reach over and – I swear to you– he’s stiff. I shake him back to life.

I’ve done some crazy soul searching as to why, especially when logic tells me a thousand times over to follow the other path. But I’ll jump into my psyche, then suddenly, I have a drink in my hands. And I realize it’s not the first one that’s been there.

He’s so innocent.

That’s all I keep coming up with.

Seriously - I can’t let him die because he’s innocent?

I go to funerals and it’s nothing. I laugh. I’m completely inappropriate, people come and they go. But my cat, who needs me to be healthy, depends on me to be loving and looks at me like he’s fallen in love every day, makes me question the meaning of life.

Oh, wow. I’ve just ruined your day, haven’t I? Goddamn, who wants to deliver mail all day long while reading about this? My apologies.

I do appreciate you working so hard to deliver paper products that no one wants – isn’t anything important sent over email these days?

I know you won’t write back, and that’s fine. I don’t expect it.

Keep warm,

That person who lives at 8493 Wellington Road South.


mailman, journal diary letter drama postal carrier mail fiction ongoing story

Jan 31

-Thirteen

Dear Postal Carrier,

I haven’t told anyone that I’m writing to you.

Why, you ask?

I’m not too sure myself, probably because most people wouldn’t understand it.

Hell. I don’t even understand it, really.

I could give you a logical explanation: I’m trying to practice my writing.

I could give you a compassionate explanation: I want you to feel visible and have something to do on your walk.

I could give you a psychological explanation: I want to tell all my deep, dark secrets to someone with whom there’s no risk of their judgment having a direct effect on my life.

I could tell you that it’s all of the above or that it’s all bullshit. Whatever perception you want to pick – I guess that’s up to you.

I was home sick today; I’m sure you noticed the car. I almost caught a glimpse of you. I didn’t try to, and in fact, when I walked toward the door and heard the mailbox on the other side, I froze. Then I dropped, crouching down, scared that you might have been able to see my shadow through the peephole. I didn’t want to see you, and that surprised me. I mean, I am curious as to who you are, don’t get me wrong, but my instinct was to run. Fight or flight.

Sometimes I hope that you’re just taking my letters and throwing them out. Or delivering them to a random house – someone who I will never meet.

Although, I sign them with my address, so maybe not. Someday, I’ll have someone knocking at my door, asking me why I’m fucking crazy. He’ll have a stack of white envelopes in his hand, only half of them open, and dump them on my doorstep. I’ll look down at them, crumpled, open and wounded, scattered and trying to get away. I’ll then look up at my guest and he will be walking away, back to me, through the gate. He will turn to walk to the right, shake his head, and continue toward his mid-sized sedan.  I’ll look around, and feel the houses staring, judging.

There was a show I use to watch when I was little, and I have never met anyone else who has ever seen it. All I remember is puppet houses and they had faces – windows for eyes, the door was a mouth – and ever since then, I haven’t been able to look at houses or cars without seeing their expressions.

When this happens, when the man shows up to return my thoughts, they won’t be laughing. They will be shaking their heads, much like my guest did. They will feel pity.

And I hate pity.

I’ll bend down, scoop up the mucky, watery letters. And I’ll throw them in the garbage can in the kitchen. I’ll take the garbage out at night, when no one is watching and the houses are sleeping.

Ok. Please don’t deliver them to a random address. Just chuck them if you don’t want them anymore.

Thanks,

Me at 8493 Wellington Road South.


drama letter ongoing fiction story mail carrier postal post mail

Feb 01

-Fourteen

Dear Postal Carrier,

It’s a bit warmer today. For your sake, I’m glad to see that.

My dreams have been vivid lately. I don’t remember all the intricacies of them, leaving me with this lagging feeling all day long. Like that movie, Momento. Did you ever see that? I feel like every day, when I rip the blankets off me and sit up, I’m starting a puzzle. All these vague flashbacks sporadically come to me throughout the day, making living in the present tense nearly impossible.

This must be what amnesia feels like.

I sat down with someone a few weeks ago and told them my entire life story in about an hour and a half. I did so without emotion, just facts. It sounded surreal, to tell years and events like this. It felt like a news reel: “Read all about it. Here’s the facts, come to your own conclusions, people.”

Afterward, I was lighter. Drained, but lighter. I bounced away, found a seat and ate a sandwich while reading my book. No big deal.

What’s your story? How did you end up where you are now? Do you have kids? A family? Do you live in a basement apartment, with small, slit windows, wood paneling, surrounded by other people’s stolen mail?

Yesterday my neighbour asked me about you. Asked if we had someone new. My face flushed.

Did she know? Had she found one of my letters?

I dropped my gaze and asked her why. She said that she’s regularly getting other people’s mail in her mailbox. And - get this! - instead of just writing, “please re-deliver,” or something to that effect on them, she gets in her car. She drives around, trying to find the addresses to deliver the mail to its rightful owner.

“I don’t mind so much when it’s your mail, because I just need to walk next door, but come on! When I have to drive around the whole city looking for addresses?”

I didn’t tell her that she didn’t need to do this.

I thought her dedication to mail delivery was sweet.

I hope that didn’t insult you or your work ethic.

Have fun,

Me at 8493 Wellington Road South.


story mail carrier post postal worker postal carrier ongoing drama letters letter story fiction writing

Feb 04

-Sixteen

Dear Postal Carrier,

I’m writing you this letter at work, amidst the buzzing and clanging of the cafeteria. The outside wall is floor to ceiling window and it’s unusually bright out. I’ve been squinting all morning. In line, I ate as much of a container of poutine before the cashier discovered that I didn’t have enough money in my bank account to pay for it. She made me leave it with her. I’m avoiding her glare, seated here with a cup of water, writing frantically. The staff turnover had better happen soon, it’s getting difficult to go on with Olga like this (and yes - her name, according to her nametag, really is Olga), I mean, how long can a middle aged lady work ringing in sloppy, tasteless cafeteria food to people who can’t even see her, and all for minimum wage?

Oh well. Stare on, Olga. At least I’m not starving anymore.

I saw James today. He was exiting his car as I entered mine to go to work.

“Hi, how are you?”

“Ok.”

“Yeah?”

He nods.

Three seconds of silence, then he speaks: “The mailman,” he says. Mailman - so you’re a man! I look around, wonder what’s coming next. I half expected you to be right behind me, grinning. You would exchange a glance between you and James before bursting into a maniacal laughter at my expense. But when I turn, I see blustering snow, trees bending in the wind and a rabbit run into my window well.

“Pardon?”

“The mailman. Weird thing. I got a letter from the mailman today,” he nods toward his house, at the black mailbox hung to the right of his door.

“What?”

“Yeah. He left a card for me.”

“A card?” Spit it out old man, spit it out.

“Yep,” he turns and starts to walk away.

“James, what do you mean?”

He turns toward me and appears lost.

“A Get-Well-Soon card, huh … I don’t know,” his shoulders raise and lower, he turns and walks to his front door.

I open the door, slide into my car and sit. Thankfully, it’s cold outside and I can hide my shock under the disguise of warming up the car.

So, you sent James a card? I guess that means that you’re reading my letters. Unless it’s a strange coincidence, you heard it from another neighbour. Or maybe you know him personally. What did you SAY in the letter?

I’m in shock myself. At work everyone is blurred, scurrying around me, dribbling nouns and adjectives that don’t appear to string together. I feel like I need to talk to you about this, find out why you did it. But I don’t want to and, don’t worry, I’m not going to.

You really should have seen him.

Signed,

Me at 8493 Wellington Road South.


1
fiction move on moving on original short story story writing

Jun 15

The Definition of Moving On

Jane walks through the city-made park with the borrowed dog. She’s thinking that the dog is pleasant enough company: friendly and old and fat enough that she keeps a good pace. Plus, the dog only barks at people who she, herself, would bark at too, if only it was allowed.

As well, the dog reminds Jane of her best friend from childhood. But today, as the clouds bump and bounce against each other, playing monkey-in-the-middle with the sun, she’s not thinking of the past; she’s not feeling sorry.

And while the breeze cools and sticks to her bare arms, she’s barely thinking of him. Even though he was seated high up in the maple she just passed.

He was floating in the creek when she sat to rest, too. Lying on his back and giving an irregular kick to keep his legs from falling. He was staring, his eyes fixed, while she just kept talking to the dog as if they were alone: as if no one could hear the ridiculousness of her conversation with a dog.

Even when she walked past the pathetic petting zoo to give the donkey a bit of pity, she found him there. He was smiling at the chain link fence, feeding the animal some bread. Jane was about to tell him about better feed options, but kept her mouth shut instead.

So Jane just keeps walking with the leash in her right hand, a bag of shit in her left and a smile on her face.


4
writing short story narrative story fiction

Jul 08

The Definition of Life has no limits if you’re not afraid to get in it.

“I rush things.”

“I noticed.”

“It’s intense, I realize that.”

“Yeah, it can be.”

“I don’t want things rushed, trust me.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because I get excited. I get so excited with certain things in life that I can’t contain myself; I want to jump up and down.”

“You get excited?”

“Yeah. And I feel this time pressure. We’re not going to be here forever. I mean,  someday, and someday relatively soon, we’ll both be gone. I’m always very conscious of that.”

“Yeah, we all go at some point.”

“Yeah. I just don’t want any regrets.”

“Do you have any regrets here?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“What are they?”

“That I rush things. I’d like to be patient here. Because this is worth waiting for.”

“Yes. Yes it is.”


2
writing story fiction short story

Aug 06

The Definition of Butterflies in the Stomach.

Charlotte walks past Robert as he is seated with people who are alien to her. And as she does this, she purposely brushes his shoulder. She doesn’t want to appear rude by ignoring him, and she also doesn’t want to intrude.

But Robert flips his head around and buries it into her stomach, groaning softly. His arms loosely wrap around her and he asks her how she is. She replies as she would to a grocer: polite and distant. The attention is making her a little uncomfortable. She tries to return to her table when she feels Robert pulling at her arm. He introduces her to one of the aliens.

“And who is Charlotte?” The alien asks in a tease.

Charlotte heaves her head over toward Robert, for she was curious as to how he would respond. She concentrates on his mouth as she sees that it is widening, and a dim beam of light is pulling itself through his teeth. She stares and watches as his skin begins to turn yellow and glow. And shortly after that, she feels the eyes of everyone at every table rotating toward them, searching out the blinding light source.

Once he has lit the night up, Robert raises his arms above his head. Leaning back, he tosses himself onto his glowing hands and flips his yellow legs over. He does this again. And again. And again.

Charlotte turns to the alien.

“I’m just a girl,” she answers after he has flipped himself into the sky, disguising himself as a star.