prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,mj8mv1,The Amalgamated Realms Post House for Interdimensional Deliveries,Kyler Lopez,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/mj8mv1/,/short-story/mj8mv1/,Fiction,0,"['Fantasy', 'Fiction', 'Science Fiction']",22 likes,"
""Welcome to The Amalgamated Realms Post House for Interdimensional Deliveries."" I said with a forced smile. ""How can I be of service today?""My question was followed by a rambling of burps, spits and general nonsensical squishes. The customer, a Garafavulia from Dimension Xy23, squished his bulbous forehead together in what I assumed was a questioning expression. The Garafavulia flopped their transparent tentacle onto the counter with a wet impact. After a second, they let slip a small black envelope onto the counter.""Of course. I completely understand."" I lied. "" Would you like Interdimensional Insurance placed upon the package? It covers lost, stolen, broken, burned, electrocuted, phased, autostereogrammed, and abstractified items. A full refund and potential time-slip renewal.""The Garafavulia sucked in one of its many eyes and conversed within itself until finally returning its focus on me.""Blarggurchguf."" And with an awkward thirty-eye wink it slithered away leaving the black envelope on the counter.""Is that what I think it is?"" Mike, which was short for Michael, which was short for Michaelangelo, asked from over my shoulder.""Yeah."" I said as I picked up the envelope. ""Midnight Express Delivery."" The thickl black envelope had thin diagonal lines of filigreed gold that only appeared at certain angles and a single silver mark on its sealed flap. It felt strangely warm and uncomfortably heavy in the hand.""I've never gotten one before. What do I do with it?"" I asked, stepping away from the counter. Mike followed beside me his incorporeal form shifting like sails in the wind.""It needs to be delivered before midnight."" Mike looked up at the wall of hanging clocks stationed behind the counter. Each clock, a different shape, size, and color, all ticking away in an endless march towards infinity. Every clock face had its hands, digital number, or sundial pointed in a different direction. I tried to not think too hard about the wildly swerving mess that was interdimensional time.""I'm not a delivery person."" I turned my focus away from the clocks. ""Doesn't someone else have to do it?""""Midnight Express Delivery is a sacred promise. One entrusted to the receiver of the letter and by the looks of it."" Mike pointed at the silver mark stamped at the center of the envelope. ""He paid for it and you accepted it. Hmm. An extra buck fifty for a letter. A bit pricey. Anyways you need to hurry. According to the timelines you're already three minutes late.""Mike placed his ghostly arm around my shoulders and guided me through the swinging doors below the clocks and into our Infinity Warehouse. An endless collection of doors, holes, and dimensional side steps, all spanning an eternal corridor. A construction, I was told, simply built by pointing two universes together like you would with two bathroom mirrors. Endless and slightly green.I had seen the Infinity Warehouse on a handful of occasions (front desk people usually weren't allowed into the back) but despite having past experience with the weirdity of the space I was terrified.A group of eighties rock'n roll raptors passed by talking about their latest gig. In the distance, behind a papier-mâché replica of the Himalayan Mountains, swimming through a sea of stars, was a pixelated school of kite-whales. There was a lot more to see but it was beyond my understanding and literary skills.A sweetly-sick smell of raspberry cotton candy and funeral balm hung in the air. I loved it but it intimidated me nevertheless.""Listen Sara-Jane."" Mike said, holding my shoulders. ""Keep walking, look forward and most importantly don't step sideways. Understood? Good. Now head for the Upside-Down Railway, don't get off till your thirty-fifth stop. Then take Lincoln St past the Murder Crows barbershop and, according to the silver mark, you should be there. Good luck."" With that said Mike turned away and passed through the doors and back to the front counter.I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and, of course, accidentally stepped sideways.I first ended up in a black and white replica of 1920's New York. Very noir and filled to the brim with smoke despite me never seeing anyone smoking. It was hard to believe I was still in the Post House when I was standing in the shade of the famous Woolworth Building.I knew I needed to get to the Upside-Down Railway so I adjusted my newly acquired fedora and knitted sweater and asked the first person I saw where I could find the Railway.Jimmy ""Gin"" Tonic was a tall man too skinny for his herringbone suit. He bit a half a cigar in the corner of his mouth and kept taking off his cap to wipe back his sweaty hair.""The Upside-Down Railway? You can find that closer to the cargo docks by the Eastside river but you don't want to be headed that way. Especially this time of day."" Gin said, swiping his hair back for the third time.""Why's that?"" I asked.""That's where the Moving Pictures Gang resides, and they don't let just any random stranger walk their territory. You gotta prove your worth if you don't want to get shot."" Again, Gin took off his cap and rubbed his head.""How do I do that?""""You gotta solve a murder. That's how. Not any murder mind you. It's gotta be full of mystery, intrigue, a good twist and finally a showdown. Lucky for you I happen to be a detective and I happen to be on a case."" Looking around at all the other people walking about it would seem everyone in the 1920s was a detective on the case.""Whaddya say dollface? Up for an adventure?""""Looks like I have no other choice. I'm in.""That's how I spent the next two weeks solving the biggest case of my career. A young hot thing down at the Golden Stage had been found in a dark alley. Died of a shot to the chest. Don't worry it was presented in a very PG-13 way.From Gin's disheveled office to the misty tracks of the train yard and into the creaking depths of an abandoned cargo ship, Gin and I traveled until finally we ended up here.""Go Dollface before it's too late."" Gin held his bleeding shoulder with one hand the other pointing a gun at Phineas T. Frames, the notorious leader of the Moving Pictures Gang.""No Gin. You can't go down for this. Everyone needs to know you were framed. You're innocent."" As I spoke, I eyed my gun laying a few feet to my left. Knocked out of my hand during our sudden brawl with Frames. Behind me the doors to the Upside-Down Railway were beginning to close. Nestled in the inner pocket of my coat jacket was the black envelope.""I can't allow you to leave."" Frames took a limped step forward. A dark bloodstain grew on the thigh of his pants. ""If people find out the truth. If they find out the cliched nature of my stories. How rigid the detective formula really is, then I'll be ruined. That cannot happen. I won't let it happen."" Frame cocked his gun and aimed at Gin.""No!"" I yelled while leaping for my gun. I landed hard on my shoulder, splashing stale underground water in my face. A gunshot echoed down the long brickwork tunnel. Frame fell to the floor with a shallow breath. Smoke drifted from Gin's gun.""Gin…"" I began.""I know Dollface. Now let's get you on the Railway."" Gin walked over to me, knocked the brim of my fedora in a sort of older brother kind of way and guided me to the railways doors. ""Well done detective. You solved the case. Good luck on your next adventure.""The Railway's doors closed, Gin nodded, and I continued my delivery.""Next stop, a Daydreamer's Nightmare followed by East Avenue."" The sound system called out.I picked an empty spot on a blue-polyurethane bench between a yeti and a bowl of cereal.Staring at the black envelope I was greeted with a mind's eye view of my directions. I may have stepped off the beaten path, but I could still make it in time if I took a shortcut.Seven stops later, a brief walk through a booby-trapped pyramid, a soak in a tsunami filled hot tub and I was back on the Upside-Down Railway headed on the ""B"" line.I was still three minutes past midnight but if I hurried, I could still make it. Though according to the silver mark, I had a new path to take it I wanted to make it before midnight. The mail sorting room.The mail sorting room was a simple twelve-foot by ten-foot room filled with empty slots in the wall. Each slot was packed with different letters, packages and deliveries ready for final pickup. Simple design for a complicated place. The only issue I have now was figuring out how to get to the top.Looking up at the wall slots was like standing at the bottom of Mount Everest. I hated it when I ended up the size of an ant. I sighed and started to climb.Higher and higher I worked to pull myself up the wall slots. My arms ached, my chest burned, and my palms were raw. The air started to grow thin and I'm pretty sure at one point a cloud rushed by overhead. Must have been late for work.At a relatively small mail slot I stopped for a breather. That's where I met Ms. Spindles. A black widow spider which she informed me she was indeed a true widow.""Hello dear."" Ms. Spindles said from the shifting shadows of a nearby fire. She was crouched down low and resting on a thick mousepad for comfort. The fire crackled in the embers of an old pencil and pink eraser. ""What brings you to my little slice of life? I don't get many visitors here.""""I'm on a Midnight Express delivery for the Amalgamated Realms Post Hou--"" The spider cut me off.""Midnight Express? My oh my."" Ms. Spindles checked her long thin arm which hosted a silver watch. ""You're running late. Care for a lift?""""Really? Oh, that would be wonderful. Are you sure it's not a bother?"" I asked.""None whatsoever. Besides, it's been a great deal of time since this old widow got out of the house."" Her speech reminded me of my grandmother.""Hop on the ol' thorax and let's get you to your destination."" Ms. Spindles got to her feet, stretched her legs, to which her joints creaked, and helped me on her back. Riding spider-back was a lot easier than trying to grip a rough, mailroom-white wall. Plus, we had made great time. On our journey further up the wall we came across a few other weary travelers who had decided to join us. We now had a little caravan of misfits. It consisted of Ms. Spindles and I, a set of twin dalmatians, a floating jellyfish and what can only be described as an adolescent blackhole that knew way too much about Marvel movies who went by the name of Kevin.“That’s when I knew. I knew he was the next big bad. It had to be--” I interjected Kevin before he could spoil anything for me.“This looks like my stop. Ms. Spindles thank you for helping me. I appreciate everything you’ve done. If there is anything I can do for you.” I jumped from her thorax and onto a wild patch of bluegrass.“Have the cleaning guy take a break every once in a while. He does such a good job that its making grocery shopping a nightmare. All the dead flies get vacuumed up before I can ever get to them.” She took my hand in hers and gave me a fanged smile. “But most of all. Be careful and try not to do any more Midnight Express deliveries.“Of course. I’ll do my best. Kevin, keep on keeping on.” I waved them goodbye and turned to my destination.The silky-black envelope reassured me that we had finally made it. Before my eyes was a long stretch of rolling green hills, lush blue skies, and rows upon rows of apple trees. There was a subtle hint of sea salt in the air and a warm orange sun sat among the clouds. Not far from where I stood was a cozy farmhouse with a wrap around porch and a metal rooster ornament that creaked against the wind.Sitting in a polished wood rocking chair was a Garafavulia, wrapped in a quilt blanket, tentacles and all. It watched out at the wind-blown grass and gave me a polite burp as I stepped up onto the porch. I handed over the envelope and watched as it opened it.This was the moment I had worked for so long. The conclusion to my very first Midnight Express delivery. I thought about all the friends I made along the way, all the places I had been and the things I had seen. They were finally going to come together and become one at this moment.“Happy Birthday Grandma! Love, Gurgeshkingup.” The black envelope said and the Garafavulia let out a gentle tear from one of its many eyes. It gurgled a thank you and before I knew it I had sidestepped my way back to the front office.“How did it go?” Mike asked me.“Umm. Fine, I guess. Took a bit of a weird detour but I managed to deliver it in time.” I let out a sigh of relief. I was done.“That’s good to hear cuz it looks like you got another one coming.” Mike motioned with his head onto the counter and there was another black envelope.“Nope that’s it! I’m taking my break. Someone else can do it.” I took off my name tag, set it down on the counter and went to eat my tuna fish sandwich.
","August 21, 2023 18:23","[[{'Karen Corr': '“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.""\nNor intergalactic drama either, it seems. Hats off to your protagonist! I enjoyed reading your sci-fi.', 'time': '12:54 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'KD Weinert': 'I\'m awed by your imagination! This was so fun. Vid Weeks commented it had hints of Douglas Adams. I agree, and I\'d throw in a touch of Alice in Wonderland too. I was hooked from the very start with the ""Garafavulia from Dimension Xy23.""\n\nThe detour into the noir section surprised me, and I worried that we\'d gone down a rabbit hole (see what I did there?) but you pulled it together deftly with an exciting and hilarious conclusion and pushed the narrative forward. \n\nThere are so many funny bits, like sitting between a yeti and a bowl of cereal...', 'time': '04:55 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Myranda Marie': ""I so admire your talent for creating otherworldly characters and scenarios....being an old lady, I especially appreciated the 80's rock and roll raptors ! well done !"", 'time': '18:40 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kyler Lopez': ""Haha thank you! I'm a fan of rock and roll so I had to include something :)"", 'time': '19:00 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kyler Lopez': ""Haha thank you! I'm a fan of rock and roll so I had to include something :)"", 'time': '19:00 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tom Skye': 'Great twist on the post office theme. \n\nSuperb imagination. I had all sorts of weird stuff to picture against the backdrop of the typical drab post office I had in my head prior. \n\nIt was very fun to read.\n\nNice job', 'time': '18:37 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kyler Lopez': ""Thank you so much for reading it! I'm glad you enjoyed the story :)"", 'time': '18:59 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kyler Lopez': ""Thank you so much for reading it! I'm glad you enjoyed the story :)"", 'time': '18:59 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Vid Weeks': 'A hint of douglas adams. I enjoyed it.', 'time': '22:26 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,8npj4b,Post E,Chris Miller,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/8npj4b/,/short-story/8npj4b/,Fiction,0,"['Speculative', 'Crime', 'Fiction']",21 likes,"
	“I need to send this.” The young man took a package from inside his heavy suncoat and put it on the counter. It was wrapped in yellowed newspaper tied with chord made from discarded plastic packaging, gathered and spun back into utility by enterprising street vendors. 
 
	 “Ok, if you want me to address it for you that’ll be an extra ten pounds,” said the Postmaster, his voice a tin-can echo from behind his bulletproof window.
 
	“Ten! It won’t be that much to send it.”
 
	“Rules, I’m afraid. You should address it yourself, if you can. Or, you could always speak to one of the letter writers outside. I can’t officially recommend anyone, but Hannah is usually around at this time of day and she sometimes has pens for sale too. She’ll address something for a reasonable price.” 
 
	“No. I’m not queuing again. I’ve been here since dawn.” The young man looked at his feet and fished in the pockets of his suncoat. “I’ll just pay the tenner.” He retrieved a crumpled ball of paper receipts and crude notes and teased it apart on the counter until he found George VII, creased and folded into no more than a forehead with a beard. He flattened out the ten-pound note that would have paid for that night’s food and water.  
 
	“Ok, put the parcel in the drawer. What’s the address?” said the Postmaster unclipping an expensive refillable pen from a chain around his neck.
 
	“It’s Mikey4564@freemail.org.”  
 
	“C’mon, son. You know those don’t work anymore. I need a real address. Door number, tower, street, town, code would be good.”
 
	“I don’t know it.”
 
	“Then I’m sorry, son. Can’t help you. Some of the freelance bike couriers might take the job on if you can give a verbal description of the address, but our riders need a real address. It’s the rules. There’ll be a few Freewheelers hanging around outside. They aren’t cheap though.”
 
	The young man snatched up his parcel and shoved it back into his heavy vinyl coat. He snapped his UV visor down over his face and hammered the counter with a grimy fist. “This is bullshit!” The angry words fogged up the inside of his visor and he staggered half blind into the customer behind him before storming out of the Post Office past the queue that snaked out into the hot midday street. He stomped past the letter writers’ pitches and hurried through the circling pack of Freewheelers who waited for jobs on the dusty road, without stopping to speak to any of them.  
 
	The queue edged onwards. Always moving, never shortening. A worm pulsing on a tectonic treadmill, baking in the heat until the head disappeared into the grey shade of the Post Office. Inside the room, the last twenty feet of human beings, chained together by stamina and manners, passed by walls thick with layers of advertisements and notices. The space was dominated by large dog-eared map showing the official delivery routes of the Post Office peloton and the associated charges. The arteries of communication spread out from the Post Office at the heart of the map, cutting through coloured zones indicating an increase price proportionate to distance of carriage.   
 
	A slowly turning ceiling fan stirred the soupy air, succeeding only in amusing a few zipping bluebottles who possessed more energy than the fan and the inhabitants of the room it failed to cool. Under the fan a trestle table holding a banquet of undelivered mail. A pyramid of poorly addressed parcels surrounded by a miscellany of misdirected letters. Some were for addresses that had existed when the peloton set out for them, only to be dismantled or re-zoned by the junta before they arrived. Some just bore insufficiently accurate descriptions of the abodes of intended recipients, either scribbled by the semi-literate sender or dictated to a letter writer. Some lacked specificity; To Dave, near the top of his block, near the market. Some covered the packaging like a Yakuza tattoo, indecipherable despite their prolixity. Some still bore the old addresses from before the systems collapsed and the records were lost, in the hope that Bigmick66@yahoo.net or Amybadger91@AOL.co.uk would recognise themselves as intended recipients. All hopeless. The pile grew faster than the queue.  
 
	The analogue clock clunked the minutes away, the big hand moving several times more quickly than the queue.  
 
	A chorus of tuts and huffs rolled into the room, a peristaltic wave carrying passive aggression along the queue in the wake of a young man in an improvised mask. He ignored the seething queue and stamped up to the counter. Through holes poked in a carrier bag he glared at the Postmaster who stood impassively behind his window. After an awkward pause the young man raised his arm, hand still deep in the pocket of his vinyl suncoat, holding an object that he pointed at the Postmaster.  
 
	“Give me all of today’s takings! Everything! Now!”
 
	“This glass is bulletproof, son,” said the Postmaster, the tinny echo of his voice making him seem even less anxious than he looked, leaning heavily on his counter, pen swinging on its chain. 
 
	“Give me everything, now! Or… Or I’ll start shooting customers!”
 
	“It’s a while since these types of shenanigans had much effect. You’re not even the first this week. Nah. You’re either just pretending you’ll shoot them with a real gun, or, you really want to shoot them, but you’ve only got a pretend gun. I think it’s the latter, and either way, we’re fine. Well, except you, who just pushed to the front of a queue of several hundred British people.”
 
	The eyes in the ragged plastic holes moistened. “It’s real!”
 
	The old lady at the front of the queue stepped up to the counter between the young man and the window.
 
	“Good afternoon, Michael. I’d like to send this first class, please,” she said to the Postmaster, putting a neatly wrapped and addressed package into his drawer. 
 
	“Certainly, Agnes. That will be eight seventy-five. The next peloton leaves at three.”
 
	“I swear to God!” yelled the young man, his voice breaking.
 
	Agnes tutted and looked over her shoulder to stare a hex onto the young man.    
 
	The Postmaster looked up from stamping Agnes’ parcel. “Son, if I hit the alarm button the security team will be here before you can say unwise decision and they’ve got more batons than questions. You can argue about Schrodinger’s peashooter with them if you like? You’ll be biomass before the end of my shift. That’s if the people in the queue don’t tear you apart first.”
 
	“But, I…” The boy’s arm dropped to his side. “Shit.”
 
	“All of this silliness because you couldn’t send your package?” said the Postmaster. 
 
	Agnes shook her head and shared a loaded look with the next man in the queue who returned her shake of the head and looked pityingly at the panicking boy.
 
	“That wasn’t me! You don’t know who I am.”
 
	“You won’t want the tenner back that you left on the counter then? Give him this and show him where the door is, will you, Agnes?” said the Postmaster slipping the crumpled tenner under his window. 
 
	“If you can keep a civil tongue in your head then I might be able to help you, son,” said Agnes, turning from the counter, her business concluded. She held out the note to the slump shouldered young man who took it with mumbled thanks. She linked his arm and pulled the plastic mask from his sweaty face. She walked him back to the door under the dagger stares of the queue. “Now what was it you were trying to send?”
 
	“It’s the new Rolling Stones DVD. It’s my great uncle’s birthday.”
 
	“Well, it just so happens I’m a fan. Let’s see if we can’t go and negotiate with one of these nice Freewheelers. Now, dry your eyes and put your UV visor on, there’s a good lad.”   
 
","August 25, 2023 16:28","[[{'Nina Herbst': 'Hey Chris! I was wondering if you’d enter one this week! Great job on this! I love the premise, and your use of language adds so much to the story. \n\n“Son, if I hit the alarm button the security team will be here before you can say unwise decision and they’ve got more batons than questions. You can argue about Schrodinger’s peashooter with them if you like? You’ll be biomass before the end of my shift. That’s if the people in the queue don’t tear you apart first.” - this was my favorite of all!!', 'time': '18:20 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you, Nina. I was cutting it close. I had nothing until yesterday. Thanks for reading!', 'time': '19:12 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Nina Herbst': 'You work well under pressure 😄', 'time': '19:13 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you, Nina. I was cutting it close. I had nothing until yesterday. Thanks for reading!', 'time': '19:12 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'You work well under pressure 😄', 'time': '19:13 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'You work well under pressure 😄', 'time': '19:13 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Chris!\nWhat an interesting story. I loved how the definition of address was incorporated into the story. There’s nothing better than received old fashioned mail box surprises. These characters were honest, realistic, and wonderfully blunt. Nice work on the shortlist!!', 'time': '19:36 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you, Amanda. Very pleased you enjoyed it.', 'time': '19:42 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you, Amanda. Very pleased you enjoyed it.', 'time': '19:42 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin B': 'So much of this reminded me of George Saunders and how he skewers technology while still building a convincing world (sometimes too convincing). I think this would fit perfectly into a sci-fi anthology. Congrats.', 'time': '16:36 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you very much, Kevin. I love George Saunders. Liberation Day is fantastic. To have the slightest link drawn is too flattering. Thanks for reading and taking the time to leave such kind comments.', 'time': '16:59 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you very much, Kevin. I love George Saunders. Liberation Day is fantastic. To have the slightest link drawn is too flattering. Thanks for reading and taking the time to leave such kind comments.', 'time': '16:59 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Wendy M': 'I love the futuristic setting, I hope its not the near future! Some great turns of phrase in there,  well done.', 'time': '22:21 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you very much, Wendy. Glad you enjoyed it. Hopefully not too near.', 'time': '00:04 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you very much, Wendy. Glad you enjoyed it. Hopefully not too near.', 'time': '00:04 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Fine ending. Like those cut and joined speeches from the postmaster. Congrats.', 'time': '18:15 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you very much, Philip. Very pleased you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading.', 'time': '18:40 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you very much, Philip. Very pleased you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading.', 'time': '18:40 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty B': ""Doh- I have been in that line, 'The analogue clock clunked the minutes away, the big hand moving several times more quickly than the queue. '\n  and felt like shooting someone, or at least threatening! \n\nawesome alliteration:\n'A pyramid of poorly addressed parcels surrounded by a miscellany of misdirected letters.'\n\nThanks!"", 'time': '00:29 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks Mary. Increasingly a thing of the past, but maybe also the future? Thanks for reading.', 'time': '05:08 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks Mary. Increasingly a thing of the past, but maybe also the future? Thanks for reading.', 'time': '05:08 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Skipping a queue of Brits, that could have brought about a second apocalypse. Thoroughly enjoyable Chris and quite reflective, at a time when we are losing most post offices if we lost the internet would they come back and be so central to life again.\n\nGot a proper laugh at the New Rolling Stones DVD, they just won't lay down will they!\n\nSome brilliant descriptions in here too mate, keep up the great work 👍"", 'time': '11:24 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks for the support, Kevin. Glad you found some fun in it. Thanks for reading.', 'time': '12:05 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Congratulations Chris, well deserved!', 'time': '16:05 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Chris Miller': 'Cheers Kevin!', 'time': '16:17 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks for the support, Kevin. Glad you found some fun in it. Thanks for reading.', 'time': '12:05 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Congratulations Chris, well deserved!', 'time': '16:05 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Chris Miller': 'Cheers Kevin!', 'time': '16:17 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Congratulations Chris, well deserved!', 'time': '16:05 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Cheers Kevin!', 'time': '16:17 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Cheers Kevin!', 'time': '16:17 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""You said it couldn't be done and look what you put out here! Well,done.\n\nSee! Congrats on shortlist! 🤗"", 'time': '22:12 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you very much, Mary. It was a close one this week. Really trying to keep going at a rate of one story a week minimum, but some weeks are definitely easier than others. Thank you for reading.', 'time': '22:19 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': ""I am so far behind on reading people I follow and following up on all I got last weekend I haven't had time to think of next prompt but it is in my wheelhouse. I have been a massage therapist since '91. That qualifies as human touch. Gotta do sumpmin."", 'time': '22:26 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Chris Miller': ""There's got to be something there! Looking forward to reading it."", 'time': '22:36 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thank you very much, Mary. It was a close one this week. Really trying to keep going at a rate of one story a week minimum, but some weeks are definitely easier than others. Thank you for reading.', 'time': '22:19 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""I am so far behind on reading people I follow and following up on all I got last weekend I haven't had time to think of next prompt but it is in my wheelhouse. I have been a massage therapist since '91. That qualifies as human touch. Gotta do sumpmin."", 'time': '22:26 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Chris Miller': ""There's got to be something there! Looking forward to reading it."", 'time': '22:36 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""I am so far behind on reading people I follow and following up on all I got last weekend I haven't had time to think of next prompt but it is in my wheelhouse. I have been a massage therapist since '91. That qualifies as human touch. Gotta do sumpmin."", 'time': '22:26 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': ""There's got to be something there! Looking forward to reading it."", 'time': '22:36 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': ""There's got to be something there! Looking forward to reading it."", 'time': '22:36 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Katy B': 'Chris - I love the slightly surreal/alternate reality feel to this story. \n\nMy very favorite line: ""the last twenty feet of human beings, chained together by stamina and manners""\n\nThank you for sharing!', 'time': '22:15 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks for reading, Katy. Glad you enjoyed it. Good luck this week.', 'time': '08:01 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Katy—that’s the one I wanted to mention! Chris your power of word never fails!', 'time': '19:35 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Chris Miller': 'Thanks for reading, Anne.', 'time': '20:20 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks for reading, Katy. Glad you enjoyed it. Good luck this week.', 'time': '08:01 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Anne Shillingsburg': 'Katy—that’s the one I wanted to mention! Chris your power of word never fails!', 'time': '19:35 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks for reading, Anne.', 'time': '20:20 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Miller': 'Thanks for reading, Anne.', 'time': '20:20 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,wc5ywk,The Book Of The Dead Letter Office,Chris Campbell,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wc5ywk/,/short-story/wc5ywk/,Fiction,0,"['Urban Fantasy', 'Mystery', 'Adventure']",19 likes,"
	“To whom it may concern,” the letter started. “Within the enclosed book lies a treasure trove of adventures beyond your wildest imagination. Its spells within hold the key to many locked doors in time. Use it wisely and be warned: Not all outcomes are favourable.”	“What on Earth is this nonsense,” Captain Richard Lyle muttered. 	“I say, Jonty,” he called across the small room. “I’ve just opened one of the dead letter packages that came in this morning and discovered this extraordinary letter inside.”	“Who is it addressed to, Dickie?” His ex-army pal asked – trying to help.	“That’s just it. There is no address, just the words FOR YOUR EYES ONLY handwritten on the wrapping.”	“Sounds secretive,” Jonty hazarded a guess.	“Indeed,” Richard agreed. “I’m not totally convinced on its authenticity. Ever since that debacle last year surrounding the letter allegedly sent from the Romanov’s Grand Duchess Anastasia, we’ve been instructed to destroy everything of similar substance.”	“Oh,” Jonty’s eyebrows raised in inquisitiveness. “Anastasia wrote it from beyond the grave, did she?” Flippantly asking.	“Claiming that she had survived the Romanov family assassination and had been so depressed by her ordeal that she tried to take her own life.”	“Wasn’t content with surviving being shot, then?” Jonty sarcastically quipped. “Better to die from her own hand, than live as a survivor, was it?”	“She ended up in a sanitarium.”	“There’s a surprise. Wasn’t believed, then,” Jonty surmised with a passing comment.	“I must have read hundreds of fake letters from illegitimate children of dead kings and flase predictors of the future.”	“Sounds more interesting than mine,” Jonty quipped. “All that lands on my desk are undeliverable Valentine’s cards with the same sickly Roses are red, Violets are blue verses. How are you so fortunate, Dickie?”	“Mere chance, Jonty. Take those spears propped up against the far wall, for instance. They arrived from Africa assigned to me with just a tag addressed, To the man from London with the tall hat that helped my village fight the lions. So, here they remain, awaiting someone unaware of a sincere gift from a grateful village chief, to claim them.”	“They remind me of the Zulu spears depicted in the Battle of Isandlwana, by Charles Fripp.”	“Yes, I remember it. We saw it together at the Officer’s Club before it was mothballed. Damn good piece.”	“Indeed, Dickie. Do you think we’ll ever be immortalised in a painting?”	“I’d rather not remember what we went through, Jonty. I’m much happier here at the Dead Letter Office with you helping me analyse the workings of the human mind. Leave the war where it is. In the past. No need to analyse the horror.”	“Dickie?”	“Forgive me, Jonty. I compare running the Post Office’s Dead Letter Office to being like a belated psychiatrist listening to people’s issues long after they’re gone. But I can’t help them resolve anything except file the letter in the dead letter draw of the dead letter office of the Royal Mail’s living headquarters.”	“Perhaps, there should be a museum for all the lost mail,” Jonty suggested.	“But if we’re reading them, Jonty. They’re not really lost, are they. They’re just existing in some form of correspondence limbo.”	“Neither dead nor alive.” Jonty commented. “Nowhere to send them on to, then?”	“I’d happily forward them to the correct recipients, if only there were any legible names or addresses written on them. Take this letter, for instance. For Your Eyes Only. No name, no address, just a simple note with a cryptic message.”	“Whose eyes doth it refer to?”  Jonty asked in a Shakespearian manner.	“That is a mystery, Jonty. An enigma of sorts. The rest of the letter appears to be either a set of instructions or a caveat lector, a let the reader beware type of message.” 	“May I see it please, Dickie?” 	With several mutterings of surprise and intrigue, Jonty studied the contents of the two-page letter. When he had completed scrutinising it, he handed it back to his superior.	“You need to destroy this right away, dear chap. Along with that book.” 	Jonty’s worried words quivered in their instruction. Something had clearly shaken him.	“Whatever for, man?”	“I don’t know, Dickie. I just had a feeling rush over me giving me goosebumps. Like that time in Alexandria, after we supervised the installation of that massive cannon that scared the locals. You thought it a great photo opportunity for the men, but I felt something was off – like an electrical surge running through my body. So, I talked you out of it, remember?”	“Yes, instead, Captain Williams decided to organise his own party and led a group of men to pose atop the cannon.”	“Right into the crosshairs of a Turkish sniper,” Jonty recalled. 	“And there ended the poor blighter’s career.”	“There’s something about that book, Dickie. It doesn’t smell right. Have you looked inside it?”	“Yes, it appears to be a compilation of short stories, I believe - judging by the handwriting and illustrations in it.”	Energetically flipping through the book, Richard released an additional note written on what appeared to be folded papyrus paper - inserted between two pages. As he unfolded it, specks of sand fell from its inside crease to the floor.	“I say, Jonty. Papyrus and sand. Where does that remind you of?”	“Bloody Suez Canal.”	“Indeed, Jonty. Was rather exciting and challenging times, wot? Long live the Fifty-Third, hey?”	“Long live the Taffys, Dickie, old boy.”	“Sorry bit of business we had to take care of at Suvla Bay.”	“It was indeed. The Aussies copped it worse than us, though. No way to fight a war under those conditions.”	“Yes, disease and the weather took from us what Johnny Turk couldn’t. Left with only fifteen percent of our fighting capabilities. It was no wonder we were withdrawn to Egypt. Yes, Captain Jonathon Smith, fellow survivor, my old friend. You and I are lucky to have lived to tell the tale.”	“Except, no-one will understand what we went through.”	“No, Jonty. Unfortunately.” 	Taking a breath, Richard focussed his attentions back to the mysterious letter. 	“Reminiscing aside. Let’s get back to current business and the contents herein.”	“Agreed.” 	“It says here, Jonty. That the ancient tongue transcription within this note is a kind of key to exit unfavourable situations.”	“Unfavourable what?” Jonty cogitated, while scratching his head.	“Again, a cryptic piece of nonsense. Furthermore, it instructs that the journey must begin at chapter one and subsequent journeys should be followed using incremental chapters.”	“So, chapter one, chapter two, etc.” Jonty flippantly repeated. “It’s hardly selling sand to the Arabs, is it.”	“Quite. Difficulty level of understanding equals elementary. But reading further on, it ends with a warning not to skip a chapter or jump either forwards or back. I quote, For each chapter is a moment in time. Mix not, leave not, bring back not, for fear of calamity.”	Curiosity took over Jonty, causing him to open the book at chapter one.	“Dickie, take a look at this. It’s Dinosaurs!” Jonty exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. “The first drawings are of dinosaurs.”	Beckoning for Jonty to hand him back the book, he placed in onto his desk – still open at the page Jonty had just read.	“Is it some kind of handwritten encyclopaedia?”	“Read the accompanying text to me, Jonty.”	“I’m afraid that’s not possible, old chum. I missed the introduction to hieroglyphics at the academy.”	“Let me see.”	“Dragging the book to get a closer look, Richard accidentally dislodged a jewel-encrusted amulet embedded into the back cover of the book. Picking it out of its leather-bound cradle, he held it in his hand and studied its detail, before focussing back on the book.	“Jonty,” Richard lightly admonished. “I do wish you wouldn’t tease me. It’s plain to see that this book is written in the King’s English.”	Sidling up to Richard, Jonty looked at the opened page and repeated his recent observation.	“Beats me, Dickie.”	“That’s enough, Jonty. You’ve had your fun.”	Placing the amulet on his desk, Richard cradled the book in his hands, then resumed his reading, but to his surprise, he also couldn’t make out any words among the plethora of symbols neatly imprinted within its pages.”	“By George, Jonty. Either you have used the power of suggestion to blind me to the words in this book, or it is written in Egyptian hieroglyphics. Extraordinary. I was sure it contained English words… somewhere.”	Quickly flipping through the pages in search of any decipherable text, proved fruitless and bewildering. Nothing but ancient emblems and symbolic code commonly associated with a bygone civilisation, filled each page. Curious as to the amulet’s inclusion to the book, Jonty inquisitively picked it up.	“This is curious, Dickie, old boy. Do you think this is real gold?”	“If it is, Jonty, then those shiny jewels surrounding that eye in the centre, must be worth a small fortune.”	Jonty was just about to put the amulet back down on the desk, when he glanced at the open page of the book.	“That’s very strange. The book is written in English,” he contradictorily stated.	Confused by Jonty’s statement, Richard looked at the open page, again.	“Where?” He demanded to know.	Without saying anything, Jonty ran his index finger across and down the page – illustrating that he could read its entire contents. Clumsily dropping the amulet to the floor, Jonty ceased his pointing.	“Jonty?”	“Gobbledygook, now. I was reading it, now, all of a sudden, I feel like an illiterate.”	Stooping to retrieve the amulet from the floor, Jonty’s body visibly reverberated in mild shock, as he glanced once more at the open page.	“My goodness,” Jonty announced. “Dickie!” he yelled.	“Yes, I can see it,” Richard concurred.  “One does not need a degree in Archaeology to recognise a Rosetta-type Stone, when you see it.”	Placing his hand on the edge of the amulet, Richard decided to test his impromptu theory.	“Let’s see if we can both read it now.”	To their surprise, the book instantly transformed into a rendition of English words, where both men could clearly read and understand the text drawn on the pages. However, as much as he was enchanted by the ability to read ancient text, Jonty was still a bit confused as to the purpose of the book.	“I’m still not clear what this book is for? To be more specific. Why has it been written?”	“I can only postulate on its purpose,” Richard replied. “However, at first glance, I believe that each chapter holds an account of the author’s adventures, and for some obscure reason, whoever they are, they have requested that the reader vocally recite the ending prose or incantation to garner some literary signature of authenticity. In layman’s terms, the bloody writer wants their words read out loud.”	“That’s a bit conceited, isn’t it, Dickie? It sounds like the author clearly has an ego that they’re conceitedly proud of.”	“It is my opinion that ego holds no social graces, Jonty. It is merely a sense of haughtiness bordering on arrogance. Pride - on the other hand - is a sense of satisfaction, and although the two are interrelated, pride comes from accomplishment. It is not a sin – as some religious scholars would have you believe. It is a personal reward. A self-congratulatory emotion. Whereas ego, is a hunger yearning for acknowledgement. We are all born with ego, Jonty. Some of us just need it stroked more than others, and I suspect reciting the last part of each chapter is a way of caressing the author’s vanity. So, without further ado, In for a penny, in for a pound as they say, wot?”	“I’m with you, old bean. But what do we do?”	“It says here that the amulet must be draped around the neck of the orator and the key – the papyrus text – must be somewhere stored on their person – not to be misplaced.” 	Patting himself down, Richard settled on a place to store the note.	“A pocket will suffice, I believe.”	Tucking the folded papyrus into his jacket pocket, Richard continued reading the instructions.	“When in position, it says. That must mean the amulet. When in position,” Richard repeated. “Recite the final sentence in the current chapter. Yes, there it is, below the sketch of what I believe is a Tyrannosaurus Rex.”	Richard paused, as he appeared to be working out a calculation in his head. 	“It’s extraordinary, Dickie.”	“What is?”	“Well, this book looks, smells, and feels ancient; yet the T-Rex - or more accurately, the first remains of a T-Rex - was discovered only twenty years ago in North America. By all appearances, this book pre-dates that discovery by at least… three thousand years.”	“Yes, an intriguing observation, Jonty… Right!” Richard exclaimed – snapping out of his introverted calculating. “Here goes, then.”	Slowly with articulation, Richard recited the words.	“It is yesterday,  I know tomorrow.  After all,  who am I?  Yesterday is Osiris,  tomorrow is Ra.” 	Waiting as several moments passed without incident, Richard’s suspicions of it all being nonsense looked to be proven. Nothing stirred, nothing happened, and not a sound emanated from the room.	“Anything?” Jonty whispered, not realising why.	“Do you hear it?”	“Hear what, Dickie?”	“Nothingness, Jonty. Absolute stillness.”	“And what are we listening for?” Jonty whispered once more.	“I don’t know, Jonty. Like, I don’t even know why we’re whispering.”	“Then, shall we move on to the next chapter?”	Richard cut Jonty off at the end of his question by raising an index finger – as if to say, Did you hear that?	“Hear what?”	“Listen.”	Straining to listen, Jonty was about to break the eerie silence with another query, when a distant unknown animal’s shriek terrified every quiet corner of the room.	“What on Earth?” Jonty asked.	Sensing a small rumbling vibration sweeping across the floor, Richard pointed to the ground.	“Feel that?”	“Trains passing below in the tunnels?”	“We’re not above any underground railway.”	“Dickie!” Jonty jumped back, yelling in surprise. “The eye!”	Pointing at the amulet resting on Richard’s chest, Jonty brought to attention the fact that the eye of the amulet was glowing brightly. 	“How extraordinary,” Richard commented, as the eye brightened further to project an image onto the far wall. “It appears to be one of those silent films they show at the Regent Street Polytechnic Institute.”	“Except, this one is in colour,” Jonty pointed out. “And even more extraordinary is that there is sound coming from the projection on the wall. Do you think we’ve uncovered some new technology?”	“I suspect not,” said Richard. “I believe that this is a far older technology, beyond the manual craft and cunning skill imaginations of Homer and Hesiod.” 	“Odd time to bring up Greek poets, Dickie. But then again, it’s all Greek to me. Missed the classics class as well at the academy. One thing I know for sure is that projection is most definitely not of Greece. It looks like something from another world – perhaps, another time.”	“And it has perspective, Jonty. In photographers’ vernacular, there is depth of field.”	“By George, you’re right. It’s as if one could just step into it.”	Jonty cautiously approached the projection, then gingerly reaching out to touch it, he recoiled in utter surprise.	“Jonty?”	“Well, whatever it is, I can’t touch it.”	“Whatever do you mean?”	“It’s not solid, tangible.”	“Not!? That’s preposterous!”	“I’ll show you.”	Puffing his chest up as he inhaled a breath of courage, Jonty stepped into the projection, walked several feet into what appeared to be jungle fauna, then stepped back into the room.	“See?”	“This is fantastic, Jonty!” Richard’s excited response brought a wide smile to his face. “Show me again.”	Obliging, Jonty once more stepped through the portal and into the projected image. Performing a little happy jig, he let out an exuberant cry, then waved for Richard to join him.”	“Come on in, dear chap. The water’s fine,” Jonty’s invitation loudly rang out. Taking a step forward, Richard was immediately halted by a loud cracking sound echoing around Jonty’s new environment - silencing the other noises. It was like the breaking sound a large twig would make when stepped upon by a heavy weight. Jonty’s smile quickly transformed into alarm, as he looked upwards at something approaching him. Without hesitating, he reactively started back toward the portal, but tripped on a log.	“I’m fine,” he reassured Richard. “Bloody clumsy of me, wot?”	Attempting to get back to his feet, Jonty was suddenly flattened to the floor again, then unceremoniously dragged from Richard’s view.	“JONTY!” Richard screamed. 	Thinking quickly, Richard grabbed the book from his desk and ran towards the portal.	“I’m coming, Jonty!” He yelled. “Hang on!”	Just as Richard passed through the portal, it began to close. It had reduced to the circumference of a Victorian-era sized play hoop - like the ones that came with a stick to roll them along the playground – when a hand reached back through the shrinking gateway, grabbed the two spears, then pulled them through - just as the portal vanished, leaving the room as it was – sans the two work colleagues.	“Dickie!” Came the distant cry through the tall jungle canopy.	“JONTY!” I’m coming, old chum! Hold on!”	With the book gripped tightly under one arm and the two spears slung over his other shoulder, Richard disappeared into the green-covered foreign world in hot pursuit of his friend’s fading cry for help.	 	TO BE CONTINUED…
","August 23, 2023 11:23","[[{'Delbert Griffith': ""Great fun, Chris! It reminds me of the plethora of time-travel movies and books, which are always fun to watch. I think you did a fantastic job with dialogue here; it's difficult to get everything in when you have a dialogue-heavy tale.\n\nI really enjoyed the banter, their backstories, and their current situation. It all made for a rich world that we, the readers, can step into and feel like we're there. This immersive experience just made reading the tale even better. The spears were a nice touch. Introduce the spears, then bring them in lat..."", 'time': '09:51 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Delbert.\nI plan on creating a romp through the most memorable moments in time with this. A kind of The Mummy meets Jumanji meets Indiana Jones type of story.\nHopefully, it will work.', 'time': '23:44 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Delbert.\nI plan on creating a romp through the most memorable moments in time with this. A kind of The Mummy meets Jumanji meets Indiana Jones type of story.\nHopefully, it will work.', 'time': '23:44 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Chris,\nI can see how you’ve altered the characters’ relationship since your last version and I think it’s got a better balance now. Well done for an entertaining story; I look forward to your next instalment.\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '07:22 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Howard,\nThanks for re-reading it and for your great feedback.\nMuch appreciated.', 'time': '07:45 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Howard Halsall': 'No problem, Chris,\nHave a great weekend \nHH :)', 'time': '09:16 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Howard,\nThanks for re-reading it and for your great feedback.\nMuch appreciated.', 'time': '07:45 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'No problem, Chris,\nHave a great weekend \nHH :)', 'time': '09:16 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'No problem, Chris,\nHave a great weekend \nHH :)', 'time': '09:16 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Carol Boeth': 'I could easily be any of the characters in the romp.  Thank you', 'time': '22:44 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks for the feedback, Carol. \nStay tuned for more upcoming cliffhangers.', 'time': '00:42 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks for the feedback, Carol. \nStay tuned for more upcoming cliffhangers.', 'time': '00:42 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'You never disappoint! Another brilliantly crafted, character rich, dialogue heavy, comedic rump. Brilliant good sir.', 'time': '16:52 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Kevin.\nThe next cliffhanger is coming soon.\nGlad you liked it.', 'time': '23:45 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Kevin.\nThe next cliffhanger is coming soon.\nGlad you liked it.', 'time': '23:45 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Rebecca Miles': ""Despite the dialogue only form this has tremendous visual force which really ups the humour. The whole concept is great of course; who won't be drawn to the ironies of the Dead Letter Office employees off on their jolly then madly surreal bringing-history -to -life jaunts. It's mad and that's the fun; it plays out like the Python's twin peaks of Mount Kilimanjaro skit. When you had the scene with the spears early on and they were grabbed and brandished later, I had Chapman pop into my mind, clamber- destroying Cleese's gentleman mountaineer ..."", 'time': '05:49 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Rebecca,\nThanks for the great feedback.\nI've just viewed the sketch. Had forgotten it long ago. Yours is the second comparison to Python. Wasn't my intention, but it's along the lines of my humour, so thank you. This first installment kept the humour to a minimum but hopefully, it gets funnier from here on."", 'time': '06:12 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Rebecca Miles': 'Glad I sent you back to it! More humour always welcome in installment number 2.', 'time': '06:23 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Rebecca,\nThanks for the great feedback.\nI've just viewed the sketch. Had forgotten it long ago. Yours is the second comparison to Python. Wasn't my intention, but it's along the lines of my humour, so thank you. This first installment kept the humour to a minimum but hopefully, it gets funnier from here on."", 'time': '06:12 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Rebecca Miles': 'Glad I sent you back to it! More humour always welcome in installment number 2.', 'time': '06:23 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Rebecca Miles': 'Glad I sent you back to it! More humour always welcome in installment number 2.', 'time': '06:23 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Judith Jerde': ""Okay, I didn't see “to be continued” coming. Your story is very entertaining and your use of dialogue between characters is flawless."", 'time': '04:07 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Judith.\nMuch appreciated.\nI wanted to see if writing a series of cliffhangers over an unspecified period would be interesting to the reader. A bit like the old days of Saturday morning serial movies in cinemas of yesteryear.', 'time': '04:50 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Thanks, Judith.\nMuch appreciated.\nI wanted to see if writing a series of cliffhangers over an unspecified period would be interesting to the reader. A bit like the old days of Saturday morning serial movies in cinemas of yesteryear.', 'time': '04:50 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Jolly good old chap!\nGreat fun. I dont know why but halfway through i started to think of it as a Monty Python sketch with Cleese and Palin.\nReads very well, nothing caught my attention as being intrusive. You do have an extra quotation mark in the last line of dialogue though, hope that helps!', 'time': '18:13 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Derrick.\nI've corrected the extra quote issue.\nYour Monty Python comment is a great reminder for me to add more comedy into this piece. My aim is to write a series of cliffhangers that may add up to a novel out of this.\nThanks for the feedback."", 'time': '23:39 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Thanks, Derrick.\nI've corrected the extra quote issue.\nYour Monty Python comment is a great reminder for me to add more comedy into this piece. My aim is to write a series of cliffhangers that may add up to a novel out of this.\nThanks for the feedback."", 'time': '23:39 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking my Killer Nashville.\nSo far behind on reading not gotten to this one yet.', 'time': '17:31 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,b31qa3,Wrong Address,Michael Martin,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/b31qa3/,/short-story/b31qa3/,Fiction,0,['Fiction'],19 likes,"
He just wanted George to shut his big mouth; Johnny had no idea what it would lead to. A postman cracking codes and chasing Communists in the middle of Nebraska? It was the stuff of cheap dime novels, not his life. At least, it wasn't supposed to be. George had just returned from his delivery route, walking in just after Margaret shut the door behind her. Johnny’s ear-to-ear smile disappeared the moment he heard the creak of the old post office’s wooden door just after she'd left. Couldn’t even enjoy it for a minute, he thought. At best, George would want to continue his earlier McCarthyistic rant about the brewing situation in Vietnam. At worst…“Was that Miss Margaret Taylor herself?”Johnny grumbled under his breath as his lifelong friend and fellow WWII draftee rounded the front counter towards the back room. “Yes, that was her. She just needed to pick up stamps.”George emerged into the back, ducking under the doorframe and dropping his empty sack on the floor with a smirk on his face. “Just stamps? Nothing else?”“Oh, come off it already, will ya?”“You ever think that maybe she’s thinking ‘come on already, will ya’?”Johnny shook his head slowly, avoiding eye contact. He continued sorting out the mail from the drop box just outside the post office, his final task of the day. “You just have no clue how a lady thinks.”“Listen, buddy, she’s not spoken for, and neither are you anymore. Why else would she come to the post office?”“Stamps. Just stamps. I don’t know how many times I…”“What I don’t know is how you keep missing all these signals. You know she’s not going to just come out and say it; she was just as shy when you had eyes for her back in high school. I just don't underst...”“Sunuva...,"" Johnny cut in, his voice a couple orders of magnitude louder than the situation called for. ""How hard is it to write a damn address?"" Johnny shoved an envelope in George's face, holding it there until he gave up on continuing to explain what he didn't understand and looked down. ""This scatterbrain has screwed up the same address four days in a row now!” Johnny said a silent prayer that the envelope would distract George from Margaret - and from how flushed his face had become since they broached that topic.He was relieved to see George taking the bait, looking at the neat, block letters written on the front of the otherwise plain envelope. “What’s wrong with… wait, Persion Road?”“Exactly! There's been one of these for the past four days, and each day it's screwed up in a different way.” Johnny hardly paused to breathe between sentences, maintaining momentum and preventing George's inevitable attempt to return to one of his favorite topics. “They all have the same handwriting. See, lookie here: today, the letter's supposed to go to an 8213 Persion Road, but yesterday it was 8213 Ersimmon Road. Two days ago? 813 Persimmon Road. Three days ago, it was 823 Persimmon Road. I can’t even return to sender, there's no return address!”George’s eyes shot wide open. “Oh! Wait! I remember that address!” He pulled a stack of envelopes from the top drawer of the filing cabinet. “I pulled these from the drop box in town last week, but I just assumed the person was having trouble figuring out where to send them. It was obvious what address they were going for, so I tried to deliver the letters, but there isn't an 8123 Persimmon Road in Big Springs.”Johnny was nodding before George finished, having reached the same conclusion. “But why would anyone try to send mail to an address that doesn’t exist?”George just shrugged while Johnny scratched his chin, the 5 o’clock stubble already sprouting after his morning shave. George announced that he was going to finish up work for the night then head home - his wife wouldn’t abide him missing dinner again. Initially, Johnny was just happy that the envelopes caused him to drop the topic of Margaret but knowing that there were even more of them last week sent Johnny's mind racing. He considered various scenarios; none seemed to account for all the facts, though.Why drop envelopes off every day with wrong addresses when it’s obvious they know the ‘correct’ address?Why try to send mail to an address that doesn’t exist?Why not leave a return address?Why…“Commies!” George came barreling back through the doorway, shouting and nearly hitting his head on the frame. “Goddamn Commie bastards!”“Oh geez, what are you getting on about now?”“They're a Communist message, a coded message! Think about it!”George’s obsession with the Red Scare, the hours of rants Johnny’d endured about the Bay of Pigs, Kennedy’s assassination, Vietnam… Johnny should’ve known this would be how he’d rationalize the odd letters. He knew it was pointless, that once George got these ideas in his head there was no changing his mind, but Johnny felt obligated to respond, “come on, not everything is a Communist plot.”""Ok, check the envelopes from last week.  Each was missing specific letters; they form a damn code!""  He snatched the stack of envelopes off Johnny’s desk, spreading them out on the countertop. “Look, this one’s missing the M’s. And this one from last week, look.” He handed the envelope to Johnny, waiting a mere second before asking, “Do you see?”He did see; the address read 8213 Persmmon Rd., Bg Sprngs, NE.“And here, look at this.”One by one, George handed Johnny the envelopes. Sure enough, each was missing all of a specific letter.8213 Prsimmon Rd., Big Springs, N8213 Persimmon R., Big Springs, NE8213 Persimmo Rd., Big Sprigs, E8213 Pesimmon d., Big Spings, NEJohnny was familiar with enemy codes from his time in the War, having seized German documents and messages after battles to pass to Army Intelligence. He’d never tried to solve one before, though. The idea that this was a Communist plot in the middle of America seemed outlandish; yet, every time he tried to push back on the idea, a voice in the back of his head asked what else could it be? He didn't have a good answer.George’s voice cut in on his thoughts. “Seriously, though, I really do have to get home. Betty’s already going to kill me. We’re gonna get this figured out tomorrow, then we can tell the Sheriff.”Johnny checked his watch and agreed to come back to it in the morning. Before he left, he jotted down the missing characters on a piece of scrap paper to take with him:M P 2 1 I I I E E D N N N R R ROn his walk home, he took the long way - deliberately passing through downtown to check on the only other drop box in Big Springs. He stopped a block away, studying everyone who passed the box in hopes of seeing anything - or anyone - out of the ordinary. After a few minutes, he realized it was a fool's errand; even if he did see the person dropping letters off, he wouldn't even know - unless they were wearing a bright red, hammer-and-sickle shirt.  He shook his head and moved on.After passing the courthouse on Main Street, Johnny found himself in front of the Big Springs Diner. He craned his neck, looking for Margaret’s honey blonde ponytail bouncing between tables. When he saw the two waitresses on duty - neither having honey blonde hair - his heart sank a bit.  Oh well, guess her shift's tomorrow.Johnny shuffled into work the next morning, his body still not fully awake after the two tumultuous and restless hours of sleep he managed to sneak in. The more time he spent thinking about the envelopes, the more he came around to George's crazy hypothesis – and if that were true, how far did it go? Were Communists operating in America’s heartland, in the middle of his country? Johnny couldn’t - wouldn't - stand for it.He checked the drop box the moment he arrived, but it provided nothing beyond disappointment.  There were only two letters, both addressed out of town with correct addresses written in sloppy cursive. George seemed to have gotten precious little sleep as well. Still, within seconds of arriving, he began weaving a web of connections that tied Big Springs to Cuba to Russia and Vietnam. Johnny was too tired - and too unsure of what was real anymore - to argue. He waited until George departed for his route to shake his head at the inane theory, avoiding another hourlong rant that would've made George late for his route again. Johnny was considering a plot in Big Springs, but George had gone off the deep end of conspiracies.By the time Johnny finished his first cup of joe, he’d come to realize that if there was some sort of secret code, it would take a cypher to figure out - one that he'd never get his hands on. So, he needed to focus on the possibility that the descrambled letters formed an actual English word. He wrote out each of the 16 letters on individual scraps of paper and began shuffling them around.By the time he finished his second cup, he’d given up on the word descrambling idea; nothing made sense, and there was the chance that there were additional letters that just hadn't arrived yet. It was like trying to solve a puzzle without knowing if you have all the pieces - or even how many pieces there were supposed to be.  As he began pouring his third cup from the office's old, stained carafe, it dawned on him that he was trying to descramble the wrong set of letters. There was always a single, specific number or letter missing each day; perhaps, instead of trying to descramble all of the individual missing letters, he should decipher just the individual letters and numbers missing for each day. He rushed back to the counter, the words RENDER 2 INNER 1 MIPI still spelled out, and swiped the excess letters off the countertop until just REND2I1MP remained. He began shuffling the letters again:MINDER 21P21 MEN PIRD12 PREM DIN1 MP 2 DINERWait, what about the diner? Were they were planning something at the diner, Margaret's diner? And if the word diner was really part of the message, what did the rest of it mean?12 MP?1M2P?PM12?Wait! 12 PM? It made sense, the order of the letters missing on the envelopes he’d seen the past few days were 1, 2, P, and M.Johnny’s heart sunk as he slid the torn scraps of paper into place.DINER 12PMHe looked down at his watch. 11:07 AM. There were 53 minutes until noon. Did the messenger mean today? There wasn’t a specific day mentioned, but Johnny remembered that there were no new messages today.  If that meant the message was completed yesterday, that would also mean that whatever was planned would happen today, that Commies would be at the Big Springs Diner today at noon - with a good chance Margaret would be there too. He may not have been able to work up the courage to talk to her, but he sure as hell wouldn’t let the Commies – or anyone – hurt her.Johnny rushed out the post office, his legs powering him into town in no time.  He turned the corner on Main Street, studying the drop box much more intently this time. His gaze went back and forth between the diner’s front door and the box; he was early – it was only 11:46 – but he wanted to make sure nothing slipped his notice.He turned the old brass knob on the diner’s front door at 11:49, pushing inside before studying each table. The lunch crowd had yet to arrive; the only person in the dining area was Jane, the waitress on the early afternoon shift. When her eyes met his, Jane’s face lit up. “Well, hello there Johnny.”If he hadn’t been so focused on watching for someone Russian, or Vietnamese, or Chinese, he’d have realized that this was much friendlier than anytime she’d greeted him in the past. If he’d done more than simply wave and say, “hey Jane”, he’d have seen her sheepish grin. And if he hadn’t asked, “have you seen anyone out of the ordinary here”, he'd have heard her giggling instead of responding, “nope, no one here.”She asked if he’d like some coffee and directed him to an empty booth while she fetched a mug. He remained steadfast, watching the few passersby out the window. As the minutes ticked by, his heart beat faster and faster.11:54 Nothing, no one of note.11:55 Just Jim Miller walking into the courthouse.11:56 Nothing.11:57 A kid, maybe the Duncans’ boy, running by the drop box. Didn’t slow down or put anything inside.11:58. 11:59… His eyes darted back and forth from the street to the secondhand on his watch, every second bringing him closer to a confrontation that he didn't know what to expect from nor did he know who else would be involved.As the secondhand reached 12, his eyes locked on the glass front door. He expected something, anything to happen. Someone rushing in, perhaps. A Russian peeking around the corner of a shop, looking for a compatriot in the Diner perhaps. Johnny ducked down in the booth, just in case, not wanting to spook any potential spies.Then, he saw something that both made his heart soar and plummet simultaneously: Margaret’s honey blonde hair flowing in the breeze. She must be starting her shift at noon, the same time that the Commies could be arriving for their clandestine meeting. The confrontation might end up turning violent, he knew; in fact, he expected it to turn violent. He wanted to run outside, tell her to stay home today, plead with her not to come in. Only...Margaret wasn’t in her uniform; instead of the short dress and apron that Diner waitresses wore on shift, she’d donned a long, flowing yellow dress with short, puffed sleeves. She’d kept her hair down instead of in its usual ponytail while on shift. He noticed her face appeared different as well: was that… makeup? He hadn’t seen her in makeup since he’d returned after retiring from the Army a few months back.She looked stunning. The collective effort she’d put into her appearance pushed her beyond the pretty woman he’d watched in passing as she worked the tables; gone were all those years since those Friday nights at high school football games back before the world went to shit in ‘41. She was the same picture of beauty he'd kept in his heart during the long, cold winters in eastern Germany.He stood as she entered and rushed to meet her at the door. He'd already accepted whatever fate may have befallen him; after all, he’d dedicated his life to fighting America’s enemies. But Margaret was no soldier.He kept his eye on the glass door, watching for anyone approaching the Diner.  With his attention on the street, Johnny failed to notice Jane bouncing in excitement, her eyes widening, or how she jabbed a finger in Johnny’s direction before stifling a giggle.His eyes met Margaret's as he got close; she was smiling, joy spread across her face. It broke his heart; any other day, he’d be ecstatic to see that look on her face. Today, he was going to have to crush that happiness and replace it with fear. He hoped he'd get a chance to explain afterwards.“Miss Margaret, please, you have to…”She cut his words short by holding something out to him. An Envelope. No stamps, just handwritten text on the front. He opened his mouth to respond, urgent to get her out of the line of fire, but Margaret handing him a personal note made everything else seem irrelevant for the moment.Written on the front, in neat, block letters: I’m so glad you got my message.
","August 26, 2023 01:05","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Michael,\nWhat a great shortlist!! Congratulations. I have so much respect for writers who have to take time to ensure all the pieces of their puzzle are put together perfectly. Creating a code out of addresses was extremely clever. I also loved the ending. Nice work!!', 'time': '23:48 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michael Martin': ""Thank you! I truly appreciate when the pieces come together for readers, that the time spent coming up with these story ideas isn't wasted because the story wasn't done correctly (which I've definitely been guilty of in the past!)\n\nThank you so much for the kind words - and for reading :)"", 'time': '05:40 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michael Martin': ""Thank you! I truly appreciate when the pieces come together for readers, that the time spent coming up with these story ideas isn't wasted because the story wasn't done correctly (which I've definitely been guilty of in the past!)\n\nThank you so much for the kind words - and for reading :)"", 'time': '05:40 Sep 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin B': 'I could have read an entire novel of George and Johnny. You built in what felt like a really long-standing relationship in a short amount of time. Well done.', 'time': '16:23 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michael Martin': ""That's definitely a glowing endorsement,  thanks! And thank you for taking the time to read :)"", 'time': '01:19 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michael Martin': ""That's definitely a glowing endorsement,  thanks! And thank you for taking the time to read :)"", 'time': '01:19 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Karen Corr': 'Good story, good ending. Congratulations on making the short list, Michael.', 'time': '20:38 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michael Martin': 'Thanks, and thanks for reading! :)', 'time': '02:01 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michael Martin': 'Thanks, and thanks for reading! :)', 'time': '02:01 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Wendy M': 'Great story, a very enjoyable read, well done for being shortlisted.', 'time': '22:14 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michael Martin': 'Thanks!!!', 'time': '22:31 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michael Martin': 'Thanks!!!', 'time': '22:31 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Congrats on shortlist! 🤗', 'time': '15:13 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michael Martin': 'Thanks!', 'time': '22:31 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michael Martin': 'Thanks!', 'time': '22:31 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""What a great story Michael. The dynamics and clash of personalities between George and Johnny in the beginning was like the post office equivalent of the odd couple. Your characters are very rich here.\n\nThe mystery, the code cracking, all harping back to his old war experience and culminating into the red scare, just added to the suspense. \n\nAlthough I was waiting for an twist I couldn't fully be sure of were it was going, and when it did arrive it was adorably wholesome.\n\nGreat work Michael, keep it up 👍"", 'time': '07:08 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michael Martin': ""Many thanks!  I usually have much darker twists, but I wrote this for my gf who's always wanting me to write happy twists or feel-good elements in my writing. She loved this one, so I guess mission accomplished! \n\nThanks again for reading.  I truly appreciate it :)"", 'time': '19:07 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': ""Congratulations Michael, you'll have to listen to the other half more now ha"", 'time': '16:06 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michael Martin': ""Many thanks!  I usually have much darker twists, but I wrote this for my gf who's always wanting me to write happy twists or feel-good elements in my writing. She loved this one, so I guess mission accomplished! \n\nThanks again for reading.  I truly appreciate it :)"", 'time': '19:07 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': ""Congratulations Michael, you'll have to listen to the other half more now ha"", 'time': '16:06 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Congratulations Michael, you'll have to listen to the other half more now ha"", 'time': '16:06 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jakob Roy': ""Started out as wholesome tale of two old army pals muddling through life in post ww2 small-town America, jumped straight into an espionage thriller, then circled back to wholesome again.\n\nIt's funny, traditionally people (even we who were born way afterwards) view the 50s and 60s through a romantic lens, no doubt helped by shows like 'Andy Griffith' and 'Leave it to Beaver'.  But here we see the end of that romantic period with mentions of Kennedy's assassination and the beginnings of Vietnam, and the ever-present fear of communist agents lu..."", 'time': '17:29 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michael Martin': 'Thank you, for not only reading but thoroughly understanding the nuances i tried to layer in.  Its super rewarding when you get that ""YES! Thats exactly what i was going for!"" feeling.  Thank you again my friend.', 'time': '18:03 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michael Martin': 'Thank you, for not only reading but thoroughly understanding the nuances i tried to layer in.  Its super rewarding when you get that ""YES! Thats exactly what i was going for!"" feeling.  Thank you again my friend.', 'time': '18:03 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Иляя Илчка': 'https://myelitedatequest.life/?u=0uww0kv&o=1e0px26&t=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RvFQWoT__Lo&t=tiktok=&t=youtube&cid=clickid={cid}', 'time': '10:35 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '0'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,zqt42p,Hat Lady,Hannah Lynn,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zqt42p/,/short-story/zqt42p/,Fiction,0,['Fiction'],18 likes,"
“She’s back.”
 
“Hat Lady?”
 
“Yup.”
 
MaryAnn motioned the next customer to the counter, putting a temporary hold on their conversation.
 
“Can I help you?” She asked, hoping she didn’t sound as impatient as she felt. It wasn’t the customer’s fault that she was anxious to see what happens with the mystery woman.
 
“Yes. Ten stamps please. You know those stamps that are always good, I can’t think of what they’re called.”
 
“Forever stamps,” she replied, glancing toward the lobby.
 
“Yes, that’s it. Forever stamps. Ten Forever stamps please.”
She plopped her tote bag on the counter and slowly began taking items out one by one. Slowly, so very slowly. “Now where’s my wallet?” she mumbled.
 
MaryAnn turned to her coworker who raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
 
Another glance to the lobby showed the back of the mystery woman as she exited the post office. Darn. 
 
“Will that be cash or charge today?” Digging in deep to find her professional voice she bypassed the tone of annoyance that was threatening to come out as she completed the transaction. The customer put all of her items slowly back into her tote bag including her ten Forever stamps, thanked her, wished her a nice day and left.
 
Thankful for a break in customers she called out “Did anyone see anything?”
 
“Nope. Same as always. She opened her box and left empty handed.”
 
“So strange. Did she look disappointed?”
 
“I didn’t see her face.”  
 
MaryAnn hadn’t caught a glimpse of the woman’s face in a while and last she did it was unreadable. Who was she and what in the world was she looking for? Appearing one day in that signature black hat of hers she opened a P.O. box which she checked on randomly. As of yet she had not received any mail. 
 
“It’s sad. She must be waiting for something, right?”
 
“Maybe no news is good news?” Doug, ever the optimist, replied.
 
“How is it good news to not receive what you’re obviously looking for? Give me one example.”
 
Doug thought for a moment and replied. “Maybe her daughter ran away from an abusive husband and the P.O. box is their only way of communicating if she desperately needs help. No communication means she’s fine.”
 
“That’s ridiculous.” 
 
“Well,” Laura jumped in. “Maybe she has an elderly family member on death’s door and she’s hoping not to hear from the attorney that she passed. Maybe she uses a P.O. box so no one finds out when she becomes the sole beneficiary of a huge estate.”
 
Michael walked by taking out one ear bud. “Not again with Hat Lady? What’s with the obsession?”
 
“She’s not an obsession.” MaryAnn quickly became defensive. “She’s intriguing. Just trying to figure it out.” Hat Lady was kind of an obsession, MaryAnn reluctantly admitted, but just to herself. Having worked at the Post Office for over twenty years she prided herself on knowing all the locals and keeping up with their news and gossip. Hat Lady was the exception and that did not sit well with MaryAnn. 
 
*
 
“There’s mail in Box 103.”
 
“What? Are you sure?”
 
“Yup. I just saw it go in.”
 
“Well, I’ll be. Hat Lady got mail. What was it?”
 
“I don’t know.   White envelope. That’s all I saw.”
 
The group stared at each other after Michael’s surprising announcement. 
 
MaryAnn was the first to break the silence. “What does this mean?”
 
“Hat Lady should be here shortly. That is, if she gets notification of her mail.” 
 
“Probably not, Laura. If she did, she wouldn’t keep coming in to check and leaving empty handed.” Doug had a good point.
 
“So, we wait.” MaryAnn said with her impatience in full swing now. 
 
Michael came back into the break room. “Tote Bag Lady is out there. Someone please help her. Not you, MaryAnn. Not in the mood to see a meltdown today.” He left before she had a chance to swat at him good naturedly. He was right, though; she just couldn’t muster up the manners for another slow motion transaction. Peeking around the corner at the line that was starting to form she saw Dr. Joe. He was more her speed. 
 
“I’ll take Joe. I like his stories about the kids in town who are all grown up now.” She tapped Laura’s arm. “As for Tote Bag Lady, tag you’re it.” They both laughed as they went back to work.
 
*
 
“Hey MaryAnn, I’ll trade you a turkey for a snowflake,” Doug, standing on a ladder, was handing her a cutout decoration that he had just pulled off the front window.
 
“How is it winter already? Another year coming to a close. I can’t believe it.” She took the turkey, threw it in the box labeled Thanksgiving, and handed him the requested snowflake.
 
“Another year closer to retirement.” He smiled at her. They were both getting up in years, looking forward to the next chapter of their lives.
 
“But first, another holiday season to get through. Hopefully we survive.”
 
If MaryAnn struggled to keep her composure with a line of two customers, everyone on staff said a little prayer every December morning. Like a barometer of her stress level, her cheeks turned deeper degrees of red. They knew from years of experience when it was timeout for MaryAnn. Someone, usually Doug, would take over her register and send her to the back for any plausible reason.
 
It was on one of those crimson cheek days that Laura filled in and MaryAnn walked to the lobby to check on the food drive. She was pleased to see the donations were at an all time high. Turning away from the baskets of canned goods she was startled to be face to face with none other than Hat Lady. 
 
“Well, hello!” She blurted out then instantly regretted it. They were strangers after all. “Happy Holidays.” She tried to cover up her overzealous greeting with something more fitting, less stalkerish. 
 
“Good day.” Her voice held a thick accent, barely over a whisper, her face in shadows under the brim of the hat.
 
MaryAnn stood dumbfounded, unable to move or answer. Hat Lady was right there with all of her mystique. She was itching to ask her questions, to finally find out why no one knew anything about her, she was never seen in town, in stores or restaurants. Who was she?
 
She stood like an oaf literally blocking the way to the wall of P.O. boxes. 
 
“Pardon,” Hat Lady said in a foreign whisper of a voice, in one word pointing out that MaryAnn was inappropriately in her way and would she please move.
 
“So sorry.” Feeling clumsy she stepped aside.
 
With the turn of her key, she opened the tiny door of P.O. box 103. From the other side of the lobby MaryAnn heard the gasp as the door swung open revealing the envelope inside.
 
Time stood still. Would she finally learn the secret of Hat Lady? She didn’t dare breathe or motion to her coworkers. She picked up a can of green beans from one basket and quietly placed it in the neighboring basket, an easy pretense of organizing the donations while intently watching the mystery hopefully unfold.
 
Slowly, in a slow motion speed comparable to Tote Bag Lady, she opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper.
 
MaryAnn reached up to the top of her head for her glasses. They weren’t there. How many times did Laura tell her to wear her glasses on a chain around her neck? If not for her stubbornness, she could be reading along instead of looking on blindly.
 
With a swift and sudden crumple, the letter was balled up.  Hat Lady turned on her heel and walked out the door dropping the paper into the garbage can as she left. MaryAnn was shocked.
 
With a look to her left, she noted the can, and with a look to her right, she saw Hat Lady walk through the parking lot. Another look to her left, a few quick steps and what she hoped looked like a nonchalant little swoop she grabbed the crumpled paper and ran.
 
Fighting her way through the dense crowd of customers bundled up in thick winter coats, scarves and hats holding piles of packages she got to the front of the line. Reaching over the counter she grabbed the “Be Right Back” signs and placed them in front of both Laura and Doug, sending all customers to David in the corner register. He looked at her with wild bulging eyes of pure terror. 
 
Ignoring David’s silent plea for help, she motioned to Laura and Doug. “Meet me in the break room,” she whispered.
 
*
 
The trio sat around the sticky table all eyes on the crumpled paper in the middle. 
 
“I mean she did throw it out. It’s fair game at this point.” MaryAnn said.
 
Doug sat back, crossing his arms over this chest. “True. Very true.”
 
Laura nodded in agreement.
 
With his usual one ear bud in, the other one out, Michael appeared, and they quickly filled him in. “Are you all serious right now?”  He grabbed the paper, opened it, and read it out loud. “Ready.”
 
“Ready?” The group said in unison incredulously.
 
“That’s what it says.” He threw the paper on the table, popped in the ear bud, and scolded them. “Get back to work. David is having a stroke and the mob is getting angry.” He was right. They went back to their stations in a haze greeting each customer merrily for the season.
 
There was endless speculation about the mysterious one word “ready” but there was never a solid explanation. Everyone had a theory ranging from the witness protection program to a fiancé getting over cold feet. The years went by, occasional strangers appeared in their tiny post office bringing with them tales from afar, but nobody ever stopped talking about the elusive Hat Lady and she never returned. Her discarded one word letter hung crumpled and yellowed on the bulletin board in the break room long after MaryAnn’s retirement.
","August 20, 2023 20:31","[[{'Debra Walsh': 'Great job!  Fun read! I love stories that keep the reader guessing!', 'time': '14:22 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Right?  I’m still wondering what happened to Hat Lady and who she was.  Maybe she’ll come back in another story and we will find out.  Thanks for the feedback!!! :)', 'time': '16:57 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Right?  I’m still wondering what happened to Hat Lady and who she was.  Maybe she’ll come back in another story and we will find out.  Thanks for the feedback!!! :)', 'time': '16:57 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Karen Corr': 'I enjoyed reading your story. Suspenseful to the end. Thank you.', 'time': '15:48 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Thank you! I’m so glad you enjoyed it!!  :)', 'time': '18:41 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Thank you! I’m so glad you enjoyed it!!  :)', 'time': '18:41 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,qfmtru,Dead Letter Room,John-Paul Cote,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qfmtru/,/short-story/qfmtru/,Fiction,0,"['Crime', 'Horror', 'Fiction']",16 likes,"
She looked down at the blood splattering over the hundreds of envelopes displayed before her. She felt every heartbeat pump it out and bring her closer to death. Her head was light. Her body was weak. She finally slipped off of her chair into the forgotten pile of mail that she was becoming part of.“Someday,” he said from behind her, “someday we will find the solution and Annabelle will be beautiful again.”Weeks before, the punishment seemed inhumanly cruel. All Cassidy had done was sneak into a restricted area for a story. It was a story her editor told her to drop. She did get caught, arrested, and spent a day in federal custody, questioned hour after hour. She was now on a list someplace that could make her job harder to do. But to send her to the dead letter room at the post office? That was over the top.            Cassie’s editor made his anger plain: You want adventure? You want mystery? Then I have a place for you. Thus, she was dispatched to the dead letter room to find herself a story.            It had been a week. When she approached the postmaster about her request, he looked at her oddly and walked her down a dull, grey hallway, and then downstairs. In a corner was the dead letter room. He opened the door. There were stacks upon stacks of undeliverable mail. Some of it was sorted but at some point, the person had given up or maybe died and was buried under the massive pile. The postmaster said, “Enjoy yourself.” He closed the door and Cassie was left to her ‘research’.            The layer of dust told her how often people came down here. Underneath the stale odour seemed to be a slightly sweet smell that offended her even more. Cassie cleared off a chair and enough room on a desk to start her investigation. Someone’s decayed lunch accounted for some of the stench.            Tens, hundreds, thousands. Who knew how many letters she had already been through. As she read, more letters would come down a chute and add to her misery. In her insanity, Cassie had begun to sort the letters into plies but there was no rhyme or reason to these correspondences. She began to think that ‘undead letters’ would have been a better description as more and more rose from their graves.            Then she found a letter addressed to Annabelle. Annabelle. An unusual name from a forgotten time. The outside of the letter only included the town name and a local postmark.            Cassie opened the letter. “My dearest Annabelle,” it began. It was obviously a letter from her beau. He described a town he was visiting. The buildings, the parks, the flowers, statues, and on and on. Cassie’s interest waned with every word she read.            Then the writer spoke of watching a local girl. Fair-haired and freckled. Green eyes. He said he followed her for quite some time before he found the perfect place to take her and slit her throat.            Cassie stopped and read the letter from the top again. She looked at the signature. It only said ‘Charles’. The letter continued to describe how he had slit her throat, the blood pouring out onto the ground. How the fair-haired and freckled girl tried to scream but all she could do was gurgle blood out of the opening. As the girl died, he cut into her flesh to see what she hid inside. The writer was most curious about the freckles and if they continued all the way through. He described carefully and delicately slicing off each layer of skin like slowly peeling a vegetable. As thin as an onion skin, he said. Underneath each thickness, he revealed an ever-growing fascination with what was there.  When he was done, Charles rolled the body down a slope into the mud bank of a river. He wrote how he was so anxious to see his sweet Annabelle again and then signed off.            Cassie dropped the letter and the envelope. What had she just read? Was it real? She picked up the envelope. The postmark was faded but it looked like it was from the 1920s. Was this a sick joke written by a disgruntled lover? Was it written to a kindred spirit?            Immediately, Cassie began to search for more Annabelle letters in the stack. She found another. “My dearest Annabelle” it began. This time Charles described a Victorian age home. An ornate iron gate opened to large flower gardens that surrounded mature trees. Elaborate woodwork. Large windows with lace curtains. He went on and on. And then he mentioned the fair-haired girl with freckles sitting on the porch. A girl of no more than twelve, Charles wrote. He approached her and took her for a walk. In the nearby park, he described slitting her throat, the gurgling of blood as she tried to scream, and the intricate carving he did to find out how deep those freckles went. When he was done he rolled the body into a bush, covered it with leaves, and left. He again merely signed off as ‘Charles’.            Again, it had a faded postmark from the 1920s.            This was incredible. This was beyond anything Cassie had expected to find. She searched through the pile for more. The distinctive writing made the letters easier to find.            There was another and then another. The story never changing a beat.A newer letter. This time it was dated to the 1930s. The letter opened the same as the others, described a beautiful scene, and then the murder and mutilation of a fair-haired, freckled girl. Then there was another letter. And another. And another. All the same format, saying the same things, over and over again. ‘Charles’ seemed most disappointed in one that he was unable to find a clear answer to his ‘hypothesis’, whatever that was. He merely said he hoped to find the ‘cure’ and help his beloved Annabelle.            September 1952. It was the first time the letters changed. Charles now described taking his son with him, teaching him about his ‘quest’. He showed him what to look for in a girl, how to entice her to come alone, and then what to do afterwards. By 1954, the son was participating in the murders.            In 1963, the letters changed. First, the penmanship changed. Much rougher, not nearly as neat. The ‘voice’ was different. Cassie could only guess that this was the son. Had the father died? The son’s tactics had evolved as well. Now the writer lured the fair-haired and freckled faced girls into his vehicle. He would then drive them to an isolated location before he performed his experiments. As she continued to find and read the letters, the writer was just as confounded as his father. Then in 1975, the writer talks about his son’s first try and how pleased he was by his son’s craftsmanship with the knife.            1996, there is a change in the letters again. The son taking over from the father.            Why had no one heard of this? The story was breathtaking and terrifying. A family of serial killers. Father passing his obsession down to his son. And no one knows about it.             Cassie began running through her mind the work she would need to do. Look through missing persons’ files. Sort through old police reports.            She kept digging and digging through the pile of letters until she came to it.First, traces of blood.            Then, a body.A woman.            She was almost skeletal.The skin was shriveled.All over her, Cassie could see the cut marks on her skin.She could see the fair-hair and freckles.Just like her.Behind her, Cassie heard the door shut and lock.         She was paralyzed for only a moment, but it was moment enough for a hand to pull her head back and a blade to cut through her carotid arteries and her jugular.She tried to scream but all she could do was spew blood from the wound.As the blood spilled from her neck to cover the letters, she swooned, and fell onto them.“Someday,” the postmaster said, “someday we will find the solution and Annabelle will be beautiful again.”
","August 19, 2023 14:02","[[{'Debra Walsh': 'Well done!! I love murder mysteries and am fascinated with serial killers.  A whole family of serial killers hiding in the post office yet!  I knew she was going to die but kept hoping for a different ending!  You need to write a screen play about this.  Who is the mysterious, ""Annabelle,"" and why does he need to keep killing for her.\nGreat job!', 'time': '14:11 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Wow that was really scary!!  Heart pounding.', 'time': '02:44 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tom Skye': 'That was a hell of an opening paragraph!\n\nReally nice structure with the style of letters changing.\n\nEnjoyed it good job.', 'time': '22:33 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,k448k6,The Package,KD Weinert,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/k448k6/,/short-story/k448k6/,Fiction,0,"['Contemporary', 'Urban Fantasy']",14 likes,"
“Next.”The girl behind the counter flashes a smile. Kyanna. My stomach flips. God, she’s even cute in a baggy postal uniform. Am I imagining it or is that smile a bit brighter than the one she gave the last customer?I tug the hood of my sweatshirt lower over my eyes, and then fold and unfold the paper in my hand, pretending to read it while holding up my index finger.“Sorry. I’m not quite ready.” I gesture to the guy in line behind me. “You go ahead.”I continue to stare at the paper, occasionally looking up to the station next to Kyanna’s. The old guy who never smiles. Cecil. That’s the clerk I want.No, Kyanna is the clerk I want, but Cecil is the one I need.I can still feel Kyanna glaring at me. I’ve known her since high school when we were band geeks together. I couldn’t talk to her back then either.Cecil finishes with his customer and beckons me over without even looking up from his computer.“Hi, I need to pick up a package?” I hold out the slip of paper.Kyanna clicks her tongue.Cecil snatches the paper from my hand, reads it, and then looks at me over the rims of his glasses. His eyes are mismatched, like an Alaskan husky. Mahogany and ice blue. He turns and ambles to the back room.“I could’ve helped you with that,” says Kyanna, brushing a hand over her hair. It’s a thick black weave that flows down her back. “Just saying.”My mouth goes dry. I try to swallow. “I…just wasn’t ready.”“Whatever.” She scowls, but I notice the corner of her lip twitching.I’ve just said three semi-coherent sentences to her. It has to be a new record. Of course, that’s if you count “sorry” as a sentence.Cecil comes back and drops a repurposed Amazon box on the counter. The logo smiles up at me.I weigh it in my hand. It’s heavier than most of the other ones. “So, how much do I…?”“It’s paid for, boss,” says Cecil. “The person who sent it did that. You oughta’ know how the Post Office works by now. You're here almost every day.”Kyanna giggles and my face turns hot.“Thanks.” I snatch up the package and stride out the door.“Bye, Orion.” She’s still laughing as she says it.Sitting in my car, I pull my hood back and break the tape on the package with the tip of a ballpoint pen. Inside the box there’s a handwritten note:You’ll know what to do. It’s such a messy scrawl that most people wouldn’t be able to read it, but it’s not a problem for me.Under that, wrapped with crumpled newspaper, is a ball-peen hammer and a box cutter. I shift the newspaper aside. There’s one more thing.A baby pacifier, still in its packaging. Too weird.So I do what I always do after getting one of these little presents. I just go about my day, like it never happened.Today that means starting the car and heading to my crappy job at Target. Could be worse. They have me in the back moving stock. At least I don’t have to talk to anyone.Thanks to my post office visit, I’m cutting it close. I can’t be late again. My boss has been all over my butt as it is. Up ahead I see the stoplight at the intersection of Live Oak and Delta. It’s green now, but if I get caught by a red, I’ll never make it on time.The light turns yellow, so I punch the accelerator. If the Hyundai in front of me goes through, I can cut right behind it.But the brake lights flash and now I’m trapped behind the little red car, pounding the steering wheel as every curse word I know throws tantrums in my head. I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. I do it again. And again. Dr. Silverstein recommends this when the stress gets too much. It’s not working today.The light turns green, and the Hyundai moves forward. I’m about to follow when there’s a flash of cobalt blue, a needle-sharp screech of tires, and a sickening concussion of metal on metal. A speeding SUV just blew through the stoplight from the left, bowling into the rear of the smaller car and sending it spinning once, twice across the intersection before careering into a streetlight. The SUV stutters forward another hundred yards or so, its engine knocking. It grinds to a halt just after bouncing up a curb and straddling the sidewalk.Pulling my sweatshirt hood up, I leap out of my car, running toward the Hyundai with the box cradled under my arm. About seven other Good Samaritans are ahead of me. A lady wearing a track jacket and black leggings is already there, a guy in a grey business suit right behind her. Smoke starts to rise from the hood. Then flames. They yank open the driver’s door and a young woman tumbles out, bleeding from her forehead. The man in the suit throws her arm over his shoulder and drags her away.“Get back!” the workout lady shrieks. “There’s gas everywhere!”“My baby!” The young driver is holding a hand to her forehead and scarlet pours from between her fingers. Her other hand stretches toward the car. Her eyes are feral. “My baby’s in there!”The crowd in front of me hesitates, unable to leave an infant to the flames, unwilling to risk immolation themselves. The workout lady runs to the other side of the car and tugs on the door. It’s locked. Or jammed. Either way, it won’t open.One of the other Samaritans, this big guy in a plaid shirt, runs up and grabs her from behind. “Get away from there! It’s gonna blow!” He lifts her off the ground and carries her away. She’s crying, kicking and thrashing as the rest of them fall back.But I shoulder my way past them and head straight for it, my hand reaching into the box.The smell of gasoline is noxious, and it splashes as I run through it. I feel the heat from the flames on my face. I raise the hammer and bring it down on the passenger side rear window and it shatters, spilling into the street like a hundred uncut diamonds. From inside the car, I hear strident mewling. Flicking open the box cutter, I lean inside, slit the nylon restraints of the car seat, close the cutter, and lift out an infant in a pink onesie.And then I run like hell.“My baby!” The young driver is hysterical. Eyes wide and unseeing. Blood running down her face. She looks like Sissy Spacek at the end of Carrie. It takes three people to keep her from dashing back to the burning car. Without a word, I place the baby into her arms.She sobs and drops to her knees. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Thank you. Thank you.”The baby’s eyes screw tight. Her fists clench. She begins to wail. I fish the pacifier out of the box, remove the packaging, and pop it into her mouth just as there’s a hiss and a roar behind me. An orange glow lights up the woman’s face, the baby, the crowd. It warms my back, even through my sweatshirt.The people gasp.“Look at that fireball,"" says Business Suit.But I can’t take my eyes off the baby. She’s snuggled into the bloody blouse, sound asleep, the mother cooing at her.I drop the hammer and retractable knife into the box, tug my hood lower, and push my way through the crowd back to my car. They’re too enthralled by the spectacle to even notice me. The howl of a distant siren drifts through the intersection as I drive away.When I get to work, my boss says, “You’re late. And you smell like gasoline.”I breathe in. I breathe out. Then I just nod and start moving stock.#The next day, I’m back in line at the post office, clutching the same cardboard box. It’s holding the same hammer and box cutter. I had to buy a new pacifier at the baby section at work.“Hi, Orion,” says Kyanna.I look at the ground.“I can help you here, or are you waiting for your man Cecil again?”“Um…I’m not ready.” I gesture to the next person in line to go ahead of me.“What’s the matter? Why don’t you ever want to talk to me?” Her eyes are sparkling, so I think she’s only pretending to be mad.“I’d love to.” I try to swallow the panic in my throat. I'll never be able to talk to her. “It’s…hard to explain.”Cecil wordlessly beckons me toward him.Kyanna takes a package from her new customer, who seems as amused by my embarrassment as she is. “You can explain it to me later. I get off at five-thirty.”My head snaps up. What did she say? I can’t tell if she’s messing with me.Cecil takes the box. “Sending it back, boss?”I pull my gaze back to him. “Yeah.”“How did it work for you?”“Did everything it was supposed to.”He winks an eye at me—the blue one—as he puts the box on the scale and taps his keyboard a few times. Then he turns the screen toward me. “Address right?”I peer at it. Yup. That’s my P.O. box. I nod.Kyanna shakes her head. “You could just keep it at home. Wouldn’t that save you some trouble?” I reach for my wallet. “And cash?”Cecil looks at me over his glasses. “When do you need it to get there?”I glance over at Kyanna and then back at Cecil.“Yesterday would be fine,” I whisper.Kyanna snorts. “God, you’re so funny!”She heard me. And she thinks I’m kidding.After paying, I turn to go, but Cecil’s voice stops me. “Hey boss, wait, I got another one for you. I’ll save you a trip back here.”It’s long and skinny. And light. I tuck it under my arm and head toward the door.“Bye, Orion. See you at five-thirty. Right here.”Wait. She’s serious? She’s giving me one of her cute sideways smiles.Yes. She is.“Yeah,” I say. “Five-thirty.”On my way across the parking lot, I breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out.Again. And again. My heart batters against my ribcage.My God, I’m going to be with Kyanna. Alone. In…I look at my phone…seven hours. Deep breathing doesn’t help at all.Back in my car, I cut the tape on the box with my ballpoint pen with trembling hands. I could tell her I'm sick. That I just came down with something. Like Covid. That's going around again, right?Inside the box is a plastic wand with a string tied to it. On the end of the string is a feather. There’s also a handwritten note. Most people would have a hard time reading it due to its messy scrawl.But I can read it easily. After all, the handwriting is mine. My heart eases up on the accelerator. Just a little bit.The note says Kyanna has a cat. You’ll know what to do.
","August 22, 2023 18:38","[[{'Honey Perez': 'This was such a cool story. Would love to see a sequel :)', 'time': '19:23 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jonathan Shiller': 'I like the drama of the accident and the strange coincidence of Orion having everything they needed to save the baby. I was curious what Orion looks like.', 'time': '02:34 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'KD Weinert': ""Great question! I hoped from his voice you got the impression that he doesn't like to be seen. How did you picture him?\n\nThank you for reading!"", 'time': '16:51 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'KD Weinert': ""Great question! I hoped from his voice you got the impression that he doesn't like to be seen. How did you picture him?\n\nThank you for reading!"", 'time': '16:51 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'S Fevre': 'Really fun and eery, I enjoyed the suspense and pace of the story. Thanks for sharing!', 'time': '18:18 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Shawna Burge': 'That is a really neat idea and I like the way you are using it.  A follow up of this would be a great deal of fun', 'time': '15:41 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'KD Weinert': ""Thank you for reading it! I'll think about a sequel :)"", 'time': '22:30 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'KD Weinert': ""Thank you for reading it! I'll think about a sequel :)"", 'time': '22:30 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Hannah Lynn': 'I really enjoyed your story!  Great concept.  I could see this as a TV series.  It would be fun to watch episodes to see more situations that Orion finds himself in.', 'time': '13:14 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'KD Weinert': ""Thank you! I like that idea. You wouldn't happen to know a producer? :) \n\nWho would you see in the cast?"", 'time': '22:32 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'KD Weinert': ""Thank you! I like that idea. You wouldn't happen to know a producer? :) \n\nWho would you see in the cast?"", 'time': '22:32 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,q6ujh4,Bridges of Ink: A Transcontinental Friendship,Carol Boeth,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/q6ujh4/,/short-story/q6ujh4/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Friendship', 'Adventure']",13 likes,"
Chapter 1: The World in an Envelope
The vast expanse of the sky slowly transitioned from the fiery hues of the setting sun to a deep twilight blue. Lila McKenzie settled comfortably beneath the sprawling mango tree that had become her sacred spot for introspection. Each letter she penned to Cindy was not merely ink on paper. It was like dispatching a piece of her very essence, a vivid fragment of Jamaica, across vast oceans and landscapes. And today's letter held the promise of something new, something special.
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, in the heart of a Canadian winter, Cindy Blair brewed a pot of aromatic chamomile tea, its gentle fragrance mingling with the crispness of the air. Outside her window, fresh snow blanketed the ground, transforming everything into a pristine white wonderland. The soft chime of the clock signaled the mail hour, and Cindy felt a tingle of anticipation, hoping for another glimpse into the tropical paradise of Jamaica.
The footfalls of the mailman grew louder, and then the anticipated thud. Cindy's hand shivered, not from the cold but from excitement, as she brushed against the familiar embossed envelope amidst the stack of mundane bills. Lila's letters were distinct, the paper slightly grainy to the touch and carrying a faint scent of the island.
Cindy settled into her plush armchair, the envelope's weight is familiar and comforting in her hands. The beautiful strokes of Lila’s handwriting, swirling elegantly, felt like a warm embrace from a dear friend. The top left corner sported a Jamaican stamp, this time featuring a vibrant hummingbird, its wings captured mid-flight, mirroring the essence of their friendship.
With deliberate care, Cindy slid her finger under the flap, revealing the treasures within. Lila’s words, penned with her usual flair, painted a vivid tapestry of her recent escapades. She described a local festival, where the town came alive with color, music, and dance. Lila's narrative, brimming with passion and detail, gave life to the characters, the rhythmic beats, the spicy aroma of street food, and the communal spirit of celebration.
Tucked within the narrative was a hand-drawn sketch, capturing a moment from the festival: the silhouette of Lila, her form radiant under the moonlit sky, dancing with abandon. Even in the sketch, Lila's spirit seemed unshackled, wild, and free. Cindy felt as though she was right there beside Lila, cheering her on, their souls intertwined despite the distance.
But the letter held another surprise. Towards its end, Lila wrote, ""I've enclosed a little piece of Jamaica for you."" Nestled within the folds was a pressed flower, its petals still retaining a hint of their original hue. Lila's note identified it as the Lignum Vitae, Jamaica's national flower. A symbol of strength, resilience, and enduring beauty, much like their friendship.
Holding the delicate bloom, emotions welled up within Cindy. This was more than just a flower; it was a testament to their bond, nurtured over countless letters and shared dreams.
Feeling inspired, Cindy fetched her stationery, eager to reciprocate with tales of her Canadian adventures. She wrote about a recent trip to a maple farm, the thrill of skiing down snow-covered slopes, and the ethereal dance of the Northern Lights. As she sealed the envelope, a sense of contentment washed over her. Through these letters, they were living a shared dream, each narrative weaving them closer, bridging the miles with stories and memories.
 
Chapter 2: Seasons and Sentiments
As the months ebbed and flowed, so did the tales enclosed in those precious envelopes. The changing seasons brought with them new adventures. Cindy’s narratives of spring were filled with stories of blooming cherry blossoms, while summer brought tales of canoe trips and camping under starlit skies. Lila, on the other hand, wrote about the year-round tropical climate, the sudden rain showers that cooled the earth, and the festivals that kept the island alive with energy.
Each letter became a time capsule, capturing the essence of their individual worlds. And as they read each other's accounts, it felt as though they were walking alongside each other, not just as observers but as active participants in their respective journeys.
 
Chapter 3: Festivals and Fantasies
One day, Lila's letter bore a festive stamp. It was August, and Jamaica was in the throes of its Independence celebrations. She described the Grand Gala, the costumes, and the fervor of the people. Lila's words painted a carnival of color, music, and dance, and Cindy could almost hear the rhythmic beats and see the vibrant floats.
In response, Cindy penned down her experiences during the Canadian Thanksgiving, speaking of family, gratitude, and the sumptuous feast that was a hallmark of the celebration. She even enclosed a maple leaf, its fiery reds, and oranges a testament to the beauty of the Canadian autumn.
 
Chapter 4: Secrets and Surprises
As the years rolled by, the letters became more intimate. No longer did they just share stories of their surroundings; they began sharing secrets, dreams, and even their fears. Cindy confessed her aspiration to write a novel, while Lila shared her dream of starting her own cafe, a little nook where people could share stories, much like their own.
Then, one day, amidst Lila's flowing script was an invitation. ""Would you like to come and experience the Jamaican Christmas?"" it read. Cindy's heart raced. This was an opportunity to live the tales she had only read about.
 
Chapter 5: A Jamaican Christmas
Cindy's arrival in Jamaica was met with warmth and enthusiasm. Lila greeted her at the airport, and their embrace felt like the culmination of years of friendship. The next few days were a whirlwind of experiences. Cindy reveled in the beauty of the sandy beaches, the spicy tang of jerk chicken, and the rhythmic beats of reggae. But the highlight was Christmas, a blend of traditions, food, and the infectious spirit of the Jamaican people.
As Cindy boarded her flight back to Canada, her heart was heavy, but her spirit was enriched. She had memories to last a lifetime and a bond that had only grown stronger.
 
Chapter 6: More Than Words
As Cindy sat down to pen her next letter, words seemed inadequate. How could she capture the magic of her trip? Yet, as she began to write, the memories flowed seamlessly. She spoke of her experiences, the laughter, the food, and most importantly, the warmth of Lila's family.
Their letters continued, but now they were infused with shared memories. The mango tree under which Lila wrote, the street vendors, and the local market, all had a new meaning for Cindy.
In time, Lila too visited Canada, experiencing the beauty of the Rockies, the charm of Canadian towns, and the warmth of Cindy’s world. Their bond, once confined to paper, had now spilled over into the real world, proving that true friendship knows no boundaries.
 
 
","August 23, 2023 16:41","[[{'S Fevre': ""A heart-warming story of friendship and loyalty across time and space. It felt nice to read something authentic and simple, like poetry.  The writing also captured well the anticipation and pleasure of waiting for and reading real letters, how I miss that! As a reader I was curious to know how the friends' letter-writing had started, and maybe a hint at more intimate aspects they shared in their letters (love, loneliness, children, etc). Thanks for sharing this piece story."", 'time': '18:35 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,lcdzxt,Base A: The Post Office  at the End of the World,Jonathan Page,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lcdzxt/,/short-story/lcdzxt/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Adventure', 'Contemporary']",11 likes,"
The icy waters crackle as the cruise ship enters the harbor off the notched and ragged coast of Port Lockroy. There is a hectic roo, roo, roo from the calling Gentoo penguins, and there is a fussy cow, cow, cow from the snowy sheathbills as they tap the windows of the Post Office. It is ironic that we are located out on the polar shelf—literally set apart from the whole world, and yet, the world comes to us daily. I rise from my bunk drenched in sweat. My veins ache as if tensed by electric current. My head is burning but my hands are ice cold, holding my anxieties in clenched fists. I spread and stretch out my fingers as wide as I can and try to breathe. It is another nightmare. What is it, three nights in a row now? Reliving the humiliation of being canned and censored, receiving subpoenas and summonses to boot—and the lawsuits. It is years later, and I still cannot escape the events that led me to leave journalism, and the rest of it, behind. The threats and backlash are still coming daily. And every day since I lost Michael, I’ve questioned my dogged pursuit of the truth—which has cost me nearly the whole world—but not quite all of it.The wind usually whips at forty miles an hour for days at a time, but it is eerily calm on the island this morning, has been all this week. It is nearly Christmas, but it is summer down here in Antarctica, and we are in the midst of the Midnight Sun where daylight never ends. Come February mostly everyone will leave for winter. Right now, temperatures are in the mid 30s Fahrenheit and reach the 50s midday, and it is clear, crisp, and pleasant.It is hard to believe that I have been here for three years. That the island has become so crowded that instead of just collecting postcards from tourists, we now have our own mail routes across Wiencke Island and down to Hope Bay. Things have changed so much that there are expeditions here in the winter from various space agencies, testing out standards and methods for colonization of the Moon and Mars under rugged and inhospitable conditions. There are also immunologists that come to these islands to set up research labs to perform research in a frozen sterile environment, away from the hubs where a stray virus or strain of influenza could wreak havoc on the world. It is almost as if my former work is seeking me out, even to the ends of the world.* * *I head out to man the postal counter, donning my name badge ‘Nellie Ainsley.’ This morning, even before the cruise ship has docked, the little bell on the door rings to announce that we have our first visitor.“We’ve been getting the wrong mail again Nellie,” Marge huffs. Marge is in her seventies and her skin is taut and sheen like parchment paper. Her blue eyes are determined bustling mirrors. She maintains the commanding presence of an athlete ready to explode off the blocks. She was one of the first prominent female distance runners back in the 1970s and 1980s, and she is still just as feisty as she was then.“You aren’t getting your mail?” I ask.“Right, Jim and I aren’t getting our mail. We are getting Ann and Rob’s mail. And they are getting ours.” I immediately know that this mystery has everything to do with Tom Curtin, our postie, and local teller of both tall tales and true ones. “Ann and Rob that live next door—that’s what we are talking about Marge,” I ask, knowing where this is going. You see, Marge and Jim moved here from Colorado a few years ago and live in a cabin they call the Penguin Pagoda. It is the largest house on the island and a veritable hub for guests, so you can see how they’d be particular about everyone knowing it and bending the proverbial knee to their seniority. Making matters worse, Rob Karr and Ann Boulet are a much younger couple. Rob is a famous long-distance runner from Colorado who works as our Town Pharmacist and Ann is a young schoolteacher from Colorado who teaches English classes from her home. The two came here to stay only two months ago, and that meant adding a new stop on Tom’s postal route. They had been training snowshoe racing and built themselves a proper cabin—Leadville South—right up the road from Jim and Marge Hickman, which must have thrown Tom off his normal routine. Truth be told, Jim and Marge seemed a little jealous of their neighbors giving their home a name, so close on to their own infamous abode.“Yeah Nellie, Tom keeps leaving us Ann and Rob’s mail, and they keep getting ours. It’s a problem. We go next door and trade them up, but we are getting sick of it, ay,” Marge grunted and flexed her forehead to really let me know she meant business.“So, you are getting your mail in the end, right? What’s the problem?” I respond, pursing my lips and squinting, extending my arms onto the counter and into her space.“The problem is that Tom is getting us mixed up and we aren’t getting the correct mail,” Marge says.“But you said you trade up for the right mail, so you are getting it,” I tell her.“Yes, but it’s not our responsibility to finish the mail delivery process. It’s Tom’s!”“I’ll tell Tom to be more careful. You do know he’s delivering mail by foot for the whole island, right! There’s really no issue if you’re getting your mail in the end.”Marge stormed out less than pleased, and I added to my ‘to do’ list giving Tom a thorough talking to about this ‘issue’ with the great mail mix up of 2026.As Marge left a ship hand came in and delivered us fresh sausage and egg platters and told us that the passengers were shoving off in about forty-five minutes, and to be ready to put on a show and deal with the rush.In the meantime, Tom rolled in looking like he’d been out in the wilderness for a month, with his furry Cossack trooper hat and his signature lightweight Canada Goose puffer jacket. He was chewing on some beef jerky as he said, “Marge is in an uproar that I’ve been giving her the wrong mail, is she?”“You know she is,” I say.“Shhhh,” he says putting his finger to his lips, “don’t tell her I’ve been doing it on purpose just to ruffle the old battle-axe’s feathers.”“Tom! That’s awful,” I say.“Ehhh. There are worse things.”“I guess so,” I say, drooping my head and thinking of the mail I’ve been receiving.“You holding up okay? I saw you got more love letters from those lovely pharmaceutical companies about those old articles,” Tom said.“It’s been getting to me. I’m not going to lie. After all that research and the findings of the doctors, three of them—Lewis, Levy and Kiko—and the whistleblowers from the lab that knew about the bad batches—I thought people would want to look at why thirty-year-old men were falling down dead with heart attacks—that maybe someone would give Michael’s family some answers. But I got blackballed instead.”“And it just doesn’t stop does it,” Tom said.“No, I mean, they are coming for me—still. It is like those expeditions when you would say that the reports when someone died would go on for months. In my case, it may just go on forever,” I told him.“You know, I once travelled 160 km towing my fellow explorer Evans on a sled, with nothing but a few pints of brandy, some chocolates, three biscuits and a tent—“—Because Evans had succumbed to scurvy and snow blindness—the latter being an affliction I sometimes wonder if our whole society has become afflicted with—” I interrupted, having heard this story a hundred times, and knowing it by heart.“—I just barely made it to Hut Point in a fit of total exhaustion and collapsed in the snow while we waited for the rescue party. And I say that to say, soldier on lassie! It aint over as long as you still have breath in your lungs and a smile on your face.” And this was just one of Tom’s many close calls that have left him a hunched and haggard man at forty whose beard is dark and patchy and whose grizzled and ice-stained mien resembles an ornery old white wolf, well-scarred and well-marked from his travels.“I wonder if it is harder to walk a hundred miles through the polar terrain or to be cast aside for exposing corruption that the powers that be wish to keep buried,” I tell him, emphasizing, “when you know you are right.” It is ironic, I think, that society can be more isolating than the farthest reaches of nature.“You, Nellie, are a girl in need of adventure. Rob and Annie and I are taking a small boat to Jougla Point and camping out for the night under the ahem—stars, and we’ve got everything we need for a proper cookout—you have to come,” Tom said, being ironic, because obviously you can’t see any stars when its daylight twenty-four hours a day.“When does this party get started?” I asked.“Six.”“I’ll be there.”* * *As I pack my camping gear, I think it is ironic how time seems to stop on these summer nights just before the winter solstice with the Midnight Sun hanging like a kite from a string directly above us. Yet our posted letters still travel outward incessantly to the far reaches.Expedition ships transport the mail to the Stanley Post Office in the Falklands, from which it is carried by the Royal Air Force to the UK where it enters into regular postal channels and reaches the far corners of the globe, just as that same sun hanging motionless above us lights the whole globe each day.I’d come here feeling abandoned by my editors and my profession. All I had wanted was an explanation why my fiancé Michael had suddenly fallen dead from a heart attack after taking a simple vaccine. All I had wanted was to get answers for anyone else who’d experienced the same thing. The editors of the paper came to heel under the influence of those same corporate and political forces that wanted to control the news and suppress the truth—the truth that we had been careless—the truth that we hadn’t been honest about the risks. The paper followed orders and marked me as a pariah, as they were meant to do, leaving me alone to face the weight and venom of the very corruption I sought to root out. Leaving me alone in my grief.Though I had come here to escape to the wilderness and strengthen my resolve among the icy cliffs and frozen plains—I had kept my daily journals without fail. I had continued my research. I had delved deeper into the corruption. Not just of the pharmaceutical stories I had started with, but into financial stories, and a myriad of other instances of power run amok. And now it seemed that the world would pull me back against my will—summoned to Parliament—summoned to Court in Washington, DC—summoned back where I did not wish to go. But what I had failed to do was to experience nature, as I had at first planned, at least until now.Tom knocked on the door, and we ventured out to the little skiff waiting in the harbor. Rob was there with his scruffy blond hair and bright Hoka racing shoes. Ann was there with her dark long brown hair and bright cheeks, huddled up in a parka jacket. Tom led us across to Hope Bay through the throngs of penguins and sheathbills and the still quiet waters.As we disembarked in the still of the evening, we trudged through the snow of a steep uphill that left us in the shadow of the towering unnamed mountain of Wiencke Island. The mountain stood in the distance like a sentry watching over the edge of the world.Everyone began setting up camp on a dry grassy knoll in the shadow of the unnamed mountain, and Tom fired up a Camp Chef propane powered grill with its cast aluminum burners glowing in the shadows. Tom then pulled out steaks and set them on the grill to cook. Rob began passing around a bottle of Vodka and we all drank out of coffee mugs while Tom cooked, huddling around an impromptu fire pit that Ann had made with kindling she had brought along and lighter fluid from her sack.“It’ll be time for us to shove off in just eight weeks,” Rob said.“I can’t wait to get back to the mountains and spring training,” Ann said, taking a healthy swig of Vodka and leaning into the fire.“The Rocky Mountain Rumble,” I said, referring to the race the two of them talked about last year, and which they brought back belt buckles from when they returned back to the island to stay for summer.“That’s the one,” she said. “One hundred miles over the Rocky Mountains on foot—what an adventure!”“Are you recovered from your medical situation,” I asked Rob.“Pulmonary embolism. Can you believe it. I guess running up the Rocky Mountains and taking on the Ultra Trail du Mont-Blanc in the Swiss Alps a week later wasn’t the smartest thing to do for a former flatlander like me—and four months later—I’m right as rain,” Rob said.“There’s nothing like being out all day and all night and coming into a new day without sleep,” Tom said.“Life in a day,” Annie affirmed.“Life in a day,” Tom said. “Only, for me it wasn’t running, but getting from Point A to Point B in the wilderness. Moving forward when you can’t even see where you are going. A hell of a thing.”At that moment we heard the crush of snowshoes and some hearty voices down the valley, calling out, “We’re coming.”It was Marge and Jim. Another moment and they were at the camp.“What are you two doing here,” Tom asked.“You know you’ve been mixing up our mail with Rob and Annie’s, don’t you, ay” Marge barked.“Oh, come off it, we’ve got that all sorted,” Tom said.“Hi Robbie, Anne,” Marge said, and noticing the buckles in their bags, she continued, “back at it again this year with the Rocky Mountain Rumble, ay”“You know it,” Robbie said.“You know Marge won that race back in 1985—ran it in with a time of—what was it dear, twenty-six hours, plus or minus?” Jim added.“26:57,” Marge said.“I didn’t know that,” Robbie said.“A lot you don’t know, sonny,” Marge said back, and continued, “a lot of controversy around that race—hell—I guess there’s a lot of controversy around any race.”“I heard that the race directors were playing favorites or there was some accusation about who they let into the race,” Annie said.“It’s not important now,” Marge said, “I’m retired.” But I wasn’t so sure Marge wouldn’t be lacing up and toeing another start line.While they talked about the race, I thought it was ironic that this group who had come here from the far reaches all shared this common experience of a race or an exploration and being awake more than a full day. It was ironic that the same controversies that dogged them back home were alive and well on this frozen tundra.“Are you going to start writing again,” Tom asked.“I don’t know if I can—but—I have to go home this winter to deal with some legal matters, so who knows. I mean, if I am going to be attacked and smeared and made to have my face rubbed in it all anyway, when I am basically living on the moon, what sense is there not standing up and facing it?”“Bravo! Well said,” Tom clapped.The Midnight Sun appeared like a moon behind a cloud as its rays were cut by the unnamed mountain, leaving us in a valley of shadows. The still waters and the serene whistle of the uniformly north breeze caused goosepimples to rise on my arms. Everything was perfectly still.Above the horizon line a bar of thin gray clouds stretched out, and the stripes of long numinous rays of the polar aurora formed arcs and bands of neon green.Tom pointed out at the light show above, saying, “There it is.”The ovular whips of neon green phosphorescent light brought to mind the very real fact that the entire world was just an island in a vast sea teaming with energy. And these energetic particles were posts from a distant sun, coronal kisses blown in the winds of space, arriving before us like letters that said that everything is connected.“Tom,” I whispered. “I need your help with something.”“What is it,” he said.“Look inside,” I said, pointing at my camping bag and finishing a half cup of vodka in one swallow.“Are those—”“—Michael’s ashes.”“Will you help me take them out to Hope Bay and scatter them.”“Of course,” Tom said.As the two of us walked to the skiff, I thought that I was not just setting Michael free, but I was free too to pursue the truth, even if my message had to travel across the cosmos before it found an island to illuminate.
","August 21, 2023 07:42","[[{'Jonathan Page': 'https://www.ends-of-earth.com/adventure/penguin-post-office/', 'time': '07:43 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Fascinating tale Jonathan. Theres a reality tv competition show called the Amazing Race and I think they stopped off at this location, or somewhere similar to it, in an early season. I remember the teams having to sort through mail in a post office like this looking for specifically addressed letters. That's completely irrelevant of course but it just meant I was able to picture the scene easily! \nA strange life out there but possibly quite relaxing and stressfree.....unless of course your problems from the past refuse to leave you alone, wh..."", 'time': '09:22 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Derrick!  That is really cool that you saw something with this very location.  Thanks for reading -- I think these type of remote locations really have a lot of creative potential wrapped up in them!  I can totally see why the Amazing Race would put that on the itinerary.  Btw, I was reading your Hazard 3000 Story and got a good laugh when you inserted the line about thinking up an idea for this weeks writing contest!  Adding a little meta into the plot.', 'time': '02:43 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Fascinating tale Jonathan. Theres a reality tv competition show called the Amazing Race and I think they stopped off at this location, or somewhere similar to it, in an early season. I remember the teams having to sort through mail in a post office like this looking for specifically addressed letters. That's completely irrelevant of course but it just meant I was able to picture the scene easily! \nA strange life out there but possibly quite relaxing and stressfree.....unless of course your problems from the past refuse to leave you alone, wh..."", 'time': '09:22 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Derrick!  That is really cool that you saw something with this very location.  Thanks for reading -- I think these type of remote locations really have a lot of creative potential wrapped up in them!  I can totally see why the Amazing Race would put that on the itinerary.  Btw, I was reading your Hazard 3000 Story and got a good laugh when you inserted the line about thinking up an idea for this weeks writing contest!  Adding a little meta into the plot.', 'time': '02:43 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Derrick!  That is really cool that you saw something with this very location.  Thanks for reading -- I think these type of remote locations really have a lot of creative potential wrapped up in them!  I can totally see why the Amazing Race would put that on the itinerary.  Btw, I was reading your Hazard 3000 Story and got a good laugh when you inserted the line about thinking up an idea for this weeks writing contest!  Adding a little meta into the plot.', 'time': '02:43 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,o9zh3f,Seashore Lane,S Fevre,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/o9zh3f/,/short-story/o9zh3f/,Fiction,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction']",11 likes,"
“40 by 60 centimetres, this one goes to orange; 4 by 2, blue. What do you think they packed in this one? Do they deliver jewellery by post now too?” marvels Maia, as she lobs the tiny, decorated cardboard packet to the container at the back of the holding room. 
“Who knows?” mutters Mitch. “Everything is considered urgent nowadays, probably a couple who decided to get married online at the last minute and needed a ring”. 
 
They continue sorting the cardboard boxes: a novel initiative to reduce paper waste from the incremental build-up of cardboard packaging in the new age of online delivery. “Sellotape vortex!” cries Maia, laughing; Mitch comes to the rescue with a long set of wooden pincers to pull off the sticky tape she has been passing from finger to finger for the last few minutes without succeeding in getting unstuck. “I wish they would stop sticking the corners down with this stuff, it drives me crazy!”. “Well it’s that or metal staples, and those were outlawed as a health and safety hazard, so sticky tape it shall be”.
 
“I’m sure there are a whole range of alternatives. Years ago I bought a staple-less stapler, it somehow shot air through the paper to get it to stick together. My little brother stole it during his stationary phase and I never saw it again so I can’t tell you any more about how it works. And aren’t the Japanese the crafters of folding? From origami to fancy cloth packets, they can fold anything into shape. See? I’m sure there are lots of alternatives. I bet you there’s a sticky tape lobby which has got us stuck here, excuse the pun” she laughs. 
Mitch smirks as he uses a ruler, a pencil and his left pinkie finger to finally unstick the sticky tape from the pincers and get it to fall into the plastics bucket. 
 
Bim, ding, dong! The voice-over sings out from the central communications station and announces “Postal worker requested at the IT station, invited to present with a smile and goodwill. Online banking error 501 signalled from mass user survey”. “I guess it’s my turn” frowns Mitch, “I’ll work on my smile in case they turn on webcam. Since online banking became our number one seller, all the pre-retirees are managing their retirement funds themselves. They’re panicking about fluctuating interest rates and we’re getting user bottlenecks in the account transfer centre. I have to go and dangle some e-products into their investment space to spread the wealth. Retirement homes, solar-fuelled entertainment systems and sustainable virtual casinos are some of their favourite investment packages. Oh, and crowdsourcing for Angry Bird version 89.”
 
“Mitch, you’re one of a kind! Go and help those post pre millennials find the good life!”. 
 
Maia sighs and gets ready to pick up another carton when she hears a ring, this time it sounds like a doorbell. Odd, I didn’t receive a message to tell me anyone is coming. Nobody ever comes here, in fact, apart from Mitch and I, I’m not sure anyone else even knows where the post office is. We are actually the living avatars of the postal metaverse.
 
Maia scans the room to check that nothing is out of the ordinary, walks through the thick metal bomb shelter door and climbs the spiral staircase. She walks through the empty white corridor with faded lino flooring and peeps through the door hole. Nothing. She tentatively opens the wooden door that faces onto the dull East London back street. Nobody. Then a voice whispers “For you, Maam”. She looks down to find a little girl, about six years old, with dark curls and a nervous smile, staring at her intently with a deep and expectant expression in her eyes. She holds out a small white envelope. Without thinking, Maia reaches out and takes the envelope. With that, the girl skips away and disappears round a corner behind the bagel shop. Maia looks at the envelope in her hand. On one side an address is written in childish capitals: ‘Tom Appleby, Seashore Lane, Cornwall’. In the top right corner is a small rectangle with a drawing of a butterfly and underneath is written ‘50p’. On the other side, where the envelope is sealed, elegant script reads ‘Lena Baxter, Brick Lane, East London’.
 
What am I supposed to do with this? What is it, anyway?
“Mitch, come and see this!”. “What’s up? I just got my seniors to invest in a gaming fund. You should be impressed!”. “Great, I’m glad to see you putting your A-levels to good use. Now look at this”. 
 
“What is it?” Mitch wonders out loud. “Well, it’s an envelope, obviously, but what are we supposed to do with it?” Maia queries, starting to panic. “I hope it doesn’t have anthrax in it!” 
 
“You can run it through the biosecurity monitor for recycled packaging” Mitch suggests, “but then what?”. 
 
“Well, this little girl gave it to me. Maybe she’s Lena Baxter. Or maybe that’s her mum, since the writing looks very sophisticated. Maybe they want this envelope to get to Tom Appleby in Cornwall.”
“So why would they give it to us? Why didn’t they call Uber-send?”. “I really don’t know, Mitch…. But I do know that the girl looked quite desperate. I feel like she placed her trust in us and we owe her one”.
 
“So, do you have plans this weekend? It’s at least a 6-hour train ride to Cornwall if you’re up for it.” 
 
“If we’re up for it, you mean” specifies Maia. “That’s all very well, but what happens once we get there? None of my online maps come up with Seashore Lane. How on earth are we going to find it?? And we have to be back here by Monday as we’ve got all the new cardboard containers coming in”.
 
At 5am on Saturday we board the train. London to Perranporth, no biggie. Only 10 hours of travel, including train, walking, train, hitch-hiking, bus. It should be a scenic place, it’s definitely on the seashore, and it’s traditional enough that some old geezer in the village might know someone who knows someone who knows Tom Appleby.
 
Arrive Perranporth. It’s windy with a high chance of rain. Not quite the picture from the Tourism Office website. The student bartender in The Cod and Crown has never heard of Seashore Lane, let alone Tom Appleby, apart from a character she might have seen from a 1970s TV show rerun.  The older generation with some knowledge of the area are all at a bingo tournament in Newquay and won’t be back until sunset. We go back to The Cod and Crown. There’s nowhere else to go. I order a non-alcoholic beer and Maia gets a cranberry-flavoured cider. I meander over to a forlorn bookshelf in the corner of the musty pub, which boasts Oriental philosophy, The Art and Intuition of Fishing and How to Build a Boat in 7 Days or Less. I pick up the Boat book and walk back to the table. Maia and I have a sarcastic flick through the graphic illustrations adapted in turn to oak, bamboo and beech. I am about to slam the cover closed in frustration when I notice a personal note on the inside cover. The handwriting looks familiar. “Maia, pull out the envelope!”. And there it is, the same handwriting as on the back of the envelope. Lena Baxter’s. It reads:
 
My dear Tom, another one for your collection. May the tides rise and fall as smoothly as our heartbeat. Yours patiently, L.B.
 
Uncanny. Maia and I get up and inspect the premises. We notice another door on the far side of the pub with an arrow pointing towards it marked ‘Tides and things’. And in small letters beneath it ‘Explorers, fishers and friends can all be found on Seashore Lane’. It opens onto a path towards the beach. Somehow, it makes sense to follow it. At the beach is a narrow jetty, in front of which lies a crate with lots of empty wine bottles stacked inside. Each of them has a small sticker and there, on some of the stickers, is the same address – Tom Appleby, Seashore Lane. Others have different names, John Edwards, Greg Wilson, Henry Adams. Maia knows what to do. She pulls out the envelope from her bag and rolls it carefully into a thin tube. She takes a bottle with Tom Appleby’s name and inserts the envelope inside. She then plugs it closed with a cork from a pile in the corner of the crate.  
 
“I wonder how long he’s been out there” wonders Maia. “And how Lena Baxter and that girl are connected to him”. He could be an uncle, a friend, a brother. Maybe we’ll never know. “Wait!” I shout, before Maia throws the bottle into the sea. I pull off the cork, get a stick to extract the letter and whip out a pencil from my pocket. In the bottom left back corner I scribble “Mitch and Maia, courtesy of Brick Lane Post Office”. “In case he finds it” I say. Maia smiles at me wistfully, packs it back up, walks to the end of the jetty and drops the bottle into the waves. “A message in a bottle. Who knew that in our day and age, it would be the most likely way of finding lost explorers.” 
","August 25, 2023 20:57","[[{'William Vickers': 'Super interesting story! Good job on creating something so unique... I\'d never read anything quite like this before. I found it charming and mysterious and loved the part where we get to Perranporth. I think you cleverly build this world quickly mentioning the only people old enough to help will be playing bingo! Quite funny but we understand the setting perfectly. ""Forlorn"" bookcase in the ""musty"" pub ... I really liked that too. Very Very charming end to a feel-good story :) (before i forget I do agree with Derrick regarding the POV switch...', 'time': '14:48 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'S Fevre': ""Thanks for the feedback William. It's interesting to hear which parts struck a cord and very encouraging.  Really appreciate it!"", 'time': '19:31 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'S Fevre': ""Thanks for the feedback William. It's interesting to hear which parts struck a cord and very encouraging.  Really appreciate it!"", 'time': '19:31 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Inventive tale! Liked the characters, it had a nice whimsical vibe to it. Very playful and magical. And I like the mystery is exactly that! The writing flowed Really well.\n\nOne comment, I found it jarring when the pov changed halfway through from third person (with Maia being the main character in the first section), to first person with Mitch becoming the main character. \nMaybe that's intentional but it definitely caught me and confused me. Maybe some kind of marker between first and second parts to tell the reader something has changed, sc..."", 'time': '06:44 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'S Fevre': ""Hi Derrick, thanks so much for your read and comments. I'm glad you enjoyed the tale. And I really appreciate your feedback on the POV. I decided to experiment (one of the values of Reedsy) with POV and try different approaches, so your reader experience and suggestions are really helpful."", 'time': '12:06 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'S Fevre': ""Hi Derrick, thanks so much for your read and comments. I'm glad you enjoyed the tale. And I really appreciate your feedback on the POV. I decided to experiment (one of the values of Reedsy) with POV and try different approaches, so your reader experience and suggestions are really helpful."", 'time': '12:06 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,bwn2ha,Monday Morning,Kendall Defoe,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/bwn2ha/,/short-story/bwn2ha/,Fiction,0,"['Funny', 'Contemporary', 'Fiction']",11 likes,"
“Next!”She did not mean to shout, but she knew what the morning would be like. The people waiting in line would be buying stamps, picking up packages, check post office boxes, etc…and then buying whatever groceries they could find in the drugstore before heading to the café or the metro. The day they decided to put her job in the middle of the brightness of a drugstore was the day she should have quit. But she was still here, after the move, wearing the uniform that indicated some level of responsibility and experience.Yes, that was the word: experience.She was standing behind the counter, waiting for Lee to get out from the back and help her out with whatever traffic they would face. There were now three in line, but that was early.“Next.”The old lady did not hear her, but that was fine. Janet knew that this was going to be business as usual with Ms. Lindar. She was always getting packages or trying to get the latest celebrity stamps if she had not bought them last time. Her thin windbreaker and cane were clear and simple props she expected on a Monday. The lady approached, with a slight scent of mothballs and polyester, and smiled to herself.“Just a package today.” She passed over a slip from the delivery service with her name and address on it. She ran a scan over the QR code and it was legitimate.What else should it be?“Do you have identification?”“As always.” In her red faux-leather handbag, she took out a set of plastic cards held together with a green rubber band (always green, she noted; just like the ones we use here). Her birth certificate and driver’s license were right on top.“Here, my dear. Do you need anything else?”“No, not at all. I just had to check…”There was a decision in her mind not to check Ms. L.’s address again if she was at the desk. Lee would probably call her for help, anyway.And where the hell…?“Lee!”At least there was no one in line at the moment (Ms. L. was heading toward the painkillers). She turned around the corner and saw him.“Lee…”Nodding out again…and no surprises here. The boy was sitting on stack of plastic boxes, now turned over and empty for their collections, and he was out of it. Why couldn’t the boy go for a large coffee loaded with sugar and cream like the rest of them at the café down two doors from them? He would always pill himself up or out and she had been very good about not saying a thing to the staff or management about this. It was easy to do so, since Lee was one of the sons of the too-rich-to-think people who owned the place (one of the sons: legitimacy is a strange animal).The epi-pen was rolling across the floor.“Lee. Lee, Lee…” She squatted down to pick it up, recognizing that this was a new one that he had just obtained (was that a gift from upper management?). “You are so lucky it is a quiet morning…”It would be some time before she forgot the coincidence of what happened next. The pen was still in Lee’s leg and he was groaning and moaning after he caught his breath, stood up and pushed her into some stationery. And that was when she heard the bell on the counter…and the scream.“Everyone, down on the ground!”It was not an easy Monday, but it was still a Monday. She pushed Lee back down onto the plastic – he needed a moment – and walked around the corner to face a rather squat and ski-masked man waving a gun around the room.“Lady, get down!”She looked over the man’s outfit up close: jeans (loose-fitting, but clean), Chuck Taylors (excellent condition), thin leather jacket (weathered with a white t-shirt, so very stylish in black), and the ski-mask (a balaclava…is that what they call it?).Something was off.“I am the senior person in charge of this station, so you do not want me on the ground.”“Lady, I ain’t playin’!”“ You ‘ain’t playin’?” She actually made the air quotes around his attempt to sound tough, or “street” (was that the right term?). “You have to be kidding me…”The man was now pointing the gun directly at her chest, stepping gingerly over the clerk on the floor (a nice kid, she thought; pants were soaked with urine and she could smell something worse down there).Again, something was really off.“I have a gun!”“It is not...a real one.”It almost made her laugh out loud when she saw how he blinked in those eye sockets. He was looking for his words.“But, it’s my… It’s a…”“Look,” she put her hands on the counter, knocking over a tray of pamphlets for a philatelist event, “this place is full of cameras, very few exits, and it is in the middle of the day. The police are probably already on their way, and you have a weapon that can’t do anything but shoot a BB pellet below the skin.” She took the gun out of his hands and placed it on the stepladder beside the drop box. “You know what to do next.”*The police were annoyed (as always), the staff impressed (the boy with the biological failure was sent home with the police), the management informed (once again) and the customers consoled. Not much left over for the staff that had to stay on for the rest of the day and try to earn their pay.Lee finally stepped out from the back. She had almost forgotten about him (the police never even looked back there). He actually looked well.“Whu’appen?”Again, it was very fortunate that no one was in line. She could only deal with so much today.“Nothing. Handle the cash. I have to take my break.”Lee was somehow managing to stand up straight and focus at the same time. The kid could actually work for fifteen minutes at a time.“Yeah. I’m…I got it.”She did not wait for the rest of the sentence. There was a cigarette she needed right now.At least it was a beautiful day.“Oh, dear.”And she was still here.Ms. Lindar, cane and all, was walking between the cars to the path behind the mall. Why did she hang around after…?“It’s all right. It wasn’t a real gun, just a toy. I could see that he was messing with us.”She frowned at her for a moment.“No, dear. Not that. I just...” She looked at her cigarette. “I didn’t know that you smoked.”She dropped the cigarette and somehow made it to the back entrance without rolling her eyes.So, that was her break. At least five people were still around after the attempted robbery, one of them a shoplifter who thought that this was a golden opportunity (she brought him to the counter and made him empty his dirty backpack; another call to the management…). Lee was still at the register, trying to decide how to use the card scanner with a man who wanted a dozen commemorative stamps for a singer she did not care for (they were international; guess those songs were more popular somewhere else). The customer, a face she knew (no name; no problem), was happy to talk about it while no one else waited in line. Maybe it would be an easy afternoon.And then the power went out.*It was not a bad moment. The thing about daytime power outages that she accepted was that the people around her would try to continue as if nothing happened. The customer noted the darkness, but he kept up with his history lesson as Lee flinched at the loss of light. The rest of the pharmacy got so quiet that she noted how she wanted to hear the hum from the freezers and long shelf of drinkers in the open coolers. Some curses were heard, a few laughs, but it was not a moment worth worrying about. Once she found the fuses and noted the smoke rising from the box, it was a quick change that brought everything back to what could be called normal. The moment would pass.So would the phone call.“Front cash.”“You still on?”Very friendly for a Monday… A lot of sympathy in that voice.“Where else would I go?”She knew who it was.“Right, right… Well,” she could almost hear Mr. Benedek’s belly shift in that swivel chair that was more squeaks than comfort, “we just wanted to thank you for everything today. The robbery…blackout…”“Lee?”“What?” Did he even care about the kid?“Nothing.” The customers were gone now. Almost noon; almost lunch time…“Right, well, we want to promote you.”She tried not to freeze up as she looked at the phone (it felt like an animal she should not have picked up). “Say what again?”“Promotion. Upper management. You obviously’ve earned it. And we can get Lee and some other kid on the counter. We’ll have to talk about…”That was all she wanted to hear. She looked at the stacks of stationery – envelopes, packaging, pamphlets, tapes, labels, posters with estimated delivery times – and dropped the phone, startling Lee to a point (he was already heading back to the storage area). She walked out the front to the main parking lot, looking up at the threat of rain and staring off at the kids from the local school getting out at the bell, the workers in the various shops looking for a place to eat, and certain customers who were aware of their hunger. Her cigarette pack was almost empty, but she did not need another one. There was something perfect about that Monday and she did not want the morning to end.
","August 25, 2023 20:59","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'She was walking away, right?', 'time': '22:55 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kendall Defoe': 'You tell me... ;)', 'time': '01:52 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking my story letter. Will have to reread your piece but am behind right now', 'time': '01:55 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kendall Defoe': 'Anytime...and I am going to focus on some other pages for a while. I am getting no traction on this page after 150+ stories and I need to reconsider things.', 'time': '13:04 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kendall Defoe': 'You tell me... ;)', 'time': '01:52 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking my story letter. Will have to reread your piece but am behind right now', 'time': '01:55 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kendall Defoe': 'Anytime...and I am going to focus on some other pages for a while. I am getting no traction on this page after 150+ stories and I need to reconsider things.', 'time': '13:04 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking my story letter. Will have to reread your piece but am behind right now', 'time': '01:55 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kendall Defoe': 'Anytime...and I am going to focus on some other pages for a while. I am getting no traction on this page after 150+ stories and I need to reconsider things.', 'time': '13:04 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kendall Defoe': 'Anytime...and I am going to focus on some other pages for a while. I am getting no traction on this page after 150+ stories and I need to reconsider things.', 'time': '13:04 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Excellent story, Kendall, it got me thinking. Very amusing ideas and well written.', 'time': '10:12 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Akindolu Tomisola': 'Amazing, how do you do it?', 'time': '15:30 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kendall Defoe': 'This one came from my environment- thought of the mall near my place - and imagination.', 'time': '16:03 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Akindolu Tomisola': ""That's good"", 'time': '06:46 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Akindolu Tomisola': ""I don't know if I can do that,well I'm not really a writer"", 'time': '06:46 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kendall Defoe': 'You wrote to me,and you joind this page. You must want it, right?\nSo...write!', 'time': '13:05 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kendall Defoe': 'This one came from my environment- thought of the mall near my place - and imagination.', 'time': '16:03 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Akindolu Tomisola': ""That's good"", 'time': '06:46 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Akindolu Tomisola': ""I don't know if I can do that,well I'm not really a writer"", 'time': '06:46 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kendall Defoe': 'You wrote to me,and you joind this page. You must want it, right?\nSo...write!', 'time': '13:05 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Akindolu Tomisola': ""That's good"", 'time': '06:46 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Akindolu Tomisola': ""I don't know if I can do that,well I'm not really a writer"", 'time': '06:46 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Kendall Defoe': 'You wrote to me,and you joind this page. You must want it, right?\nSo...write!', 'time': '13:05 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Akindolu Tomisola': ""I don't know if I can do that,well I'm not really a writer"", 'time': '06:46 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kendall Defoe': 'You wrote to me,and you joind this page. You must want it, right?\nSo...write!', 'time': '13:05 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kendall Defoe': 'You wrote to me,and you joind this page. You must want it, right?\nSo...write!', 'time': '13:05 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,p3myo4,Post Office at the End of the World,George Georgerfrost@gmail.com,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/p3myo4/,/short-story/p3myo4/,Fiction,0,"['American', 'Fiction', 'Suspense']",10 likes,"
 
	Zip Code 99999 belongs to a post office that most people don’t even know exists.  There is a seventh dimension quality to this place even Rod Serling wasn’t aware of, but it is real.  It is not the Dead Letter office or the final destination of letters sent by children to Santa Claus at Christmas time.  While it is not a vortex or some other alternate reality, the Post Office at the End of the World is exactly what it says it is and its chief purpose is to connect people who have long been disconnected for whatever reason.  Let me explain…
 
	Bullrush Island is barely a rock in the Atlantic Ocean claimed by the greater state of Maine off the coast of Bar Harbor.  While few tourists have ever heard of this place, the lobster fisherman have first hand knowledge of this rock sanctuary.  Upon this rock, they built a post office that is only accessible by boat and in that establishment, there is only one postman who wears the title of Post Master General.  Having served as a postman in Bangor for over a decade, I got a letter one day from the Federal Friendlies at USPS transferring me to Bull Rush Island.
	“Hey Nate.” I walked to his office after opening the letter, “Is this some kind of joke?”
	Nate Mueller was the postmaster at the office in Bangor where we considered our office as the last stop before St. Andrews, New Brunswick.  Nate was an overall good no nonsense manager who ran a tight ship as he called it, even if staff noticed a few leaks from time to time. 
	“Whacha got, Rick.” He took the notice from my hand. “Oh, you got the assignment on Bullrush Island.”
	“Yeah, so?” 
	“It’s known as the post office at the end of the world.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry, it’s pretty easy duty out there.” 
	“Out where?” I shrugged.
	“Do ya know where Bahr Har-ber is?” He asked.
	“Yeah.” I nodded.
	“Well, it’s about thirty miles past there.” He pointed to the map pinned to his wall.
	“Ain’t nothing out there.” I shook my head.
	“Well it’s so small they don’t even bah-ther putin’ it on a map.” He put his hand to his chin.
	“Dee-lightful.” I whistled. 
	“They send a boat out twice a week and carry any mail in a small satchel.  You put anything headed for the mainland in that thing.” He smiled, but buried in that smile was sinister intent. “Good luck, Rick.” 
 
	Two weeks later I was standing at the Harbor Master’s office as a cold wind blew off the water.  Wearing a thick cardigan sweater and watch cap, I still shivered in the stiff ice cold breeze. I waited five minutes for the door to open.
	“Can I help ya?” A young lady asked, unwilling to fully open the door. She was buried beneath a heavy coat and a wool hat. 
	“I am here for a one way trip to Bullrush Island.” I held out my ticket.
	“Are ya sure?  I’m not even sure we got a boat headed out there.” She shivered. 
	“It’s Wednesday and according to the table posted on your door, you have a boat headed out to that island.” I pointed to the schedule tacked to the door.
	“Yeah, but the weather is a bit challenging.” She waved me inside.  Once she closed the door, I was embraced by the warmth of the Franklin stove in the middle of the small room.  In the next room there were two men sitting at the control panel with switches and levers.  One was peering through a pair of binoculars and holding a radio receiver in his other hand.
	“Roger, if you sail to the right of the buoys, you should be in good shape as you go through the channel.” He spoke into the receiver.
	“Roger that, sir.  We are going to spend a few hours setting lobster traps out near Peter’s Point.”
	“You are clear to do so.” He spoke before putting his receiver on the hook on the console. 
	“Morning, what can I do for ya, Stella?” The second harbor master asked when he saw her.
	“Gentleman needs a ride to Bullrush Island.” She pointed to me.
	“That so?  We got an ice storm headed this way.” He squinted at me, lifting one bushy eyebrow heavenward.
	“I am the new postmaster.” I said, glancing around the small room. From the wrap-around window, I could see gray clouds that seemed to absorb the colorless water.  
	“You are the postmaster at the post office out there?” He appeared as if he was going to burst out laughing, but he contained himself. 
	“We don’t get much traffic from out there.” The other man spoke, still peering through his binoculars.
	“Bring a good book, heh?” The first man laughed.
	“I got the Wave Goddess headed out there this morning around ten.” The man with the binoculars said from the side of his mouth.
	“That’s two hours.” I looked at my watch.
	“Couch in the other room.” The other man pointed. “Or go down to the Sandbar Cafe.” 
	“Stella, do you got some fresh coffee on?” Asked the man as he the binoculars on the console.
	“Yes, Barney.” She nodded.
	“Coulja get me a cup, please?” He implored.
	“Sure t’ing.” She smiled and left the room.
	“So, you’re goin’ to be the new postmaster out there on that rock?” Barney smiled as Stella returned with a steaming cup of coffee, “Thanks, doll.” 
	“Yeah.” I shook my head as the horizon completely disappeared. 
	“Good luck.” He shook his head as he sipped his coffee. “Whacha name, sport?” 
	“Richard Hollingsworth.” I answered. 
	“Well Richard, it gets pretty lonely out there.  The last guy nearly went nuts.” Barney nodded.
	“Nearly?” The other guy chuckled.
	“C’mon Mort, don’t freak Richard here out.” He smirked through his thick bushy mustache now wet with black coffee. 
	“Naw, he didn’t go nuts, but he did like to stroll around the island naked.” He chuckled as his gloved hand pulled one of the levers on the console. “Baker’s skiff is pulling out of the harbor.”
	“I see her.” Barney put the binoculars back to have a look. 
	I walked out of the room and sat near the stove.  Stella was reading a magazine, but would glance up at me as if she was afraid I’d do something odd.  When she glanced at me, I would render a smile to creep her out a bit. When I did, she would move her eyes back to the magazine. 
	“Fine weather we are having.” I got up the courage to speak.  
	“Bettah during torrist season.” She did not look up from the magazine.
	“So, what happened to the last postmaster?” I asked as I looked around the room. 
	“No one really knows.” She flipped a page.
	“But you have a pretty good idea.” I shook my head.
	“Folks say he took his rowboat out last week.” She flipped another page, “Coast Guard found the boat, but he wasn’t in it.” 
	“So he went over the side?” I asked, but she just shrugged and flipped yet another page. 
	“No tellin.’” 
 
	“I’m Derrick Olsen, captain of the Wave Goddess.” He held out his  hand and I shook his bear paw.  Olsen was a burly man in his early forties with blonde bristle facial hair, so light it was nearly invisible.  He wore a wool turtleneck shirt and a peacoat with a thick wool watch cap.  He had three deckhands all dressed in similar fashion, “Are ya sure ya wan’s to go out today?”
	I showed him my dispatch. He lit his pipe as he read the paper I handed him.
	“Postmaster, heh?” Derrick scratched the nape of his neck. “I don’t envy ya in the least. Place is pretty secluded out there, mate.” 
	“Neither do I.” I tried to smile, but failed miserably. 
	“Hey cap’n, are we goin’ to Bullrush Island?” One of the deckhands asked.
	“Yup.” He shook his head.
	“Are ya sure cap?” The other deckhand had an inquisitive expression on his face, “Coast Guard is talking about a Nor'easter blowing in.” 
	“Eddie, we’ve had worse.” Derrick slapped him on the shoulder with a hard whack. Eddie just nodded and began setting the lobster pots.  Ice began falling from  the sky as the Wave Goddess pulled away from the moorings. Before leaving Bar Harbor, the waves began to get choppy and my stomach began to talk back to me. 
	“If’n ya gonna puke, make sure ya do it over the side.” Eddie advised me. I must have turned a pale shade of green as we pulled away from the main part of the harbor. 
 
	Why anyone decided to put a post office on Bullrush Island, I will never know.  As the thirty foot schooner was buffeted and bounced on the swells, I emptied everything I had in my stomach into the brine. 
	“Can get pretty rough there, mate.” Derrick said to me from his wheelhouse as I bent over the side. The freezing rain fell sideways coating the deck with a slick surface that was impossible to walk on.  In between retching fits, I was able to look up and see the horizonless seascape ahead of us.  Derrick had the binoculars to his face as he kept his free hand on the wheel.  He pointed to an empty patch dead ahead. “Be damned if I can see it.” 
	I knew he was talking about the destination, but I was too busy with my own problems.  The pitch and roll was both internal and external.
	“Got it.” I heard Derrick as he pointed.
	My eyes looked where he was pointing, but all I saw was the dull gray gunmetal sky dead ahead.  In a few minutes, I saw shapes and then it came into view.  It was a single cinder block structure that rose out of the jagged rocks. A dock jutted out to embrace us.  With his experience and seaman skills, Derrick was able to guide his boat to the dock.  His two deckhands leaped onto the dock once we were close enough.  They were able to tie the moorings to the dock.  The boat continued to bob and weave even after the boat was tied to the dock.
	Eating a pear, Derrick took his knife and cut off a chunk.  He put it into his mouth and pointed, “There ya be, mate.” 
	“What?” I managed to say wiping my mouth with my shirt sleeve. 
	“We have arrived.” He spit out some of the fruit as he spoke.
	“I can’t-” 
	“Ya gotta.” He shook his head.
	“We are still moving.” I gasped.
	“Barney and Beau.” He called to the two deckhands.  As if on cue, each of them grabbed one of my arms and hoisted me to the dock. “Ya new home.” 
	“Much obliged.” I belched. 
	“Don’t mention it.” He waved to his deckhands to come aboard.  Barney and Beau both jumped up on deck leaving me kneeling on the dock as the waves shoshed on through the gaps in planks of the dock.  “Don’t stay there too long or you’ll wind up like your predecessor.”
	The motor of the Wave Goddess sounded like a low rumble.  Bubbles emerged from the motor as the boat slipped into the grayness and disappeared. 
	Bullrush Island was no bigger than a football field with a bulky building occupying the middle part of the island.  The rocks that made up the small landfall were jagged, but a path had been cut into the rocks that provided a smooth walkway to the front door.  
	Once inside, I saw a calamity left to me by the former postmaster before his disappearance.  He had been nice enough to leave a few chords of wood near the fireplace.  After a few minutes, I had a blazing fire going as the place began to warm. The building had two rooms, one room was where the mail was supposed to be sorted and the other room was made to be living quarters with a bed and stove.  Nothing fancy, but the pantry seemed to be well stocked with non-perishable ready to eat dehydrated food.  There was a sink and a hand pump.
	There were matches in the pantry in which I could light the four lanterns that hung in various places from the rafters. If nothing else the place was cozy once the fire had warmed the confined living area.  
	Taking one of the lanterns from the ceiling, I wandered into the mailroom where envelopes lay strewn all about.  It appeared as if my predecessor had flung them to the floor in a fit of rage.  The nameplate on the desk read “Neville Harper.” I took this to be the name of my predecessor.
	“So why on earth did you go mad?” I asked as if he could answer my question. 
	I am aware that isolation can drive a sane man to the brink, but I had craved seclusion and now I had been granted this accommodation at this post office at the end of the world.  Apparently, Neville was not of that ilk.  There are those who need socialization and conversation, but I do not require such things. I am the new Robinson Crusoe.  Mine will be the only footprints in the sand at the shore.  If there is a shore. 
	Somewhere in the mess of the post office there is an order that I know nothing about.  Who are these people whose names adorn the scattered envelopes?  What are they doing here?  Who brought them in the first place? So many questions.  Who shall I ask?  I find a radio among the ruins.  Good, but it doesn’t seem to work.  Damn. 
	What was that noise?
	I heard something creak in the floorboards. 
	Could it be a rat, a vermin?  I shall set traps in the morning. I cannot allow them to take over.  I am in charge.  I have a dispatch attesting to that. 
	The wind outside howls, I can hear a faint echo, “Welcome Richard to the post office at the end of the world.” 
	When you look out the window, you can see it, the end of the world.  Ancient mariners would speak of the end of the world where ships would navigate right over the edge or be eaten by sea monsters that lurk in the colorless waves.  I walk out to the dock.  I can hear them.  I can hear them as they slither between the waves.  
	What happened to you, Neville Harper? Did you venture out too far? Is that what happened? 
	Damn it, the fire went out while I was at the dock.  The building is as cold as a tomb.  Cold as a tomb. I shall have to start from scratch. It is cold.  Very cold. 
	Why would they put a post office out here?  Was it to drive a person crazy?  Is that it? Well, I will not succumb to this madness. No, I will surely rise above it.  
	Surely. 
 
","August 19, 2023 17:17","[[{'Hannah Lynn': 'Ooohh interesting!  Leaves me wondering what happens next!  Thanks for the great story :)', 'time': '13:06 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Some stories will do that Hannah.  Glad you found this story interesting though.', 'time': '22:04 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Some stories will do that Hannah.  Glad you found this story interesting though.', 'time': '22:04 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jonathan Shiller': 'Creative idea! This story had a nice flow to it. The sort of unfinished precarious ending works. You could even make it creepier...', 'time': '15:24 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Thank you, Jonathan.  Open ended stories let the reader fill in the blanks.  Good readers let their imaginations take over as you did.', 'time': '17:40 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Thank you, Jonathan.  Open ended stories let the reader fill in the blanks.  Good readers let their imaginations take over as you did.', 'time': '17:40 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'S Fevre': 'Very atmospheric!', 'time': '18:11 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'I wanted to make the setting part of the plot.  Thank you for noticing.', 'time': '22:05 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'I wanted to make the setting part of the plot.  Thank you for noticing.', 'time': '22:05 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Shawna Burge': 'Oh my, that is a fun read.  What a great idea.', 'time': '23:32 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'KD Weinert': 'When I read the first sentence I immediately thought ""Twilight Zone."" That\'s why I laughed when I read the second one. Good work!', 'time': '22:47 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Thank you KD.', 'time': '22:06 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Thank you KD.', 'time': '22:06 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Keep convincing yourself.🥶', 'time': '19:15 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Yes, Mary to a certain point,,,', 'time': '20:42 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Yes, Mary to a certain point,,,', 'time': '20:42 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,cs7tdj,The Postmaster's Secret Passion,Raven West,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cs7tdj/,/short-story/cs7tdj/,Fiction,0,"['Romance', 'Contemporary', 'Fiction']",9 likes,"
		The bulky manila envelope was heavy with the weight of rejection as Postmaster Alex Bentley placed it on the counter and began filling out the yellow pick-up slip. In the three years since his promotion to postmaster of the small rural office in upstate New York, Alex had delivered his share of good news and bad. Even if the tiny post office he ran was only a mailbox drop, he was there six days a week in rain, sleet, snow, and sometimes into the darkest of night.
		He tolerated the postal jokes, ran an efficient operation, and received numerous awards, all displayed proudly on the office walls of the ruggedly handsome young man who, at age thirty-two, was the youngest level fifteen postmaster in the district. Years of walking a mail route had given his body a permanent tan and his daily routine of lifting mail sacks was all the exercise he needed to maintain his well-toned physique. 
		Promptly at eight a.m., Alex opened the front window and began his daily routine of sorting the mail. He deftly inserted the various bills, letters, magazines and other correspondence into the lock boxes of the 352 year-round residents and 175 New York City summer escapees that lived in Crystal Lake, a tiny speck of a town deep within the Catskill Mountains. Most of the time, he enjoyed his work. He never enjoyed delivering disappointment-especially to someone as persistently optimistic as Rachel Clark.
		An ex-lawyer from New York City, who had traded in her disillusionment of the legal profession for the seductive illusion of a writing career, Rachel fled the stifling summer heat of New York City for the clean air and cool mountain breezes of the country. For the past two years, she rented a secluded cabin, camouflaged deep in the woods where, alone with her imagination, she created romantic, fictional characters whose relationships were full of passion and happy endings. A sharp contrast to the frustrations and bitter disappointments of the real ones she had known all her life.
		When she brought in her first stack of manuscripts, over two years ago Alex thought she was a college student on summer vacation. In sandals, Alex was a full six inches taller, and with her lightly freckled face and shoulders Alex couldn’t think of any other word to describe her other than cute. It was hard for him to believe she had been a high powered New York City District Attorney. 
		When she told him she had quit her job to become a romance writer, Alex had been unimpressed. He enjoyed murder mysteries, especially ones with lots of steamy sex, and he’d written occasional columns for the two postmaster’s Association magazines, The Postal Advocate, and Postmasters Gazette. But a girly romance novel was the last thing Alex would ever be interested in reading, and after seeing the address label on the last package he pulled out of the sack, he knew no one else was going to be reading it either.
		He heard the lobby door open and immediately recognized the floral scent of her perfume announcing to his senses that she was in the lobby. She walked up to the counter carrying four large envelopes, each containing a little piece of her soul and an inexhaustible amount of hope. After two years of hard work and a great deal of postage, Rachel was still an unpublished writer whose dreams died a little with each rejected manuscript.
	“Any news, Alex?” Her voice was high in expectation.
	“Sorry, Rachel. Another one came back.”
	He tried not to see the disappointment in her bright green eyes. She tried to hide it from him, but her smile wasn’t convincing. She tore open the package, quickly read the form rejection letter, and put the new pile on the counter with the check already made out.
	“This one’s going back to Prelude Press?” He read the address label.
	“Yes. Prelude’s editor, Joan somebody, actually wrote a personal critique she sent along with the form rejection letter. She seemed genuinely reluctant to return it. I discussed it with my agent and she suggested I make the changes Joan suggested and re-submit the full manuscript in printed format and disk, which is why this one is so heavy.”
	Rachel separated the envelopes into two stacks.
	“This pile only contains three chapters and a synopsis, but with the return envelope, it’s still a lot of postage. You know the routine, Alex. By the time the summer is over, you’ll have enough money to send your kids through college.” 
	“My kids would thank you, if I had any kids,” He said.
	“You’re one of the few people who still use us,” Alex said. “Not that I’m complaining.”
	“For the amount of postage I’ve spent here, I wouldn’t think you would. There are still a few publishers who like the feel of paper and it’s hard to bring a computer into the bathroom, where I think most of them read!” She joked. “Cereals, Alex, I put a piece of my soul onto every word and that energy just doesn’t transmit well over the Internet. At least that’s my feeling anyway.”
	“That’s an interesting philosophy,” he said. “Here’s hoping your vibes will transmit a more positive outcome this time.”
	Alex put the stamps on the return envelopes, the meter stickers on the outside, and tossed the packages into the outgoing bin. 
	“All these years and you never told me what your story is about.”
	“You never asked.”
	“I’m asking.”
	“It’s about a lawyer who goes on vacation in the country, falls in love, has her heart broken, takes the guy to court, sues his pants off, and they live happily ever after. Ya know, the usual. I’m sure it would bore you to death.”
	“Never say death to a postal employee!” He smiled and was pleased when she laughed. “You’re right, it doesn’t sound like anything I’d read, but I’m sure there are a lot of people who enjoy stuff like that.”
	“Well, if I keep getting these,” she held up the returned manuscript, “we’ll never know, will we? Toss this into your very dead letter pile, please,” she threw the crumpled rejection notice at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 
	Alex took aim toward the corner wall behind him and pitched the impersonal letter into the trash can. He re-directed his gaze onto the small of Rachel’s back as she left the lobby and waited until the door safely closed before leaving the area behind the counter. Alex walked quickly to the front window where he pretended to adjust the display posters, all the while his eyes were focused on an entirely different picture. 
	Outside, the rays of the afternoon sun radiated delicate streaks of firelight through Rachel’s red hair creating an enchanting crown above her head. Her delicate fingers opened the door of her rented white Chevy Malibu and she slid behind the wheel. Before closing the door, Rachel glanced over her shoulder toward the front entrance of the post office where she caught Alex gazing at her through the large picture window. She smiled back at him flirtatiously. As she slowly drove the car away, Rachel put her hand out the window and gave him a playful wave good-bye. Her gesture sent a shiver throughout Alex’s body. If anyone could write about romance, he thought, no doubt Rachel Clark could. 
	It was almost six when Alex finished carrying the mail sacks out to the loading area. Lighting a cigarette, he rested his back against the wall and waited for the driver. The afternoon sun was warm on his face, and he closed his eyes against the brightness. His photographic memory immediately brought Rachel’s face into view. He remembered how she had unsuccessfully tried to hide her disappointment when he handed her the returned manuscript and how he wished like hell he was handing her a publisher’s contract instead.
	Alex took a final drag and dropped the butt on the landing. It rolled dangerously close to the pile of mail bags and he rushed to put it out. As he was crushing the life out of the threatening ember, his foot knocked over one of the sacks, causing the latch to pop open. Packages and letters tumbled everywhere. 
	Alex cursed aloud as he scrambled to recapture the escaping mail. He reached for the last package and noticed it was one of Rachel’s manuscripts. Instead of returning it, he closed the sack, secured the lock, and without thinking about how many postal regulations he was violating, took the package back into his office.
	Alex slid his fingernail under the clasp of the envelope, making certain not to damage the paper. Inside was a cover letter, a synopsis and over four hundred pages of a double-spaced, laser-jet printed manuscript. Alex sat down at his desk, turned on the light, and began reading. 
	After years of visually scanning addresses, Alex had developed a talent for fast reading. Eight hours later, he turned the page on the final chapter of Rachel’s manuscript. Alex was no expert on romance novels, but Rachel’s writing could convince him to become an avid fan. She was good. Damn good, he thought, but an important element seemed to be lacking. Rachel’s descriptions and dialogue were colorful and dramatic, but, in Alex’s opinion, the leading male character lacked any real emotional depth for a romantic hero.  He could understand why the publishers kept returning the book.
	He remembered the pain in Rachel’s eyes when she tossed him the rejection letter, and how he’d wished he could have done something to change the message she’d received. Alex stared at the computer screen, lightly tapping the edge of the keyboard, and started to think. His fellow postmasters told him they enjoyed reading his articles, and he had taken a creative writing course in college. Maybe her manuscript falling out of the sack wasn’t just a coincidence. 
	Alex took the lash drive out of the envelope and put it into his computer. With a click of the mouse, Legal Briefs by Rachel Clark flashed onto the screen. And, as he ignored his body pleading for sleep and his brain telling him all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing it, Alex began typing. 
	All through the night, Alex wrote and re-wrote parts of Rachel’s manuscript. He edited sentences, changed some of the dialogue, and added just a little lust to the romantic scenes. It was seven the next morning when he finished printing the revised manuscript. He slid the entire package back into the envelope and sealed it tightly, just as the delivery truck was pulling up to the loading platform. Alex met the driver at the back door. 
	“Here, Walter. You missed this yesterday,” he handed the driver the manuscript. “It’s going out priority express and needs to be delivered today.” 
	“Sure thing, Alex.” Walter took the envelope, gave Alex the sacks of mail and drove off. 
	Alex tried to make himself look as if he hadn’t been awake all night, and barely succeeded when he opened the front window at exactly eight o’clock . He phoned a nearby restaurant, and ordered a large cup of black coffee, which he barely managed to finish just as the first customer walked into the lobby. 
	On the other side of town, Rachel was trying without success to come up with an excuse to make another trip to the post office. As she drove home the previous night, she could still feel Alex’s  eyes burning the back of her neck like the intense rays of the afternoon sun. She didn’t know if she felt uncomfortable because he was watching her, or because the fire she was feeling was beginning to inflame other, more intimate, parts of her body.
	Choosing instead to take a long walk in the beautiful country woods, Rachel lost track of time thinking about her postmaster. She’d been coming to Crystal Lake every summer for more than two years. Alex was always there, so sweet, so supportive. She knew her feelings were much too strong not to have them shared, even if Alex never said a thing. 
	By the time she returned to the cabin, the sun was starting to set, so the flashing light on her answering machine lit up the cabin. 
	“Rachel? It’s Sandra. I just got off the phone with Peter Williams, the main man from Prelude Press. He loved your edits and wants to publish your book!”
	 “Oh my God, Sandra. Are you serious?” 
	“As serious as an advance royalty check, and yours my dear is very, very serious! 
	“I’ll fax the contracts right now to that post office you seem to love so much.  Congratulations. I’ll see you in in the office first thing in the morning.”
	Rachel jumped into her car, nearly hitting a squirrel on her way out the driveway. When she got to the post office, she nearly tripped on the stairs. Rachel was out of breath by the time she reached to counter where Alex was standing. A huge grin on his face and a large stack of papers in his hand. 
	“Is this what you were coming in here for?” Alex said, holding out the faxes. “Or are you breathing heavy because of me?” 
	He flashed her a wide grin and she grabbed the pages from his hand.
 Both, she wanted to say as she nervously read the pages. 
	“Good news?” Alex already knew the answer.
	“The best news, Alex! My novel is going to be published! After all this time. Peter wrote that he really loved the edits and the book was going to get his company’s full number one treatment. Funny though, I don’t recall making any edits when I sent it out.”
 Should I tell her? I should tell her. I’m not going to tell her.
	Rachel looked up  expecting to see Alex behind the counter, and was startled for an instant when she realized he was standing right behind her. She turned around and without thinking, put her arms around him and kissed him hard on the mouth. When she realized what she’d done, she was suddenly embarrassed. 
	“I’m sorry...I didn’t mean...” she tried to pull away, but he didn’t release her.
	“Hey, that’s ok. You want to try that again, only a little slower?”
	Before she had a chance to answer, Alex started kissing her, slowly moving his hands down her back, gently pulling her closer. It had been so long since she had felt this kind of passion from a man. Passion that had been building up for weeks, or maybe it was a lifetime. 
	She pulled away from him and tried to breathe. 
	 “Alex, I have to be honest. Sandra wants me back in the office first thing in the morning to meet the staff at Prelude Press.” Rachel’s voice cracked. “I won’t be coming back and we can’t start something we both know we won’t be able to finish.” 
	Dammit, Alex thought. If I hadn’t’ made those edits, her book wouldn’t have been published and she wouldn’t be leaving. 
	But then again her happiness meant more to him then his own and who knows, sometime in the future she might return. 
	“I understand, Rachel. We both know you could never be happy living in a small town, away from the excitement of the city - and take out.”
	His smile eased the pain in his voice slightly. “Limousines, champagne, trips to Europe - that’s your world, Rachel, but it isn’t mine.”
	She wanted to argue with him, wanted to convince him he was wrong. That it was possible for them to live happily ever after. He could live in Crystal Lake, she could commute. It wasn’t an insurmountable obstacle.
	 “Alex, I think I’m falling in love with you,” 
	“I love you too, Rachel - but it’s not enough. This isn’t one of your romance novels. In real life sometimes the boy doesn’t get the girl,” 
	Rachel stood and walked within a scant breath of him. 
	“I have to go,” she forced the words from her throat.
	“I know,” he brushed a strand of hair from her face.
	“I can’t imagine my life without you, Alex, but I can’t imagine sharing my life with you, either. Does that make sense?”
	“It makes perfect sense. Stupid, logical, rational sense,” 
	They heard a customer in the outer lobby,  but Alex didn’t move. 
	“Let them arrest me,” he joked, “I have a good lawyer,”
	“You have the best lawyer and don’t you ever forget it,”
	Rachel playfully poked him in the chest. Alex’s hand encompassed her forefinger and he held her hand affectionately in his.
	“I could never forget, Rachel,” He brought both her hands to his lips and gently kissed the back of each.
	“You are one classy Postmaster, Alex Bentley,” There was admiration and respect in her voice, even though there were tears in her eyes. 
	Alex opened his arms invitingly and Rachel melted into them. They held each other for what would be an eternity. More angry noise in the lobby compelled him to release her.
	“They sent a car for me. I’ll go out the back,” Rachel breathed and headed for the door as Alex went into the outer area to open the front door window. 
	“Can I help you?” He politely asked the impatient woman who had waited to purchase two stamps. She began complaining about the post office closing early, but Alex wasn’t listening.
	His attention was focused on the street outside where a lovely red-headed woman was entering the back of a long white limousine. As the car slowly drove away, Rachel put her hand out the window and gave him a wistful wave goodbye. 
	Alex rubbed the dampness from his eyes and tried to ignore the searing pain tearing across his abdomen. Noticing his apparent discomfort, the woman asked if he was going to be all right. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly and replied;
	“Eventually.”
 
 
 
 
","August 23, 2023 23:38","[[{'David Marshall': 'Thank you very much!! Great story!!', 'time': '02:01 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Bittersweet love story.  I enjoyed reading it!', 'time': '18:36 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,6nqlwp,Spatial Parcel and Communication Exchange Office (S.P.A.C.E Office),Wyrd Smith,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/6nqlwp/,/short-story/6nqlwp/,Fiction,0,['Science Fiction'],9 likes,"
	Welcome, new employee, to the Spatial Parcel and Communication Exchange Office, or S.P.A.C.E. Office, for short.
Here at S.P.A.C.E. Office, we take pride in what we do. This isn’t just some post office from the pre-Space Age, where parcels only had to move across land and water of a single planet in order to reach its destination, but rather across alternate realities, cosmic layers, universes, and even realms. With technology advanced and relations between dimensions the best they’ve been in eons, our employees’ jobs of ensuring correspondence between planes of existence arrive at the correct place, as well as the correct time, is vital.
 
	The first topic we need to cover is employee relations, as this adjustment can be a little shocking for new employees at first. Regardless of what dimension your existence stems from, everyone here works together like one big family. So, I will ask now that if you have any pre-existing prejudices, you leave them at the portal when you arrive for your shift.
 
	Here at S.P.A.C.E. Office, we ask that everyone show respect for every xenotypes’ individual needs. We will review a few of the most prevalent examples here, but don’t worry, you will learn more along the way as you meet your coworkers and spend some time out on the job.
 
	The first race we will talk about are the Mutelaloth. Humanoid in structure, they lack any facial features or known organs that provide methods of communication. Please be rest assured that they can, in fact, see. Or perhaps not see but are able to perceive the world around them in a way that one might correlate to having sight. When you converse with the Mutelaloth, please be sure to only ask questions that can be answered with a nod or shake of their head. Asking open-ended questions can sometimes lead to an uncomfortable exchange and challenge working relations, which we of course would rather avoid.
 
	The next lifeform to discuss are the Gala’guthic’alar, or the Gala for short. We have found that these large individuals tend to be one of the hardest for new employees to build working relations with. Here at S.P.A.C.E. Office, we encourage camaraderie and teamwork. Unless you are working near a Gala. They are not hostile, so please do not panic. However, they are very independent workers, and can sometimes come across as aggressive if they find someone is in their way of completing their task. Having hundreds of tentacle-like appendages covering their sizable bodies, it can be easy to find oneself in their way and tangled in their limbs. We have had a few medical mishaps in the past but have developed a lasting working plan for these individuals. As long as you stay out of their way, there should be no problems.
 
	Lastly, you may find yourself quite often in the presence of a spectral being called a Poltigoth. These beings can be a little difficult to spot at times, and really you will only notice their presence at the edge of your peripherals. Our recommendation is that if you see slight movement that may initially cause you to panic, please remain calm. Poltigoths come from what humans once referred to as the “afterlife”, which was really just another plane of existence that they simply didn’t understand at the time. As you are human, you may have an instinctual fear upon sensing their presence. I can promise that with time and exposure, you will learn to adapt to these shades.
 
	If you have further questions about your soon-to-be coworkers, we have many in-person and virtual courses available where you can learn all about the culture, customs, and dimensions of the diverse employees that make up S.P.A.C.E. Office.
 
	Next, let us discuss departments and divisions. As new dimensions establish contact and species find their way to our staff, all relevant departments here at S.P.A.C.E. Office undergo an in-depth evaluation to ensure everyone is working in a department and division that they are most suited to and where they are able to put forth the most of their potential. That is not to say that departmental shifts are not possible. Everyone possesses unique talents, even within their own communities. If you feel that you are better suited to work in a different department or division of S.P.A.C.E. Office, there are many opportunities to transfer. Our goal here is to not only ensure that parcels and communications are successfully signed, sealed, and delivered, but that our employees are happy and taken care of. Employees won’t stay if they aren’t happy, and if there are no employees, there is no S.P.A.C.E. Office.
 
	Next, let us discuss liberty policies. As a S.P.A.C.E. Office employee, you are eligible to one of three different employment plans. First, our facility has the means to host living quarters and everyday essentials for nearly every life-form we employ. As a human, we have our Blue Planet Abode, modeled to represent a 21st Century New York from the planet of Earth. We also have a few sub-abodes to accommodate the outer planets and systems.
 
	The working hours for those who choose to live on-site are a constant rotation of 6-Galactic Standard Hours (hereafter referred to simply as “hours”) of work, 18-hours of liberty, with 24-hours of extended liberty following five work rotations. During those 24 hours, you are welcome to travel and portal-cross as you please, as long as you have returned in time for your next shift.
 
	The second employment option we offer is a three-month rotating cycle. For a period of three-months, you will reside in the Blue Planet Abode and work a cycle of 10-hours, with 12-hours of liberty between. Again, you will have 24-hours of extended liberty after five work cycles. After your three months have been completed, you are free to return to your home dimension, or a dimension of your choosing, for a three-month rest period, before repeating this cycle.
 
	Our last option tends to be the most popular. Similar to the first option where you reside in the Blue Planet Abode and work 6-hour shifts. However, instead of residing in employee housing, you are responsible for securing your own housing in a dimension of your choosing and portal-crossing back to S.P.A.C.E. Office for your shift.
 
	Now that we have gone over the basics, it is time to head over to our Public Relations office to speak with an advisor and find the right department for you!
 
	Remember, here at S.P.A.C.E. Office, your happiness and well-being are very important to us. We value our employees and hope that you, in turn, will value the work you do here. If you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to reach out to our XR, or Xeno-Resources, department at any time.
 
	Welcome to S.P.A.C.E. Office, new employee, and we look forward to your many years within our family!
","August 25, 2023 06:43","[[{'S Fevre': 'I really enjoyed this story! Great work on the language with a whole register of appropriate/adapted words like Eons, Portal, Planes of existence, Xenotype, etc. It was also interesting how this future world applied traditional models of social organisation/employment (contracts, site-based accommodation) in a new way. Maybe in a next installment you could tell us about some of the life forms that are easy or fun to work with and what it was like in the SPACE office :-)', 'time': '09:33 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Emilie Ocean': ""Wyrd, that was great! I hadn't read a sci-fi in a while - I forgot how much I loved them. I smiled at the use and explanation of Poltigoth beings and found your description of S.P.A.C.E Office fascinating. Thank you for sharing this story with us :)"", 'time': '12:54 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,x0rd50,of branches and fire extinguishers ,Z. E. Kraft,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/x0rd50/,/short-story/x0rd50/,Fiction,0,"['Urban Fantasy', 'Adventure', 'Fantasy']",9 likes,"
Ruth taps a sticker onto the top of a brown box, one practically identical to the thousands she's stickered before and completely unassuming.It's important work, work that keeps a whole country moving. Grandmas sending strange trinkets to grandkids a thousand miles away, letters sent by dramatic lovers, the occasional small business owner pretending they aren't selling those candles they're shipping to avoid paying extra. Ruth has seen all kinds of people ship all kinds of things in her forty-some-odd years at her sleepy little post office. She’s gone through ten different itterations of her uniform. Things rarely surprise her these days, even when she's stuck working late like today, after midnight, and making sure the packages are all ready for shipment by five am sharp.The box, once dull and blessedly ordinary, explodes.Light blinds the woman, the force pushing her back from her counter and stumbling. She doesn't fall over, strong legs bracing and a hand grabbing blindly for a nearby shelf to steady herself.Ruth sputters and coughs, wiping at her thick square glasses and blinking away a rainbow of light from her eyes. The box had burst into green-blue fire and all that was left on her linoleum counter is its cardboard remains and a completely unharmed wooden stick.""What?"" Ruth asks the air, incredulously. She doesn't know where to direct her confusion. What is that stick? Why did that just explode? Who wanted that damn thing to be shipped and why hadn't it been marked as delicate? The wooden stick doesn't answer, and the smoke from the fire sets off the sprinklers. Ruth curses the cold water that starts drenching her, glad that all the rest of the packages are already back in the storeroom, and cups a palm above her glasses so she can see. The fire still flickers, unbothered by the sudden downpour and Ruth goes for the fire extinguisher a few steps to her left. Wrenching the fire extinguisher from its holder with slippery hands Ruth aims the nozzle at the counter, letting loose a stream of foam. Of course this would happen a month off from her retirement. Her wife had told her to use the rest of her long-saved PTO, said they could move the Italy trip up and forget all their working woes. Ruth can hear her saying ""I told you so!"" ringing in her ears as she squints and blinks through the water, watching the light of the fire finally get doused by the foam of the extinguisher. The ""I told you so!"" would come far after her wife makes sure she's hale and hearty after dealing with a package bomb, of course, but it would come. Stepping carefully forward with her extinguisher still brandished Ruth eyeballs the stick half covered in foam. It looks completely innocent, the kind of stick you'd use to play fetch with a dog or step on in the woods. ""You won't be ruining my retirement, you dead bit of shrubbery,"" Ruth says threateningly. ""Set anything else on fire and I'll bury you in foam!""The stick does not reply. They stay at an impasse as the sprinklers shut off, the post office dead silent and interrupted only by the sound of dripping. Something stupid takes over Ruth's body, then, some kind of energy that's ill-thought-out and not entirely her own. She drops the fire extinguisher to her side, the metal tapping and bouncing. With careful, callused fingers Ruth reaches outward through the soft white foam, and she grabs the polished stick. Her vision is rewashed in light, something powerful and strange and glorious running from her hands to her feet. For a moment she cups the world in her hands, she can smell the earth beneath her covered by layers of concrete and tile, and hear wind rustling through the trees. Ruth is alive and everything around her is alive. The bugs and the birds and the trees singing. She can see her mother, her mother's mother, and thousands who came before her.And then it's gone. With a numb, tingling hand Ruth sets the stick back down onto the counter. Carefully. Gently. She reaches up and wipes her eyes, not sure if the wetness there is all from the sprinklers, and stares at the stick. ""What are you?"" Ruth asks it weakly. She feels insurmountably small, like her body is too little for what was shown to her. Like she is only a tiny piece in a huge tapestry. The stick doesn't respond. This, whatever it is, she needs to keep it safe. Ruth needs to keep whatever is in that branch away from…She isn't sure of what, exactly. But she will be. Ruth picks up the stick again and tucks it carefully into the waistband of her shorts, before tucking her polo in over it. Outside sirens are blaring, and she can see red washing over the landscape outside the window. The fire department. She tells them a story close enough to the truth, and the police appear with dogs to sniff at the foam and box left on the counter. It's a huge event in a little town like Ruth's. Old postwoman almost gets blown up by a package bomb and they don't even know who did it? The scandal! Ruth puts in the rest of her PTO the next day, and her manager can't do a thing to stop her. Retirement comes early and Ruth's wife keeps checking on her like she doesn't expect her to be there still, every time relieved that she is. ""Amelia,"" Ruth says, two days before their flight to Italy. They're both in their little living room, settled on their beat-up couch that's old enough to be a college student. ""Yes, Ruth?"" Amelia says, turning from her tablet where she’s looking through travel guides. ""That night at the post office,"" Ruth starts, stuntedly. ""I know what blew up the package.""Amelia sets aside her tablet quickly, giving her wife all her attention.""You have to swear not to tell a soul, 'Melia, I have a terrible feeling it's something much bigger than the two of us,"" Ruth says, taking Amelia's hand. They end up canceling the trip to Italy. The stick is very insistent they go to Greece instead, and Amelia handles getting them on a flight to Athens. Even retired, Ruth must make one last delivery. Probably the strangest one of her life.
","August 21, 2023 16:41",[]
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,8xloss,Care Package,Jonathan Shiller,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/8xloss/,/short-story/8xloss/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Sad']",9 likes,"
This story deals with the loss of a child during the Covid 19 epidemic. 
 
 
 
	Right smack in the middle of the summer, I walked down the main drag in town, up the cement stairs, and between the Doric columns of the grand entrance to the Post Office. It made me feel fancy for some reason even though I looked disheveled, my mousy brown hair pulled back in a cheap claw clip from the Dollar store. I dragged an overstuffed garbage bag through the narrow doorway, hoping that there would be a free kiosk to claim to dump and organize my wares. I always felt like Santa Claus (Christmas in July!) carrying a big sack of goodies down Castle Steet to prepare the summer care package to send to Sarah at sleepaway camp. 
 
	I could never have afforded that camp for rich kids up on Lake Ontario. Seven thousand bucks in exchange for eight weeks of fun. I mean she had so many friends up there, and they all returned each year. So they were like a family. How could I say no when Rob offered to pay for it to make up for being an absent father. Once Sarah was old enough to go to nursery school, he packed up and headed back to Rochester. Never looked back. And here I was, same old Renee, long time cashier at Walmart. I’m what they call a townee. 
 
	Not long after Rob left, Gran died and left me the old six bedroom with the two sun porches that were slowly sinking into the earth. All these years I could never figure out what to do with two sun porches and all that space. Still looks the same, never been fixed up, although Sarah helped me strip a few rooms and paint once she was old enough. 
 
	When she was away for the summer,  it was lonely, but I always sent her a big box of her favorite things, hoping it would make her happy and let her know I was doing fine. After I dumped the bag of goodies out on the counter, I stared at everything for a moment, pleased with myself for getting everything with my employee discount so I wouldn’t break the bank. 
 
	“Here you go Renee,” said Barb, my favorite mail clerk. “I saved this box for you after we used all those reams of copy paper. I know how you like to have a nice, big roomy box for Sarah’s care package.”
 
	“Thanks. I am going to make it really organized this year. I don’t want anything to break or get crushed!”
 
	Barb placed the box on the floor, and turned and gave me a smiley-nod before shuffling back behind the glass enclosed service desk. 
 
	I got to work. The first layer was several packs of underwear. I always told Sarah it’s ok to just throw those undies away. You don’t want everyone in your business when you wash and hang them. This turned out to be the perfect cushion for all the food I layered on next. Twizzlers. Kraft marshmallows, Jolly Ranchers, Pringles. Things that wouldn’t really melt or arrive smashed or broken. Then the Ramen Noodle cups for when the camp cafeteria food was just inedible. Sarah always complained about the powdered eggs. The top layer was filled with paper and envelopes so she could write something to me,  even if her letters were probably written more out of obligation than anything else.  Dear Mom, Camp is great! I am swimming a lot. Lily and Alex say hi! Love, Sarah. Finally just the fun stuff. Some packs of stickers, temporary tattoos, and powdered Kool Aid. Once, Sarah told me that she never actually made the Kool Aid with water and just drank the powder. I can picture that goofy grin with red powder on her lips looking like tacky Halloween lipstick!  Always silly, that kid. Not sure where she got that happy, care-free way about her. Lord knows, she didn’t get it from me. 
 
	Once the garbage bag was nearly empty, I shook it until the packing tape fell onto the counter. It quickly slid onto the floor. As I bent down to pick it up, I heard someone say, ”No, allow me.”
 
	I looked up and saw Barb standing across from me. I had forgotten we were the only two people in the building. She said,”Why don’t you let me help you? There is no one here, and we could even have a chat while we pack the box.”
 
	“You know this is my ritual, Barb,” I said. I could feel my voice starting to crack. 
 
	“Renee,” Barb started. “I know you need to do this. And I am happy to send the box to the camp as a gesture or even donate all these goodies to the Boys and Girls Club. But you don’t need to go through this alone. I am happy to pack the box with you. We can even talk about her. Look through some pictures. We can even sip some Kool Aid.”
 
	My eyes smiled at Barb. She was a real friend. She knew what I was going through after losing her little girl so long ago too. 
 
	“You’re right,” I said. “It would help to have someone alongside me. Sometimes I feel stupid doing this, since she’s been gone for three years now.” The tears came. I sat down on the tile floor of the Post Office and sniffled a bit. Barb walked clear across the lobby and flipped the open sign over and locked the door. She plopped down on the floor across from me, crossed her legs the best she could, even with those bum knees. 
 
	She took my hands in hers. Looked right into my eyes. “It’s ok, Renee. You can talk about this.”
 
I looked down at the address label in my hand. The words started to smear as my tears plopped down 
onto the sticker:
         Sarah Anderson
			Camp Kenwood
 			100 White Springs Road
			Barker, NY 14102 
 
	Sarah’s camp, her favorite place on earth, never reopened after it closed down for Covid. How a perfectly healthy, athletic, energetic kid like Sarah could end up in the hospital only a few days after complaining that she felt tired and dizzy just never made sense. Thought she just had a bad cold. That was Friday. On Monday she was on oxygen in the ICU. I don’t think she fully understood what was happening. She was a kid. I think she (and I) thought she would get better. And then she just went to sleep and didn’t wake up. Rob was there. He blamed me for the whole thing. Said I should have called the doctor sooner, and the doctor waited too long to send her to the ER. It was April 2020. No one knew how bad everything would turn out. Not even the people with medical degrees. 
 
	Less than one day after the funeral, Rob was out of my life for good. That I can live with, but, for a while, I struggled without that child support check I had been accustomed to each month. But I made it work. Picked up some extra hours at Walmart. It was good for me to be busy anyway.
 
	After a long silence, Barb let go of my hands. She said,”What should we do with the package this year?
 
	“I don’t know. I kind of want to devour all these snacks right here on the floor. Kinda eat my feelings, ya know?”
 
	Barb chuckled. She said,”That locket that you’re wearing,” pointing to the gold heart dangling from the flimsy chain. “Remind me. Is there a picture of Sarah in there?”
 
	One flick of my thumb popped the front of the gold heart open. Inside. That gap-toothed silly grin. Chocolate from her melted ice cream cone all over her face. That kid loved sugar more than life. 
 
	“What…. a…. girl…,” Barb said, emphasizing each word slowly.
 
	“One of a kind I said,” and I bit into a Twizzler as Barb peeled open the can of Pringles. We sat on that floor until the afternoon sun dropped below the windows, and it was time to lock the doors and head home.
 
 
 
 
 
 
","August 25, 2023 23:12","[[{'Aaron Huston': 'Jon, that was a tragic tale. I think you really captured a somber tone that did the story justice. I think a lot of people can empathize through the coping mechanisms and actions  described even if you omitted the explicit reasons or feelings of the characters. I enjoyed it and felt the sense of loss and closure. Thanks for the story!', 'time': '19:58 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,qxcexn,Fragments,Vivacity Rex,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qxcexn/,/short-story/qxcexn/,Fiction,0,"['Crime', 'Mystery', 'Fiction']",8 likes,"
***Trigger Warning: This story contains themes and descriptions of murder and violence that may be distressing for some readers.***
 
On Tuesday, Kade walked into his job at the local post office. The job suited him; it fit his personality. He stayed in the back sorting mail and occasionally got packages for the front clerk girl. 
 
Today, he planned to do extra cleaning around the back room. So he came in a little early. He wanted to prove to his boss that he was good at this job. 
 
Passing the clerk girl, Brandi, today, she gave him a wide smile as he passed through to the back. Kade didn't smile back; that is awkward. He did nod, though; that was polite. 
 
These young girls who consistently work the front desk usually pay him no mind. That is another thing about this job Kade liked. He was almost invisible; that's perfect.
 
He rolled up his sleeves in the back room and picked the long table he always referred to as his desk as his starting point for his little project. 
 
The back room was windowless, crowded with shelves and tables, and plenty of space for things to fall and become forgotten. Kade himself had lost dozens of pens under the tables. 
 
Looking at all the papers and containers on his 'desk' made the task daunting. Suddenly, Kade thought this could be a horrible idea. He could be signing his resignation letter by trying to do extra work. He never put himself out there for that exact reason. You never know how people will react to things. It's always better to err on the safe side. 
 
Kade squeezed his eyes shut and blocked out those thoughts. He had made this plan. He will stick to it. Nothing wrong with some extra cleaning. 
 
Kade spent an hour organizing the letters and paperwork on his desk. That is enough for today. He does not want to seem too ambitious. Turning away and aiming for the coffee station, he mentally patted himself on the back for a well-done job. 
 
With a mug of steaming coffee, Kade headed back to his desk. He will need to go over the list and sort through the letters. On his desk was a postcard that definitely was not there when he left for the coffee. Kade looked around, but no one was back there. 
 
Picking up the postcard, he went to ask Brandi if she had put it back for him. Kade stopped mid-stride; the postcard had his name on it. This card was addressed to him. Flipping the card over, he glanced at the image on its front, a generic postcard from his town of Gananoque. It showed little islands full of green trees surrounded by water. 
 
The message was written in a fancy cursive script and short:
 
'Uncover my ear on the island depicted within this card's frame.'
 
""The heck.."" Kade blurted out as a chill ran down his spine. 
 
He read and reread the card. What was this person trying to tell him? They needed to be more clear. Ignoring the chill he got from the message, Kade folded it into the stack of random letters he kept on his desk. 
 
Kade returned to work, and within the next hour, he completely forgot about the weird postcard. 
 
~
 
The following day, Kade walked through the storefront. Brandi was working again. Again, she smiled at him, and again he nodded back. 
 
Kade did some extra cleaning; he moved the large metal tables today and swept out everything hiding underneath. He gathered all his new, slightly worse-for-ware pens and stashed them into his little pen cup. 
 
Brimming with pride, he treated himself to a well-deserved coffee. On his return to his desk, he noticed another postcard sitting with the picture up. He flipped the card over, and yes - it was addressed to him again. Flipping the card over to look at the image, it was a campground picture. He knew this place; he hadn't been camping since his youth, but he did recognize the site in the image. 
 
The message, in the same script as the first one, read: 
 
'Discover my tongue's silent testament under the fire pit.'
 
Kade was starting to feel sick. Bile was crawling up his throat. He rushed out to the storefront. 
 
""Brandi?"" He said, his voice rough and a little sharper than he intended. 
 
Brandi was startled, and her reply was a squeaked ""yes?""
 
""Who came into the back?"" Kade demanded.
 
Brandi flinched, unused to him interacting with her. Or maybe he needed to fix the tone of his voice like he wanted. That is not even important right now. He only needs to know who put this on his desk. 
 
""No one,"" she replied. 
 
""Someone did."" Kade booms back. 
 
Brandi's eyes grew wide. He may have lost all control of his voice at that time. So he repeated it but softer.
 
""I didn't see anyone go into the back."" She looks at him questionably, a little squint to her eye. 
 
She wants to know what made him upset. Kade would not tell this child his business. The cards are addressed to him, not her. So he retreats to his desk. 
 
He lined up the two cards so they were together. The campsite was closer than that island. He will go there tonight to clear his mind from the creepy crawlies clinging to him now. 
 
~
 
After his day of work, Kade drove his pickup truck to the location he knew from the postcard. Kade opened his door and stepped out into the dusky night air. 
 
Kade had a smile on his face. The smells of decaying fish and algae hung in the air. It smelled of childhood memories spent out here in the wilderness. He would always leave the campsite whenever possible, while most people chose to hang around the designated spots where people paid to set up their tents. That was not fun to Kade; he preferred to be away from the other people. 
 
As he stood there, Kade took out the postcard. He brought them with him. That was the best thing to do now that there were two. He would not leave them on his desk for the nosy clerk Brandi to find. 
 
Kade grabbed his shovel out of the bed of his truck and walked to the fire pit. He held up the postcard, confirming the picture was of this spot. It was. 
 
Well, Kade needs to check under this fire pit. So he started digging. The top layer was all ashes. He fanned his scoops out when he dug them out. So, the dirt was in a single layer. So that nothing could hide from him. 
 
He paused and wiped his brow on his plaid button-up shirt sleeve. It had been a long time since he did anything resembling exercise. It is embarrassing that he broke a sweat already. 
 
Kade used to be able to run like a wild coyote. Streaming past trees like he was the wind. He was an older man now, and living in the past was useless. 
 
Kade dug and fanned the dirt out, repeating the process for twenty minutes. What was he expecting to find? Kade doesn't even know. He just knew that he needed to come and look. 
 
Well, that's enough of that; he needed to get back and go to sleep. 
 
He cursed under his breath at the waste of time this whole thing was. He did not even bother to try to return the firepit to its original condition. He got into his truck and turned it on. 
 
The lights beamed over the area. Kade had not even noticed it had gotten that dark out—an absolute waste of time. He started slowly pulling out, seeing a lump on the ground—the patch where he had been fanning the dirt. 
 
He stopped the truck and sat looking at that clump of dirt. From here, he could not tell if it was a rock or soil in a lump. Was it worth getting out of his truck again to look? 
 
Kade jammed the truck into the park and threw open the door. It protested with a sharp, crunching noise, but Kade had to see this through completely. He would wonder if he were to leave now, and Kade didn't want any other crap on his mind. 
 
Stamping over to the clump, and stood over it. It looks like a solid brown clump—just dirt. Kade gave it a quick toss with the toe of his boot. The lump of dirt did not collapse into nothing and did not roll smoothly away. It felt soft to his toed boot. Standing up straight, he looked around. 
 
That sick feeling was creeping back up his throat. Kade did not like this; what do you do in situations like this? Kade doesn't know. 
 
He needed to get help. He returned to his truck and grabbed a bag from the passenger side floor. Dumped out the garbage it held and then went back to the 'clump.' He picked it up with the pack, as you would pick up a pile of dog pooh. Then Kade tied the bag. 
 
He drove back into town but stopped at the police building before heading home. He had handed the lady at the desk the bag and the cards. He explained everything he could. 
 
Later, Kade decided he needed to call in for work in the morning. He had spent hours at the police station and could not escape the chilling feeling that gripped his heart. Maybe this is what a heart attack feels like. He will inform his boss and sleep all day tomorrow.
 
~
 
Kade had spent his sick day yesterday in bed until he received a call from a man investigating this new case Kade had brought in. He had asked a few more simple questions and had arranged a meeting. 
 
Today, Kade had gone to work like normal. He walked past the front clerk girl, not Brandi today, but someone new. She didn't smile at Kade, so he did not acknowledge her. 
 
Once in the back room, Kade noticed his boss, Ted, was locked away in the private office. That office was always kept locked unless Ted was in there. 
 
Ted turned as Kade walked by. It was too late for hellos, so Kade kept walking to his desk. Once there, he scanned the desk area without moving his head. Kade didn't need people to know he was looking for more postcards. 
 
Nothing new. So, Kade continued with his work. After his first break, Ted was waiting at Kade's desk. 
 
""Kade, I didn't expect you in today,"" Ted said sternly. 
 
Kade turned to the schedule tacked to the wall without replying. He scanned it and pointed at his shift marked for today. 
 
""I work today."" He whispers out. 
 
""You have been gone for three days, Kade."" Ted completely ignores Kade's figure, which points to his shift. So he drops his hand. 
 
Kade tried to recall the past three days. He might have slept through three complete days. He had been drained. So Kade ignored Ted and went back to organizing the mail. What did Ted want him to say? 
 
""Kade."" Ted puts his hand on Kade's shoulder, pressing hard, indicating he wants Kade to turn around to face him.
 
Kade turns around and then gives the man a shrug. Ted was younger than Kade but had a family with three kids at home. His sentimental side had helped Kade land this job. Kade did not want to lose this job, so he had to think of something to say. 
 
""This is the last time you skip work days."" Ted continues without letting Kade finish his thought. ""You call no-show again, and I'll have to fire you.""
 
Kade stands staring at this man who thinks it's okay to threaten him. 
 
""I will miss no more days."" Kade agrees to the terms. He can never call in sick again. That's okay; he just needs to get Ted away from him so he can return to work. 
 
""I like this job,"" Kade says. Ted had already started to walk back to his office, so he was unlikely to hear his little remark. 
 
~
 
Later that day, Kade returns to his desk from one of his jaunts to the coffee stand. He hovers his coffee over the little coaster he made from a cardboard box; there is something on his coaster—another postcard. 
 
Kade backs up and gets away from the desk. His coffee was still held out in front of him. He will not read that card. 
 
Kade runs. He dropped his coffee, splattering it all over the floor, which caused Ted to emerge from his office, who then gave Kade a look of disgust. So Kade ran away from it all. He did not need any of those things in his life.
 
He went home. He packed his bag. He got into his truck, and he left.  
 
~
 
Kade sits in the back of a police car. He smiles to himself. He had been living out in the woods. No one had told him how long he had been gone yet. 
 
They were driving him back into town; he stumbled over someone's property who caught him on a security camera. That is how the police found him. They wanted to talk to him. He must have been gone for a while; his beard had grown entirely out. He scratched at it now. He didn't like beards; they itched. 
 
As Kade watched the police station pull into view, he thought about his time in the wilderness. Not too many memories came to mind; some boiling of water he did remember. Kade laughed to himself as he remembered how it tasted like crap anyways. The cop, who now walked with him into a room inside the building, gave him an odd look. 
 
Kade sat at a little metal table, the type of table his desk had been when he worked at the post office. They probably wouldn't want him back. Kade would ask anyway.
 
A lady cop comes into the room sometime after and sits on the other side of the table. Kade folds his arms on the table's edge as if this was his desk. He waits for her to talk. 
 
""Some time back, Mr. Kade,"" She starts, ""You handed in an item at the front desk. Do you remember?""
 
Oh yes, he never really looked at the item clearly and just expected the police would know what to do with it. Kade nods in confirmation. 
 
""Do you mind reminding me how you came about the tongue?"" She asks, ducking her eyes to scan some papers on the clipboard she grasped. 
 
Well, looks like it had been a tongue. Kade assumed obviously that it had been, or why would he have dropped it off at the police station? 
 
""Postcards came for me,"" Kade tells the officer, although he is positive she already knows the answer. 
 
She nods without looking up. She then proceeded with an examination of Kade. She asked millions of questions, saying she wanted to get a read on his mental health. Kade answered all her questions, and she left him alone with his metal desk. 
 
Kade was in this room for an impossibly long time. He stood up and paced the room. The door clicked open, and a male officer peeked his head in. He smiled at Kade and held out a small bag of plain lays chips. 
 
""There was no ketchup."" He says with a shrug. Kade takes the chips. He was hungry and glad to shut his stomach up from its rumbling. He hated Ketchup chips, so he was happy to be given this one instead. 
 
""Just another moment for that, Dr. Pepper."" The guy turns to leave, but Kade stops him. 
 
""Just a water."" Kade hates the bubbles that are in fizzy pop drinks. He doesn't understand how people like to have their mouths assaulted like that. 
 
The officer gives him a strange look but nods and leaves. 
 
Later, when Kade is back to sitting at his desk, the female officer comes back for a visit. She doesn't bother sitting down. Instead, she slams down the two postcards he handed in with the tongue. 
 
Kade looks at them and then back at the lady. Seeking some guidance, he waits for her to talk. 
 
""These are the postcards you handed in, correct?"" She asks. 
 
Kade looks at them again and then nods his head. Yes, these are the cards he remembered clearly. 
 
""Did you send these to yourself?"" She barks out sharply. 
 
Kade recoils, ""no."" he states. 
 
She slams down a few more postcards. 
 
""What about these?"" She asks; five more cards join his two. 
 
Kade looks at these new cards but does not recognize them, so he shakes his head slightly. 
 
""Your old boss found these cards stashed with some of your stuff."" She steps back and crosses her arms, still standing over Kade. ""He has a video of you writing these notes yourself.""
 
Kade looks up at her in complete confusion. He never wrote on these cards. 
 
""You sent these to yourself, Kade!"" She sounds exasperated.
 
~
 
Later, Kade sits in a cell. Alone. He is being charged with murder. 
 
One of his personalities had been skipping work to become a murderer. While another one seems to be a rat, sending Kade messages in the form of postcards. 
 
Typical really. 
 
He had been on a wild goose chase, running after himself. Following clues to uncover pieces of a person he had previously buried.
 
Kade let out an uncontrollable laugh.
","August 24, 2023 03:38",[]
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,qfl8b0,"New Start, Old Wounds",Bryan Johnson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qfl8b0/,/short-story/qfl8b0/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Drama', 'Sad']",8 likes,"
""Supplies delivered to Montreal, check. Upcoming food delivery to Manitoba has been noted. Plane repaired?"" 
 
Chuck looked out his office window, out upon Lake Superior, the snow falling gently down from the dark clouded sky. His seaplane was parked by the dock. He smiled at the sight of his business partner, Ryan, who was down by the plane attempting to fix the engine. 
 
""Attempted,"" he said with a slight chuckle.
 
Chuck had earned a name for himself around Copper Harbor as the town supplier and local mailman, or as the children called him, ""the flying mailman."" With the supply company he had formed after acquiring his pilot's licenses, he had done essential work for the people of the U.P and the surrounding north, delivering food, supplies, and mail all around where he could fly and land safely. He had even developed his network of pilots and drivers to assist on busy days and weekends. And the added bonus of a Sunday off was always a nice treat to look forward to. 
 
""You did it, Chuck. Dad would be proud,"" He said to himself with a smile. ""Everything is changing. Mostly for the better. I wouldn't have it any other way.""
 
""He would be proud."" A voice said from behind him
 
Chuck jumped at the voice and whirled around. He froze stiffly, and his eyes widened. A woman stood before him, bundled up in warm winter clothing. The woman carried a large, polished, dark brown oak box. The woman looked down at the ground, clenching the box close to her chest. She spoke softly. ""Hello, Chuck.""
 
Chuck cleared his throat and wiped his brow, removing his hat and jacket. 
 
""Hello, Elizabeth. How are you doing?""
 
""Chuck, I'm going to cut straight to the point. I need your help. You are the only person I know, well, heard about, who has a pilot's license in Michigan and offers cheap rates on air tours, supply runs, and flights. I was thinking that maybe you would be able to assist me."" 
 
Elizabeth said shyly as she looked at the ground, avoiding eye contact. Chuck walked over to his desk chair and rested his hands on the back of the chair. Chuck sucked his teeth and spoke.
 
""So, you expect me to help you? After what you did? You dared to leave back in 1990. You ripped everything away from me and Ryan, destroyed me as a person, almost got me arrested, then left me waiting for you countless times, and now you come to my door after being gone, and you expect me to help you? What type of person does that, Elizabeth?"" Chuck shouted, his face turning red from sadness and anger.	
 
Elizabeth stood in silence, tears streaming down her face. She took the box and placed it on the desk, unlocking it. Chuck walked over to Elizabeth and peeked into the box. The box contained a picture of an elderly man, a small urn, a map of Alaska, and a view of a city near a lake. Chuck took a minute to process the events. He raised his hand to place it on Elizabeth's shoulder but lowered it, not touching her.
 
""Henry's gone, isn't he,"" Chuck said as he stepped back and walked over to the window. ""Let me guess, old age?"" Chuck asked as he leaned against the wall, facing Elizabeth. ""Using clues from the box, I guess his final wish was to be spread in Anchorage. I'm sorry for your loss, Liz.""
 
""Drop the sympathetic bullshit, Chuck. I know you don't like me or him,"" Elizabeth closed the box and tucked it under her arm, heading for the door. ""I don't even know why I came here,"" she said. Chuck ran in front of her, blocking her exit.
 
""You're right. I don't like you. I liked you at one point, but you changed. However, when someone in need comes to me, I will do my best to help them, no matter who they are,"" Chuck sighed and hung his head. ""I know we had our differences, but I will help you get to Alaska. The thing is, though…"" Chuck said, pausing.
 
""What is it? Let me guess, a condition, huh? What? Do I have to go fishing with you? Cook you a meal? Do your laundry?"" Elizabeth said, shoving Chuck out of the doorway and heading out into the Michigan winter.
 
""Nope. I'm just not going,"" Chuck said, laughing as he headed down to the seaplane, the snow crunching underneath his boots. Snowflakes now becoming entrapped in his bushy mustache.
 
""What do you mean you aren't coming? Aren't you the guy who does the whole pilot thing?"" 
 
Elizabeth asked, confused and angry as she followed him to the dock. As the two approached the port, the seaplane door opened, and a man stepped out. Elizabeth's eyes widened as she became visibly uncomfortable. 
 
""Ryan? Is that you?""
 
Chuck gestured towards Ryan and then to Elizabeth. 
 
""Ryan, this is your mother. I don't know if you remember her, but she needs our help.""
 
""Unfortunately, I do remember. Long time no see, Mom,"" 
 
Ryan spoke demeaningly, wiping the oil grease off his hands. ""What's it been, 28 years since you ditched Dad and me for New York? Looks like things didn't turn out well. Must feel really uncomfortable seeing the fruits of your labor. Hurts like a bitch doesn't it?""
 
""Ryan, enough. I got us a job to do. I need you to take Elizabeth to Alaska. One of her relatives has passed and wants to be spread across the open wilderness,""
 
Chuck said blankly to him as he took the box from Elizabeth and handed it to Ryan.
 
""Why can't you do it?""
 
""Call this spending time with your mother, whom you haven't seen in 28 years. And I've got to settle some paperwork to settle back in the office.
 
""Can it wait for one more day?""
 
""No,"" Chuck said, his words turning sharp.
 
Ryan gritted his teeth and sucked his lips.
 
""Well, Mom and I can finally catch up. I can show her the archery trophy I got when I was seven. The one she never saw us participate in.."" 
 
He opened the door to the plane and boarded. Ryan waved at Chuck through the window. Chuck saw Elizabeth in the passenger window, her hand resting on the window, staring back at him. The plane taxied out to the open lake, took off, and disappeared into the clouds. Chuck sighed and headed up the hill to his office. 
 
""I always knew you would be back. A person like you doesn't know when to truly let go."" 
 
Chuck stared at a framed photo of himself, a woman, and a child on Chuck's shoulders. Chuck wiped away a tear from his eye and held the picture. 
 
""You build things up just to tear them down. I'm sorry, love, but I can't let you back in; our son isn't ready."" 
 
Chuck reached into the cabinet drawer, pulling out a bottle of scotch and a shot glass. Chuck poured himself a drink and threw it back down his throat, gently placing it next to the picture. 
 
""And neither am I.""
 
","August 24, 2023 15:17","[[{'Drew M': ""Nicely done Bryan.  The son being the replacement pilot was a nice twist.  Was Elizabeth trying to reunite with her family?  I didn't see that come through but it seems like Chuck thought that was the case."", 'time': '23:31 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Bryan Johnson': ""I tried to leave that up in the air for interpretation. I think everyone has encountered a situation where a bad relationship tries to come back and rekindle the fire when in their darkest hour and the person isn't having any of it. Thank you for giving my story a read Drew! Glad you liked it!"", 'time': '20:45 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bryan Johnson': ""I tried to leave that up in the air for interpretation. I think everyone has encountered a situation where a bad relationship tries to come back and rekindle the fire when in their darkest hour and the person isn't having any of it. Thank you for giving my story a read Drew! Glad you liked it!"", 'time': '20:45 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,nlm7za,First Day on the Job,Drew M,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/nlm7za/,/short-story/nlm7za/,Fiction,0,['Fiction'],8 likes,"
April 12, 2197Kathy sits alone inside of the Peachtree Center Post Office, dreading what’s to come. It’s her first day of work and she has the misfortune of hosting a school field trip. She hears the clopping of the horses coming up the path outside and imagines the wagons full of children in tow. Tattered clothes, dirt-covered faces, and questionable hygiene. ""Oh God,"" she exhales. It has only been two weeks since she was assigned the job of ""Museum Tour Guide"" by the Jobs Council. She of course appealed but her argument had basically amounted to ""I don't like people"" and the bureaucrat had rudely stamped ""DENIED"" on her application. What an asshole, she thinks as she replays the scene in her head.It had only gotten worse from there. She’d hoped that her assignment would be at the Extinct Animals Museum, which would’ve at least been tolerable. As a young girl, she’d been mesmerized by the exotic animals of the past. Elephants fascinated her, in particular. How could an animal with such incredible size and strength have been gentle enough that men rode them like horses? And then there were the fantastical oddities like giraffes, kangaroos, and unicorns. Wait, was one of those make-believe? It didn’t matter because instead she’d been assigned to the Peachtree Center Post Office. It’s a stupid name for a museum. Someone must’ve thought it would be witty to stick to the original name of the building. They were wrong.The Peachtree Center Post Office’s stated mission is “to promote understanding of the events leading to the start of Mass Extinction 6, commonly known as ‘ME6.’” The museum’s claim to fame is that it’s ground zero for ME6. The location where a series of events were set in motion that would eventually result in the extinction of more than 90% of Earth’s species, very nearly including homo sapiens.Kathy had been so upset with the assignment that she cried for two days straight. She was sentenced to spend the rest of her working life recounting the worst event in human history. And she had to do it standing in front of people … talking. She’d thought about going off the grid, escaping into one of the Forbidden Zones. But she knew she wouldn’t last long if even half the stories were true. ***The chatter outside grows louder as the children gather. Kathy rises from her seat and straightens her uniform shirt by pulling it down at the waist. She thumbs through a set of well-worn index cards one last time before stuffing them into her pocket. Her hand is shaking slightly. Deep breath … in through the nose … out through the mouth.The children slowly file into a large room and take their seats in a series of rows. Kathy stands at the front, a large projection screen attached to the wall behind her. “Welcome ladies and gentlemen,” she says, sounding as if she’s dryly reading from a script. The faces of the 12-year-olds look back at her, half bewildered and half amused to be referred to as “ladies and gentlemen.” There are 48 of them in total, 49 if you count their teacher, a portly 50-something-year-old who seems too eager for Kathy’s taste. They’re a motley group, as 12-year-olds are prone to be - seemingly all over the “phases of puberty” spectrum. What unites them is that they're in their last year of school. In a few months, they’ll graduate to the labor camps where they’ll serve the Federation dutifully for six years. After that the lucky ones will test into the advanced education track while most will become “workers,” the Federation’s generic term for people who do the menial work. Their specific assignment will ultimately be determined by the Jobs Council.  Kathy considers their naive innocence and is sickened. They have no idea what is coming - I hope one of them has to become a Museum Tour Guide.  “You are standing on the site where Adam Hudson committed the single greatest atrocity in the history of mankind,” she robotically announces. “We will now watch a short video entitled ‘Adam Hudson: The Match that Lit the World Aflame.’” One of the few good things about Kathy’s job is that the facility has been approved for electricity. It’s necessary for the video and exhibits. But it also allows for electric lights and a peculiar thing called an oscillating fan, which even Kathy would admit is pretty neat.She flicks a switch to lower the lights and then presses a button. After a brief pause, the video springs to life on the screen in front of the students. There are a few “oohhs” and “aahhs” but most of the group immediately goes silent, mesmerized by the technological marvel of the video playing in front of them. A chorus of trumpets introduces the title screen before the narrator’s deep voice begins.Adam Hudson was born in 1972. His childhood was nondescript. He came from a family of normal means in a place that was once called Pittsburgh. In 1994 he was granted accreditation in science.The video flashes a series of still images to accompany the narrator’s descriptions: a photo of Hudson as a baby, a picture of three rivers meeting against a city skyline, and an image of Hudson’s college degree from the University of Georgia. Little is known about his whereabouts until 2002, when he became a worker at an organization called the Centers for Disease Control in a place that was once called Atlanta. His job status was terminated in 2014. He then engaged in nonpure thoughts of bitterness and anger. In 2015 he became a worker at the Peachtree Center Post Office.Kathy scans the audience and is amused by their awestruck faces. Wait till they see the next part. The narrator continues on as the video switches from still images to a live-action reenactment of Hudson working at his desk in the Peachtree Center Post Office.It was here, in the very spot you sit today, that Hudson executed his evil plan. On August 25th, 2023 he mailed envelopes to 27 cities around the world. Within each envelope was a letter. Each letter had been coated in a microscopic substance that we now know as “The Foam.” Suddenly the lights come on, the video stops, and the screen raises to reveal a full-scale, mock version of Hudson’s work desk, complete with a lifesize, animatronic rendition of Hudson. The robot Hudson whirs as it continuously places (and removes) an envelope into a bin labeled “MAIL,” his eyes looking back and forth unnaturally.There is an immediate explosion from the children. “Oh My God!” screams a boy from the crowd. “Is that him?” cries a girl. “How did you do that?” shouts another. “Calm down, calm down, everyone please, calm down,” yells Kathy. It takes several iterations of Kathy’s plea, plus the urging of the teacher, before control of the room is regained. “This isn’t real,” Kathy laughs. “It’s something called a robot and it’s made of metal and plastic. You have nothing to worry about.” The room falls into a stunned silence.“Holy shit,” echoes an adolescent voice from the back, igniting a round of raucous laughter that fills the room.“Okay, now it’s time to learn a few things,” Kathy says, her voice sounding more natural and confident. “The video mentioned a substance called ‘The Foam,’ why was it called that?”“It’s cause people started foamin’ at the mouth when they got sick,” blurts a tall boy in the front, “like a rabid raccoon.” He leans over the girl next to him, making spit bubbles and a choking noise. “Ew Johnny, you’re such an idiot,” she responds.“Johnny is right,” says Kathy. “And who can tell us what happened after the letters were mailed? Raise your hands please.” A dozen hands shoot up at once. Kathy scans the crowd and locks eyes with a girl in the middle of the fourth row. She has a combination of meekness and awkwardness that Kathy finds familiar. “You there,” says Kathy, pointing to the girl.The girl is surprised, as if she’s never been picked from a crowd before. “Well I guess at first, nothin’ happened,” she stammers. “That’s correct,” says Kathy with an encouraging smile.“Because the thing about The Foam is that it made you sick but you didn’t know you was sick, at least not right away,” says the girl. “So you went around gettin’ everybody else sick and you didn’t even know you was doin’ it.”Kathy nods her head in agreement. “That’s absolutely right. Adam Hudson created the perfect biological weapon. It had an incubation period of weeks, even months in some cases. That meant people carried it around and infected others before they showed symptoms of being sick.”     “I heard it wasn’t nothin’ to do with no Adam Hudson, it was the CIA,” says Johnny. Kathy feels an uninvited rush of adrenaline. Her mind races through her training protocols as she frantically looks around the room to gauge the reaction of the other students. They’re oblivious, she thinks. Openly contradicting the Federation’s official account of the events surrounding ME6 is a Class 1 Offense, punishable by death.Eventually, she locks eyes with their teacher, whose concerned brow and pleading eyes seem to telepathically say, “Please, just let this one slide.”“What the hell is the CIA, Johnny?” yells a boy from the last row.Kathy’s brain stops swirling and kicks into gear. “Johnny is making a joke, he’s referencing the outrageous and untrue accusations that led to World War 3.” Kathy glares at Johnny, who slinks low in his chair.“The Foam triggered a global panic. You have to understand that back then they didn’t know the cause - it was almost 50 years later when Adam Hudson was linked to his crime. But at the time they couldn’t figure it out. So people started pointing fingers, blaming others, and making up stories. It spiraled out of control and before you knew it the world was at war.”   This discussion is too dangerous, Kathy thinks. “Why don’t we proceed into the other exhibit,” she abruptly announces, holding her arm out toward the room’s exit.***Kathy and the tour group are packed tightly at the entrance to a grand room, her earlier fears about hygiene confirmed. All around the room are display cases holding handwritten documents. The oscillating fan is the immediate star of the show.“This is known as the Hall of Letters,” she says. “In 2071 a group of foragers came upon the former house of Norma Hudson, mother of Adam. In her closet, they found a box full of letters from her son. Those letters detailed his downward spiral into insanity and his plans to launch his terrorist attack. This Hall houses the most important of those letters.”“How come she didn’t tell nobody?” says one of the smaller girls.Kathy shrugs. “Maybe a mother’s love. Maybe she didn’t believe he was serious. Maybe she was afraid. The honest answer is no one knows.”A heavyset boy shakes his head in disgust. “That’s messed up. The Foam killed eight billion people. His mama shoulda done somethin’.”“Well, technically The Foam only killed 1.3 billion people,” says Kathy. “There’s a popular nursery rhyme that will help you remember the death count from each phase of ME6, you probably already know it.” Kathy starts to recite the rhyme.The Foam came looking for me,It took one billion three.The kids look at each other, smiling as they recognize the familiar words. Half join in for the next verse.Then came the war,Which wanted even more,So we gave it two billion four.They all join in for the ending.Last came the winter of night,It blocked out all the light.Our crops numbered few,Whatever will we do?Offer it four billion two.“Very well done,” says Kathy, applauding with the group. “Do you understand it now? The Foam killed 1.3 billion, World War 3 resulted in 2.4 billion deaths, and the nuclear winter and famine that followed claimed 4.2 billion lives. It’s all right there in the nursery rhyme.” “All told, 7.9 billion people died over the course of ME6’s ten years. By some estimates, there were less than 500,000 humans left alive.”A chorus of “Wows!” and low whistles ring out from across the group. “Okay,” says Kathy. “This part of the tour is self-guided. Each letter has a plaque that provides the relevant context. I’ll be here if you have any questions.”The group slowly disperses, with sets of two and three bunching around each display case. A soft murmur sounds as the kids read and discuss the letters. Kathy looks on, surprised by her sense of satisfaction at the scene.***“I was impressed by your answer. Not a lot of people know about The Foam’s incubation period.” Kathy smiles at the awkward girl. Her training had been clear that she shouldn’t interrupt guests as they explore the Hall of Letters but she realized that the girl was the only one walking the room by herself.“Thanks, uh, I read a lot,” says the girl.“Be careful!” Kathy replies. “If the Jobs Council finds out they might make you a Museum Tour Guide.” The girl laughs politely.“I gotta admit, when I heard our field trip was to a Museum I was hopin’ it would be the Extinct Animals Museum. I’m really into elephants.”“I hear you,” says Kathy, somehow not surprised.“But the way you tell things is pretty cool.”“Thanks.”“So, uh, which one is like, your favorite?”“I don’t know that I’d say I have a favorite. The man was insane after all. But actually, the one we’re at now is pretty interesting.”The girl and Kathy both lean over the display, reading the letter.August 12, 2023Dear Mother,I have perfected the weapon. I will launch my attack on the 25th of this month by mailing envelopes containing my special brew all over the world.  I’ve spent a great deal of time contemplating what the letters should say - it’s not every day that one gets to draft the prose for a world-changing event. I’ll wish them luck. Then I’ll invite them to check the backside of the letter, which will release more spores. Last, I will sign it with something catchy … a good villain needs a good name.Yours truly,Adam“He told his mama what was in the letters?” the girl asks, surprised. “He did, and this is how we know what they said and when they were sent,” replies Kathy. “Now come over here, look at this one.” Kathy leads the girl to the adjacent display. They read the letter together.August 25, 2023Dear Mother,I wish you luck in the weeks and months to come. You will need it.Please review the backside of this letter, it contains important information. Yours truly,The Postman“He sent his mama one of the letters!” cries the girl. “As best we can tell,” says Kathy. “The man was a monster.” The two stand in silence, absorbing the moment. An unfamiliar feeling of content sweeps over Kathy.***“Alright kids, load up, gonna be dark before long.” The teacher is rounding up the students outside the Peachtree Center Post Office. Kathy looks on, exchanging goodbye waves with different students.The teacher approaches Kathy, “I just want to say thank you.” Kathy senses where the conversation might lead and tries to cut it off. “No problem at all, it was a good group.”“Johnny ain’t the smartest kid, nor is he the nicest. But he lost his father and brother last year. I can’t imagine what it would do to his mama if she lost him too.” She wipes a tear away and suddenly grasps Kathy in a tight hug. “Thank you so much!”Kathy stands motionless in the teacher’s grasp, arms rigid by her side. She’s repulsed by the physical contact, as usual. But she remains still and absorbs the discomfort.Eventually the teacher pulls back. “I gotta say, this is probably the best field trip we’ve ever had. The kids will be talking about that crazy robot for a while.”“And you did a heck of a job. Praise be the Jobs Council, they really know what they’re doing.”Kathy smiles. Maybe she has a point.
","August 25, 2023 01:21",[]
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,tdon7b,Frank's Last Letter ,Kiyana Marie,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/tdon7b/,/short-story/tdon7b/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Drama', 'Friendship']",8 likes,"
You're bored, living the same day over and over again, until all of a sudden you're leaving the life you knew behind. One year ago, I made an impulse decision to buy a one-way ticket to Pennsylvania. I needed to leave Arizona and leave my life with Brian behind.""Happy one year! Natalie shouts at me as she jumps up from behind the service desk. Today was December 21st, making that my one-year anniversary working as a postal office clerk. Natalie is my co-worker and one of the only people I have talked to since moving to this small town in Pennsylvania. The post office was filled with balloons; a giant gift basket was on the counter; and there was a giant sign she made that read, ""Happy one year, Eleanor! You shouldn't have. I say, faking a smile. I appreciated the gesture, but I did not want to be reminded of how long I have been here, and the last thing I wanted was to be reminded of what happened last year at this time.""You shouldn't have,"" mutters Frank. Oh, shut up, Frank. Why don't you just retire already? Natalie responded in anger. Frank chuckled and walked out of the post office to start his daily mail route. Frank has been the town mailman for over twenty years; he is one of the most miserable human beings I have ever met. I try to avoid interactions with Frank. I've had enough misery; I do not need Frank's too.Time was moving slowly today; the day was dragging. The snow was coming down like pouring rain. The only vehicles on the road were the snow plows going up and down the road. The snow started stacking up higher and higher on the ground.With three hours left of our shift, I told Natalie she could head out before the snow storm got worse. ""Are you sure? She was hesitant to leave me alone. ""Yes, you have kids to get home to, and you have a further drive back. I'll be fine,"" I assure her. Thank you; I owe you one! Natalie gathered her belongings, clocked out, and headed home.I sat alone in the empty post office, watching the snow fall. A half hour later, Frank returned, struggling to open the front door due to the hill of snow outside. He finally squeezed through the door, completely covered from head to toe in snow. ""Where'd the other one go? I told her she could leave early to get home to her family before the weather got worse,"" I explained. ""That must be nice,"" Frank sighs. I'll never get why people with kids think they deserve special treatment. You do know I have been outside driving and walking around in this weather all day? You don't hear me complaining,"" he huffed. Actually, you're complaining right now. That is all you ever do,"" I snapped. ""I'm going into the backroom,"" he storms off.With only twenty minutes left of what felt like the longest work day of my life, I started to get my things together to leave. Frank walked out of the backroom. He looks straight out the window, and he rushes to the door in a panic. He turns around quickly towards me and says, ""Have you even been paying attention to what's happening outside? Now he had me worried: ""Don't tell me we are stuck. Frank attempts to open the door; he looks at me in disgust and says, Well, considering there is a block of ice almost up to the door knob, I'd say we are trapped. He leans his back into the door and slides down, not saying a word. He just sits in front of the door with his hands on his knees and his head down. I glanced over at the gift basket Natalie had brought in for me this morning. I notice the bottle of red wine in the basket, then I bring my eyes back to Frank. I take out the bottle and get two plastic cups from the break room. ""Hey Frank."" I set the bottle and cups on the front desk. Frank looks up and says, ""Where did you get the wine? It was in that gift basket Natalie gave me. So do you like red wine or not, Frank? He doesn't respond. I fill up both cups regardless. ""I'm just saying it is going to be a long night; you might as well take the edge off,"" I say as I set a filled cup of wine next to him.I find myself sitting on the floor against the desk, with Frank across from me still seated in front of the door. As we both sit on the floor, sipping our wine, I break the silence. ""So are you miserable because you're alone?"" I ask. ""Pass me the bottle."" I handed over the bottle to Frank. ""I wasn't always alone,"" he says, pouring more wine. ""How did you end up alone? ""Because life is cruel. You're too young to understand that yet,"" he grumbles at me. I stand up and say, ""I am too young to understand. I am twenty-eight years old, and last year I packed my essentials and moved my life here by myself! You know why? Why have I left my hometown? Why did I leave my event planning business that I put so much time into? Why had I left my friends? My family? Everything?! How about you imagine this, Frank? Imagine setting up a pregnancy announcement for your husband. You're excited; it is the happiest you have been. Your husband is on the way home from business in England; he will be home soon. You will soon break the news to him that you're going to be starting a family together, a life, but he never arrives home. The phone rings, you're told to turn on the news, and the TV is now telling you that your husband is gone forever; his plane crashed into the bottom of the ocean. Two days later, I had a miscarriage. Now you are dead inside—no husband, no baby, and no future. I ran away; I came here, but yet every day the image of Brian imploding in the water comes to mind. The thought of what he was thinking What was he feeling as his plane was going down? So, Frank, you don't get to tell me that I don't understand!Frank gets up and hugs me, saying, ""I am so sorry, Eleanor. I would have never known. I am sorry; I probably made your day even more miserable. I haven't been the same since my wife and daughter died in a car accident six years ago. It is hard to remember that other people go through tragic situations too.Frank and I stayed up until twelve in the morning talking about life. I have never told anyone here about Brian, not even Natalie. It felt right to share this with Frank; it felt like he understood my pain. We both eventually passed out and fell asleep on the dirty post office floor.I woke up; it was now five in the morning. I went over to try to open the door; there was still a lot of snow, but it was now soft enough to push the door open. I went to wake up Frank to let him know the good news. I thought maybe we could get back to our houses to get some sleep in our own beds before having to come back in a few hours for our shift. Frank,"" I gently shook him, trying to wake him. Frank!"" I said it louder. He wouldn't respond. I notice he isn't breathing. I quickly called the police. I am scared, confused, and shaking.Emergency services show up and pronounce Frank dead. They tell me that he most likely had a heart attack in his sleep. I can't believe what I am hearing. When they took him away, I remained in the post office; I couldn't leave yet. I sat there, thinking about our conversation. He was just here, and now he is gone.I'd like to believe this night with Frank was more of a blessing than a tragedy. I believe this night was meant to happen. Frank finally let go of his anger; he forgave himself and decided it was time to be with his wife and daughter. The last thing Frank said to me was, ""Don't be angry at the world like me; let go of the pain; move on. You still have time to live a beautiful life. Goodnight Eleanor. Happy one year!
","August 25, 2023 02:04","[[{'Drew M': ""Well done!  It was good character development to have Frank go from someone you didn't like to someone who you felt for when he died."", 'time': '23:42 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,551asx,My Post Office Awakening,William Vickers,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/551asx/,/short-story/551asx/,Fiction,0,['Sad'],8 likes,"
I had most definitely not been out, and I hadn’t ordered anything.
Yet I found myself in the line at the post office with the “you were out” note in hand.
And when I finally had the package I decided to open it straight away.
I decided to open the package still in the post office, and its contents took my breath away. The magnifying glass’s bright orange handle and green rim were worn and faded, but it was the same one I had when I was a kid.
Why would anyone post this to me?
Why was it even still around?
My childhood memory of this object was more than twenty-five years ago.
One summer’s day Dad had taught me how to angle it to cause the sun’s rays to burn holes through leaves. I remember my wonder as the circle of light began to smoke as it curled and burned.
The memory sat uncomfortable in my mind, I didn’t want it there. Since his death I had done well at pushing thoughts, feelings and memories away.
I inquired at the post office about who had sent it, but they had no information for me.
 
Walking home, thinking it must be my mother or sister reaching out to me after having only got my voice mail a hundred times already.
“Keep in touch” they’d told me after the funeral, as I got on the four-hour train back to my flat on the other side of the country.
They’d wanted me to stay longer but I couldn’t stay.
Words spoken to me at the funeral.
Pain on peoples’ faces.
Words spoken as if he was really gone…
Nothing made sense.
 
Despite me hiding it in a closed draw, the magnifying glass bothered me. That evening and the next day I found it difficult to immerse myself in video games. 
Usually, when I put my gaming headset on and sat at the computer I forgot everything. I was safe, but feelings were trying to creep in. Complex ones that I didn’t know what to do with.
I did manage to get back to my comfortable routine of self isolation after a few days though. Then I got another “You were out” note letting me know that I had missed a delivery…
I was definitely not out, I never left the flat.
This was very strange.
I managed to ignore the text and email reminders that the package was there for two days, but then my curiosity got the better of me and I left the flat and once again found myself in the post office queue.
 
 
The package was a large one.
Larger than my torso, it was awkward to carry and was too big to fit on the tall tables so I laid it on the ground where there were less people.
I would put it in the bin on the way home, I did not want another repeat of the magnifying glass incident.
Knelt down, I opened it…
Yellow plastic, which was wet…
The smell of sea salt and sun cream hit me, accompanied with a burst of nostalgia.
I fought off the memory of a family holiday by the beach…
This couldn’t be that. It was impossible.
But as I pulled the yellow plastic completely out of the box and unfolded it, it became clear that it was what I had feared.
 
 It was the inflatable dingy that featured in the memory of that beach holiday.
I could not resist the memory this time, as it engulfed me.
 
I remembered the thrill of being the captain of the boat, my dad behind me, laughing as the gentle waves moved us up and down. Then the panic as a large wave approached, his voice rising behind me. I clung on to the plastic handles as hard as I could but it was no use. The large wave pushed the boat over and I screamed.
What would happen?
I went under and the world disappeared, the sea salt stung my eyes as the strong water pulled my further under…
A hand on my arm.
I felt his strength pull me up. I breathed the air and looked around wildly. He was there, laughing. Water droplets in his beard, shining in the sun.
Everything was fine, and I was laughing too.
 
My eyes still stung with the sea salt as the memory faded and I became aware of my surroundings: the post office.
Not the sea…
Tears.
Suddenly, a rage came over me. I threw the dingy down in disgust, got up and stormed out into the street.
I almost ran into a dog.
I was being invaded, it felt like. Emotions surged through me and the confusion started to lift. I tried to push back.
I couldn’t leave him in there, thrown on the ground.
Storming back inside the Post Office I snatched up the dingy and went back out into the street, intending to put it in the bin.
I would call my mother I decided. I would find out if it were here or my sister sending me these items, and tell them to stop.
 
I found a bench and pulled out my phone, dingy on my lap. Mum answered first time.
“Hi my love! I’ve been trying to get hold-”
“Mum you can stop sending me things now, I get it.”
I didn’t know how to feel.
Maybe I wanted another memory. Maybe that’s the real reason I called mum. I thought about reminiscing with her and my sister.
“I haven’t sent you anything love, are you alright? What’s happened?”
Not her.
I asked if it had been my sister, she was sure that it wasn’t.
Then…
What to say?
“There’s something come for you actually,” she said.
From nowhere, the hope flashed in my mind that Dad was there, at home.
Where he should be, waiting for one of my visits.
But I would never see him again.
“What is it?”
“A letter. But it doesn’t say who from…”
I knew.
Then my will broke.
Pain rose from somewhere deep within me.
I longed to cry, to talk, to love and loved. Above all, I wanted him back, and somehow the pain magnified.
“Mum…”
“Yes dear?”
“If I come home for the letter…” I was crying and it was hard to talk. She knew I was crying but I didn’t mind anymore. “Could I stay with you for a while?”
I heard her crying and heavy breathing over the phone.
The more I heard her cry the more it hurt. 
“Of course,” she managed. “Please please come home.”
","August 25, 2023 15:55","[[{'S Fevre': 'Very moving story. You capture the hurt and the desire to resist it very convincingly. The dingy memory was lovely and reminded me of my own memories of an inflatable boat with my own father (who is passed). I like this line ""My eyes still stung with the sea salt as the memory faded and I became aware of my surroundings"" and could imagine a scene with seawater and sand mixing up with the post office.', 'time': '09:44 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'William Vickers': 'Thanks so much for taking the time to comment (my first comment in this community) :D this is the only story where I had to stop writing and contine later several times due to crying. It felt good though. The story I submitted today is my first funny/ridiculous one to balance the emotions out xD. Please see your profile for my comment on your story and enjoy the rest of your day:)', 'time': '14:56 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'William Vickers': 'Thanks so much for taking the time to comment (my first comment in this community) :D this is the only story where I had to stop writing and contine later several times due to crying. It felt good though. The story I submitted today is my first funny/ridiculous one to balance the emotions out xD. Please see your profile for my comment on your story and enjoy the rest of your day:)', 'time': '14:56 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,tc9zbw,Post Office,Apeman 316,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/tc9zbw/,/short-story/tc9zbw/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Friendship', 'Adventure']",8 likes,"
Post Office
 
	“Where am I?” Frankie Lewis asked as he opened his eyes only to feel a wave of dizziness hit him like a hammer causing his stomach contents to lurch. He squeezed them shut again hoping everything would stay where it should be.
	“Well, you're here Frankie.” A familiar man said that caused him to slowly open his eyes to see who it was.
	“Gary, what the hell is happening?”  He said as he looked up at the other man, a thick bearded white haired fella that he knew from the Post Office that dressed up as Santa Clause every year.
	“Let’s get you up first then we can talk.” Gary reached out his hand to help a still very confused Frankie to his feet.
	“But I was in the car and now I’m,” Frankie said looking around. “In the Post Office, but how?”
	“Well to you it's a Post Office but to someone else it could be a bus station, old house, garden whatever makes them feel most at ease.” Gary said as he rolled the very chair over that Frankie sat in almost daily as he, Gary, Vivian and Ben would enjoy coffee along with conversation at the local Post Office. “Have a seat before you fall down.”
	Frankie absently sat as he continued to look around, feeling the familiarity but also the not familiar at the same time. Confusion was mixed with a major headache and for some reason sadness. He just couldn’t figure things out, but that had been the story about most things in his life. At least when he would come to the Post Office he felt comfortable to just be himself. 
	“I really don’t understand Gary.” He said as he ran one hand threw his hair which was a habit of his when he was confused.
	“Let’s just say this place is like a waystation of sorts in your journey of life. For you I look like Gary.” The man said with a smile before suddenly changing to a dog, then a woman and even a bird before back to Gary with seconds in between. “But to others I’m whatever or whoever they need me to be.”
	“Woo, am I dead!” Frankie said, jumping up as now panic slammed into his head pushing his other feelings aside. 
	“Not of sorts, sit back down and we will talk some more.” Gary urged as he pulled up the same brown worn leather chair that he always sat in.
	“But you're wearing your Post Master uniform and everything and it even smells like coffee, and Viv’s perfume.” Frankie said as he stood behind the chair gripping the headrest either for comfort or just to see if it was real. “Am I dreaming all this then?”
	“You see, I have a  gift for making people comfortable. Sort of a job requirement in my line of work. That’s why you can smell and see things the way you normally experience them. You can even hear them, just listen.” Gary said with a smile.
	Frankie did just that. “Is that Daniel outside playing his guitar?”
	“Well it's him but here there is no outside. But again it's because you hear him out front whenever you come here, playing his guitar with his case open looking for change. So right here and now you hear him just the same way.” Gary waved his hand towards the counter where a pot of coffee sat adding the scent of its brewed goodness to the air.
	“No shit.” Frankie said, dropping into the chair feeling confused yet a little calmer. “But why?”
	“Now you're getting to the meat of things my friend. Look around at the post boxes and tell me what you see.” Gary waved his hand towards the wall of the little metal doors.
	Frankie stood up and walked over. “Well they look like post boxes, is this a trick question?”
	“Look closer.” Gary answered suddenly standing beside him though Frankie never even heard him move.
	Frankie jumped back startled by the sudden closeness. “You were just over there.”
	“Don’t dwell on that my boy, look closer.” Gary urged again.
	Frankie looked closer to the boxes and noticed the numbers had changed from simple numbers to dates.
	“Each box has a year on it.” He said looking back at Gary.
	“That’s right and behind each door, we'll open one and see.” Gary smiled.
	“Well, ok but I still don’t understand.” Frankie scanned the dates before settling on a memory that made him happy. 
	He reached out feeling sweat in the palm of his hands while grabbing the little latch and pulling the door open. 
	“What the heck is happening?” Frankie said as the post office became the front yard of his childhood home. He saw a little boy playing in the front yard , not a care in the world. “This can’t be.”
	“It is, but wait it gets better.” Gary said as he nodded towards the beat up old truck that was coming down the long dirt driveway.
	“No, it can’t be.” Frankie said as he found himself watching his long since dead dad pulling up to his house. “But he’s gone.”
	“This is something that already happened to you so it's a memory.” Gary answered.
	“I remember this day, it was the day…” His words drifted off as his dad stopped a few feet from him. He felt sad yet happy at getting the chance to see his dad again so was this supposed to be a good memory or a bad one.
	That's when his dad knelt down and set something on the ground he had been hiding behind his back.
	“No way, this is the day I got Bandit.” Frankie said as a wave of long forgotten warmth of the returning memory washed through him.
	He watched as the little black dog stumbled on puppy legs staggered to his childhood self. Tears ran down his face but he couldn't take his eyes off the scene as the boy and dog met for the first time. It was a memory that had gotten so buried with all of life's heaviness that he had forgotten all about his first puppy and his first real friend.
	“Can they see me?” He asked Gary as tears ran down his face.
	“Unfortunately no, as this has already happened, consider this a sort of home movie.” Gary answered. “But we need to get back to our conversation and your choice.”
	“Ok, just a second longer.” Frankie said half hearing Gary as he watched the boy and dog roll around on the grass together.
	“Time to go.” Gary finally said as with a wave of his arm the house and boy vanished only to be replaced once again with the familiar setting of the Post Office.
	“So, am I dead, is that what all this means?” Frankie asked as he dropped back into the chair, tears running down his cheeks.
	“That’s just it Frankie. You're taught to believe when you're born your life is like an hourglass, more or less. From birth the sand starts to trickle. I can tell you for some people it trickles faster while the lucky few it trickles very very slowly. Then people like you come into play which is the difference.” Gary said as he sat back down across from Frankie.
	“What do you mean people like me?” Frankie asked once again, running his hand through his hair.
	“Well what I mean is there are people like you that have a chance to, let's say, flip the hour glass. They have two fates for a path where most have one.” Gary said as his words grew more serious. “But with the choices comes some sacrifice but also some rewards.”
	“Like what, do you mean I am still alive?” Frankie asked, growing excited with the hope of this whole confusing mess having a good ending.
	That's when Gary stood up and walked toward two doors that Frankie swore weren’t there when he first awoke.
	“You see, your fate lines are blurred so that means you have a chance to choose your path.” Gary said as Frankie approached him.
	“What do you mean, heaven or hell? If that's the case, not much of a choice.” Frankie said as he stopped and glanced from one door to the other.
	“Nothing like that my boy, let’s say it's sort of like choosing a direction for fate to take you. The door on my left, your right that's labeled, ""Express,” gives you answers on one side and the door on my right labeled ""Returns,” is another path.” Gary said.
	“What about here, can’t I just stay here in the Post Office with you. It always felt so calming and peaceful to me.” Frankie asked as the confusion once again creeped into his mind again along with the calming familiar sounds and smells of what he came to realize as his safe place. After all, Frankie was never a social person, so much so that ever since his accident years ago he had  worked from home and even going so far as to get his groceries delivered. In short he wasn’t a people person, that is until he met Gary and the others at the Post Office below his apartment. It was the only place he ever went.
	“Though I am enjoying our chat I am afraid a great many people have fates of their own that deserve guidance. But both choices aren’t too bad of a deal.” Gary said as he stepped towards Frankie, putting his arm around his shoulder like he had done the very first time Frankie had walked into the Post Office and started having a panic attack. “Your life has been one of struggle and sadness for you despite your great effort. Consider these choices a chance to finally be at rest but this is all I can say. This choice is for you and you alone to do, my friend.”
	“But I don’t know what to do.” Frankie said as he ran his hand through his hair while looking from one door to the other. 
	“Take a chance.” Gary urged.
	Frankie took a deep breath and pushed open a door, a bright light flashed out of the door engulfing him, pulling him inside.
	“Good choice my boy.” Gary said, still standing in the Post Office only he was no longer Gary, he was Frankie’s dad and he was smiling the same big smile he had had the day he brought his boy the stray dog he had found on the road. “You’ll get a good life this time.”
	With that the Post Office and everything in it faded away to help someone else on their journey through life.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","August 21, 2023 16:17",[]
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,v3h09v,Unexpected Delivery,Joyce McBurney,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/v3h09v/,/short-story/v3h09v/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Friendship', 'Inspirational']",8 likes,"
In today’s world of technology and so much of our communication being via e -mail or texts, most of us, myself included, find it unnecessary to go the post office. We all know we have them, after all, our mail must come from somewhere and we see the mail carriers out doing their deliveries, sometimes even on Sundays.
Depending on where a person lives, they may get their mail in a mailbox in front of their house, but, in my case, my mail is delivered to a box assigned to me according to my address, in a cluster of boxes at the end of the street. Because of this, I don’t go to my mailbox every day, I usually go about twice a week. Since it was Wednesday and I had gone to the mailbox on the previous Friday, I decided to go, and since I was going out to do some errands anyway, I could stop on my way out. It always seemed to be the same, nothing important in the stack, junk, junk, junk, but then, the last piece was a pink slip informing me that there was a certified letter that I needed to get at the post office.
The local post office wasn’t far away, about a ten-minute drive, but I dreaded going there, it was an inconvenience that I didn’t plan on when I had other things to do and there was always a line of people waiting. I tended to be impatient when I had to wait. Oh, well, I thought to myself, let me just go and get it over with.  After I parked and walked in, I saw I wasn’t wrong! There was a line of people waiting, but fortunately, there were three clerks working who seemed to be very efficient and the line was moving quickly, however, as I was standing in line, I noticed a young woman in front of me, even from the back I could tell she was anxious. Her clothes were worn, but clean, and her shoulder length brown hair was uncombed. I couldn’t see her face until she got to the counter for her turn, as she handed the clerk a large manilla envelope, I could see she was crying. Her nose and eyes were puffy and red, and, in her hand, she held a well-used, rumpled tissue. As she turned to walk out, I paused before approaching the counter, touched her arm, and asked her, “Are you O.K.?” She didn’t look up or acknowledge me but put her head down and walked out. My heart went out to her. As soon as the clerk gave me my letter, I hurried out the door, hoping to find her, something told me I needed to. While standing on the sidewalk, I scanned the parking lot. There were several cars, but towards the end of the lot, facing the
main street, I saw a small, silver, Nissan with someone sitting in it. Because I had only briefly seen her face, I wasn’t sure it was her but as I slowly approached the driver’s side, I could see it was, sitting with her head down, crying. I didn’t want to scare her, so I stood by the window, waiting for her to see me. I gently knocked on the window, “Can I do something to help?” I asked her as she looked up at me. “I’m Grace,” I told her, “Do you need someone to talk to, what’s your name?” She lowered the window about halfway and with a shaky, hoarse voice, she answered, “I’m Laurie.” “Hi, Laurie,” I replied, “It seems you’re having a bad day.” As I was talking, I heard the click of the door unlocking. “Would you like me to come sit with you?” I asked, “Yes, please,” she answered, “If you don’t mind.” As soon as I got in and sat in the passenger seat, she fell into my arms, crying uncontrollably. Not saying anything, I sat holding her, letting her cry. After a few minutes, she sat up and began to tell me. “I feel so stupid, helpless, embarrassed and humiliated.” she continued, “sitting here in the post office parking lot, crying and talking to a stranger.” “It’s fine,” I told her, “I offered to help, do you want to tell me what’s going on?” After wiping her face and blowing her nose, she proceeded to tell me, “My husband of six years left me three months ago, I got up one morning and he and his truck were gone, no explanation, nothing.” “I tried calling and texting him, with no response, and the police were no help.” “Then out of the blue, three days ago, I received a text from him with a New Hampshire forwarding address, followed by an envelope the next day with divorce papers for me to sign.” “I’m so devastated, I don’t understand and what the hell, New Hampshire of all places, we don’t even know any one there.” I sat quietly, holding her hand, and listening as she talked. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I know I’m a mess, I’m not like this, I’m a professional person with a good job, but I’ve taken some time off because of all this, I can’t think straight, I’m so confused!” She became much calmer as she talked, “I’m sorry,” “You don’t have to be sorry,” I reassured her, “sometimes, we just need someone to talk to.”
We sat in her car in the post office parking lot for nearly an hour, talking and even shared a little laughter. I gave her my phone number, telling her she could call me anytime. “I’ll be O.K.,” she assured me, “especially now that I have you to talk to.”
I sat in my car and watched her as she drove away.
 
 
It turned out, my certified letter wasn’t anything important, but it made me realize, the real reason I went to the post office was to do an unexpected delivery of a random act of kindness.
 
 
","August 21, 2023 18:20","[[{'Belladona Vulpa': 'I was intrigued at first about what it can be. The explanation was simple, nevertheless I could feel the kindness and grace of the character, how humans sometimes are in need of kindness more than anything. So sweet and encouraging story about human connection. Very nice!', 'time': '12:30 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,zfbpsk,His Undelivered Letter,Dasha Nasova,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zfbpsk/,/short-story/zfbpsk/,Fiction,0,['Fiction'],8 likes,"
Sensitive content warning: Implied abuse and alcoholism, blackmail, mentions of homophobia, mentions of historical events, issues with mental illness & suicide.	“Hey, Martin? Can you start sorting through these packages? The next shipment goes out this afternoon.” 	I glanced over at the annoyingly large stack of packages towering over the office, then at the woman who had just spoken to me. Twenty years at this office, never learnt her name. 	As for the packages, I never did enjoy seeing the pile grow. It always simply became more threatening to me. As though the packages held an unattainable power over the entire office, like we were their servants. 	“Sure. Consider it done,” I replied as I waved my hand, silently asking her to go away. 	After she had left, I stood up from my chair and made my way over to the front desk. The packages had accumulated so much that it was difficult for me to even walk behind the front desk. It was like they were trying to swallow the office whole. 	There were so many of them that I ended up tripping over one that had been hidden under a drawer. 	“Stupid boxes,” I grumbled to myself as I kneeled down to pick up the hidden package. I stared at it for a few seconds before calling over one of my oldest coworkers. 	“This package doesn’t have a delivery address,” I said. 	He quickly glanced at what I was holding before laughing. “That’s not a package. This has been here for almost a century. It’s absolutely filled with letters from over the years that weren't able to be delivered.” 	I raised an eyebrow as I listened to him speak. “Were you never curious enough to read them?” I ask. 	“Nope. I’m only here to do my job and get off at 5,” he replied before walking back to his desk. 	I looked down at the wooden box I was holding, then over to the intimidatingly large tower of packages. 	“To hell with them,” I muttered to myself as I uncovered the lid of the box. A cloud of dust immediately blew into my face, and I spent at least thirty seconds uncontrollably coughing. 	After the dust had cleared, I reached into the box and pulled out one of the letters.  March 29, 1986.To Mrs. and Mr. Ivanov.  Dear Mrs. and Mr. Ivanov, I am your child’s teacher, Mrs. Orlova. I’m writing this letter to inform you of your child’s behaviour in class. To say that I am disappointed is a grand understatement. Your child has gone from being my top student to the lowest. He no longer turns in his homework, he ignores classwork instructions, he is constantly late, and his work ethic has become, at the very least, incredibly inconsistent. It seems that he has also neglected to inform you of this year’s parent-teacher conferences, as neither of you were present during the scheduled time-slot.  In the last two weeks, he has caused a disruption in class four times, for all of which I have sent him down to the office. When asked to call home with the purpose of informing the parents, you, of his misbehaviour, he refuses. A few days ago, I discovered that he had somehow 'changed' your house number in the school documents so that teachers and staff would be unable to contact you, which is my reason for writing you a letter.  In addition, I have also developed certain concerns about after-school pickup. I have recently noticed the lack of a guardian arriving to pick him up, which I would eminently like to discuss with you. Should this letter reach either of you, do contact me to schedule a meeting.  Regards,  Katerina Orlova.	I frowned upon reading the letter. “What a rude kid,” I thought to myself, “He even got his parents to be unwilling to pick him up.” 	Honestly, I could understand why the kid didn’t inform his parents of the conferences. If I were a kid, and I acted like that, I wouldn’t want my parents to meet with my teacher either.	I folded the letter and placed it back in the box, before reaching in to read the next letter. 	January 4, 2008.To my dad. 	Hi dad. It’s Max. I’m writing this letter from the hospital. In the isolation room. I’ve been in here for the last three four days. They think I’m high-risk. There’s a nurse staring at me right now as I write. I really hate this place. They think I have something called “Borderline Disorder Personality Disorder,” whatever that means. I’m not allowed to be with the other patients because of it. I’m alone all the time.  The doctors are mean here. And I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I really want to go home. I promise I’ll be better. I promise I’ll stop yelling at mom. I promise I’ll stop stealing your money to buy drugs. And I promise I’ll stop punching and breaking things whenever I get mad. I just want to go home. Please let me come back home.  Dad, one of the doctors slapped me the other day. Right across my face. The bruise still hurts. I don’t know what hurts more though. The slap, or the words she said. She called me crazy. A maniac. Insane. She told me I was cutting for attention and that I “need to get my shit together.” She told me people like me don’t deserve to be loved because we’re psychopaths. I know you’re probably thinking that I must have done something to deserve that. I don’t blame you for thinking that. I haven’t really given you a reason to think otherwise in the past. But I swear, I didn’t do anything. All I did was ask what kind of medications they were giving me because I didn’t know. They never told me. And then I protested against taking them because they told me to just “shut up and take them.”  Dad, if you get this, I love you. And mom. And I’m sorry for ruining your life. I’m sorry for being the son neither of you ever deserved. Just please take me back home, and I’ll make it up to both of you. I’ll dedicate my life to it. 	I remained still for a few seconds after I finished reading the letter. I didn’t really know how to react. What would be the appropriate reaction for that?  August 12, 1956.To my beloved Mary. 	Dear Mary,  I’m writing you this letter in the car on the way to camp. I apologise if it’s rather illegible at times, I honestly can’t really see much through my tears. But I want you to know that I love you. I truly do. And I realise I’ve never actually said it, but that was only because I was afraid. I’m still teriffied terrified, but I think it’s easier over letter. I just want you to know that I shall never forget the moments we shared together. Our first date, especially. You brought me to my favourite diner and we both got one giant banana split sundae. You looked so cute with the chocolate syrup on your nose. And then you took me into the lavatory, where we had our first kiss in one of the stalls. To me, it was simply perfect. And then one of the workers walked in to clean, and he saw us and informed your father. You arrived at our secret spot with a black eye and broken nose. That image shall never slip my mind.  Mary, there’s so much more that I long to say, but we’re nearing the conversion camp. I hope this letter will be enough to remind you of our time together.  I love you. And maybe one day, it won’t be necessary for us to hide.  P.S. I hope your black eye heals quickly, as well as your nose. I wish we could have gotten past the first date.  -Katie. 	My eyes widened as I finished the letter. That seriously took a turn for the unexpected. I felt a slight heaviness in my chest upon realising that this letter had been placed inside the undelivered box, meaning that “Mary” never got the letter. I almost felt like sending the letter myself, until I remembered that it had been written sixty-seven years ago.	I put the letter back in the box as I reached for the next one. The next letter I picked up had been terribly burnt, and half the words were almost illegible from ash smearing.  September 11, 2001. To my wife Katherine and my daughter Susie.  Dear Kat,  I would’ve sent an email, but I’m writing this letter in the stairwell of my office. There are flames all around me. I can’t move in either direction. A plane crashed into our building a few minutes ago. No one knows whether it was intentional yet. No one really knows what happened yet, actually. Right now, I’m just waiting for someone to come.  I don’t think I have much time to write this, so I’m going to end it here.  P.S. Tell Susie that her daddy wishes her a happy 3rd birthday.  (If someone finds this letter, please send it out on behalf of me.) -Mark. 	I reread the letter a couple more times before calling out to one of my coworkers. 	“Hey, Kat?” 	She looked at me in confusion before walking over to the other side of the front desk. 	“Yeah?” she asked. 	“What was your daughter’s name again?” 	As soon as the words left my mouth, I realised the oddity of my question. I had never really cared for the personal lives of most of my colleagues. 	She furrowed her eyebrows. “Susie. Why does it interest you?”	“No reason,” I replied, shrugging. “One of the packages here was just addressed to a ‘Susie’ and the name gave me déjà-vu. Wanted to know where I had heard it from.”	She scrunched up her eyebrows even more at my reply before she rolled her eyes and went back to her desk. 	But this time, instead of putting the letter back in the box, I put it aside. 	I spent the next three hours just sifting through the box of letters.  June 30, 2003. To my mom.  Hi mom. It’s Jake. Report cards went out today. Dad wasn’t happy. He beat me again. He’s really mad, mom. I’m hiding in the attic right now but I can hear him moving downstairs. He’s also really drunk, but I don’t think he’s going to stop drinking yet.  December 31, 1999. To Karina.  I’m really sorry I couldn’t be home with you for New Year’s Eve. I got stationed in New Zealand at the last minute.  November 29, 1950. To Micheal.  Hello, Micheal. It’s Jane. The communists have apparently invaded Canada, or they plan to, at least, and there’s something called the “Red Scare” going around. There are all these investigations happening, and it’s terrifying.  July 25, 2010. To my best friend, Laura.  Happy Birthday! I know you’ll probably get this late, but I can’t afford a computer at the moment.  April 9, 2004. To James.  Attached to this letter are the divorce papers, please see to them ASAP.  May 4, 2008.To Veronica.  It’s Blake. Since you’re ignoring all my emails and IMs, I’m gonna do this the old-fashioned way. Just a reminder that I still have those photos you sent me, and I can send them out to the whole school in just one click.  January 4, 1983. To Marlene.  18 novembre 1967À Joanne.  6 сентября 1994 г.Моей дорогой Преславе.	Before I knew it, it was already 5:00 p.m. The entire office was starting to leave, and I was eventually left alone at the front desk. 	Though one of the letters I had read was still on my mind. No matter how many I read after, it still wouldn’t leave my thoughts. 	After a few minutes of careful consideration, I grabbed an envelope and sealed the letter inside. On it, I wrote; 	“For Katherine. Sorry you’re getting this twenty-two years later.” 	I then walked across the office to leave the envelope on her desk. 	Before I left the office, I sat down at my desk and took out a piece of paper with a pen.  May 23, 2023. To my son.  Hello. It’s dad. Although I feel that I don’t deserve that title anymore. I know it’s been a while since we’ve talked, or even seen each other. Fifteen years. I guess I’m just writing this to apologise for everything. I’m terribly sorry that I failed you as a father. I’m sorry that I never took the time to try and help you. I just always assumed that you were a hormonal teenager who didn’t care about anyone but himself. And I realise how incredibly wrong I was for believing that.  I heard about what happened four years after it happened. By that time, I felt that it had already lost its effect. I read the words in the article, but the fact that the article had been written four years prior took away from the emotional process. Or, rather, sped it up. I didn’t pay much attention to that article. I didn’t really feel much towards it. Looking back now, I think I was just numb to it. Perhaps I thought that there was simply no way that could have happened. I mean, you don’t really expect that to happen in a place like that, do you? So, I haven’t thought about it since.  Though right now, it’s all I can think about. I can’t even imagine what you were going through then. The thoughts that were running through your mind, or the emotions that suffocated you to that point. I know you tried reaching out to me. I know you wrote countless letters to me just begging to be heard. And I also know that I refused their delivery every single time, which now fills me with endless regret.  But I did read one of them.  Son, I’m sorry your cries were left unheard. That your struggles were left unseen. And that your suffering was extorted.  I didn’t go to your funeral. I still haven’t visited your tombstone to this day. I don’t even know whether you have one. Perhaps your mom made you one. I hope she did.  I don’t really know what else to write. I’m sorry you were failed by your own blood. 	After I finished writing, I folded the letter and put it inside of an envelope. I took my briefcase and coat, and I left the office. On my way home, I stopped by the town graveyard. I approached one of the security guards and asked her about a specific tombstone. When she led me to it, I placed the envelope down on the ground in front. It was far from a fancy tombstone, but it did what it needed to do. 	I looked down at the tombstone in silence for a few minutes before I finally quietly spoke. 	“I wish I had gotten you out of that hospital while there was still time. Goodbye, Max.”
","August 22, 2023 18:44","[[{'Sarah Saleem': 'Emotional story!', 'time': '07:29 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Dasha Nasova': 'thank you !', 'time': '16:25 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Dasha Nasova': 'thank you !', 'time': '16:25 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,9lewor,"What Had, What Has, I Have",Callan Brinker,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9lewor/,/short-story/9lewor/,Fiction,0,"['Suspense', 'Fiction', 'Mystery']",8 likes,"
Magnus struggled with the buttons on his new vest. Button, then unbutton, button again and then undo. The slip and thread of the wooden discs moving between the fabric became too difficult for him to be effortlessly indecisive as his hands were sweaty in the heat of September.He had figured that the colder months would have allowed him to wear thicker clothes, but every year, like the ones before, September held onto that lingering touch of sunshine that was more annoying than ever. He loved autumn and could not wait for the struggle to breathe frozen air and be alert for frostbite.Nevertheless, the weather was not prepared for his preferred style of clothing, and the post office would not be any more merciful on a day like this.He rushed inside and quickly undid all his buttons before sitting down in his booth. Already he saw people fanning themselves while they waited in line to send letters and packages. Between each customer he had planned to sneak a fan for himself with the envelopes before sending them to the sorting room. He would not have forgone his decorum any other day, but there was not a worry that someone would sneer at him, for they too would be missing their papers to cool themselves down with.Receive letters, collect payment, send to the back, and cycle again. Magnus was exceptionally lucky that day to also receive packages more than usual. “Lucky” indeed. Mathilda in the booth next to him had asked much more politely than she normally was if he could take care of the packages for her. The baby strands of her bangs had begun to stick to her forehead. Out of politeness and friendship, he had agreed to take over her packages as well.In ten minutes, he wanted to curl up on the floor for what little cold could be absorbed from the tiles, no matter how muddy and disgusting it was.Magnus had a moment to loosen his tie and roll up his sleeves as a young man was carrying in a large wood cask. He ushered the boy to around the back of the front counter to process the box. They weighed it and exchanged the payment and receipt before the young man had rushed out of the post office as if he did not want to stay any longer.Magnus was a bit stupefied at the boy’s reaction but thought little of it as he had to send the package to the back room. He had not even grasped the cask when he felt a sting of frost seep through his fingers straight to the blood. He pulled his hand back quickly but found nothing discolored or reddened when he examined the frostbite that he was sure he felt. No frozen metal was outside the cask nor was there any mist emitting from the cracks that might have caused a chill.Gingerly he had tried again to pick up the cask and found nothing cold about it, other than that it had not been outside in the sun for long.Hauling it back to be sorted was much too quick for his liking. It was cooler in there than the front office, but to his discomfort, he was assigned up front.It seemed that the heat had slowed down in the time that he was in the back room, it seemed to have darkened as well. Magnus sent a silent thank you to the clouds blocking the light for having given his heat-tired mind a breather.In twenty minutes, the crowd had lessened in the office as the morning had passed and the early rush had dried out. Only Mr. Free had come in to send a letter, but once he left there was no one for a while. Mathilda had a stretch and walked around behind the counter to take in the cooling air.“Ahh, finally! Dear Lord, it was much too warm in here before. Although I am better off working today than fanning myself in my tiny apartment that faces the morning sun.”Magnus stretched his arms too and leaned back in his seat. “On days like this I picture myself as a boy on the lake. I can practically taste the water and smell the reeds.”Soon after their little respites, a customer came through the glass doors with a package. Mathilda made sure to point at Magnus. He shook his head while smiling but kindly received it from a nun who unnaturally was curt and stiff for her sweet looking features. The good lord must have favored his devotees that day as the nun seemed to have been left untouched by the heatwave.The package was a leather trunk used for immediate travel. Artists and many wealthy elites used it to carry their canvases or frilly garments while abroad.Thankfully it wasn’t as heavy as the last one, that is until Magnus lifted the trunk and dropped it loudly on the floor with a thud. His entire hand and forearm stung from his muscles seizing up and contracting. He bent over and held his arm for a moment to bring warmth back into it.He quickly looked to the nun to accuse her of attempted assault, but when he looked up, he only saw her leaving through the glass doors. In shock and slight anger, he had looked down at the other booths but found that none had noticed what occurred.He breathed out with a huff and composed himself when he noticed a new crowd of people coming from the street.Thirty minutes passed and another lull of the office settled, only it was not as lively as the one earlier. The clouds had completely swallowed the sun in that time and almost all the heat from the post office was gone.Magnus buttoned up his vest to the top and bottom. He could hardly have believed that it was still the same day as the morning he experienced.Mathilda clenched her hands in warmth and Stanley who was in the booth next to her had bundled up in his raincoat that he brought with him every day. Magnus himself had started to shake a bit. Never did he think that he would miss the morning of hell.The distant clang of the town clock had rung in time with the ring of the office bell over the door.An old man in a sweater and mittens dragging a black metal crate wrapped with a chain to leash it walked through the doors that seemed to open as he passed.In disbelief Magnus stared for a second but snapped out of his daze and stood up to help the man. He held a part of the chain and pulled the crate towards the back of the counter; however, he had forgotten that the scale would not be able to measure such a large package.The two of them pushed and pulled the crate into the back next to the scale and exhaled as they stood up. Magnus rubbed his back in pain and sat down to manage the payment and write the receipt. He estimated the weight payment and settled for 30 lbs., but he surely believed it to be more.The old man thanked him in a dusty voice but had a sweet smile with his missing teeth. Once he took the paper he hobbled towards the doors and left the building, but Magnus had not caught which direction the man went.He turned to the crate and stood behind it ready to push it to the back room, but when the tip of his finger brushed the black metal, his chest clenched up and he fell to the floor. Curling up to find warmth he found none and suffered through the burning cold that seared his entire being.For 40 minutes he had stayed on the floor waiting for the pain to pass, and it had enough to allow him to find his seat and rest in the booth.The sky had turned into night, but faded rays of sunlight told the world it was still day.Everyone in the post office could see their breath in a frozen mist. Mathilda left not long ago without punching her card. Magnus would have left too but he held his work ethic too closely. He had instead rested his head on the counter and focused on counting any number that had come to his mind. The doors opened, but the bell must have frozen as well since it had not rung.A little girl came through and held in her hands a letter with a red wax seal. Her dress was not styled for the cold, but her uncovered legs did not shiver or clench as she walked. She smiled at Magnus and on the counter, she slid the letter to him, just shy of touching his fingers.He sighed, which released a white puff of air and left him feeling not a drop of warmth in his body. He shuddered violently to where his neck tendons were protruding and pulled at his temples.Still, he tried to do his job and received the letter which sapped all his energy upon its touch. He shoved it away and looked at the girl.“What has happened to me?”She smiled and tilted her head. “Life, my kind sir. Life has waxed and waned from you until the final pass over the sands of time, and now that you remember, you can read your final thoughts.”She had pushed the letter towards him again. That time he read the seal and saw the print of a thumb. He looked to his own hand and saw red wax on his right thumb.After he took a breath, Magnus broke the seal and read the contents of the letter, all in his handwriting.“To timeMy body withers faster than the memories that I make. Those summers where I missed the cold of autumn and early falls where I remembered the playful ripples of the lake are rushing quickly to my mind. In their approach I am remembering the week I spent on a steam engine for the first time by my lonesome. The loose rabbit running up and down the carriage had annoyed me at the time, but now it amuses me to no end. I am certain I saw a rabbit sometime after that, though I cannot remember. The image must have not been meaningful enough to bring along with me to the bright sun that is nearer and nearer the more I see in my mind.I must find the words to thank you. During your presence in my life, I had found characteristics to hate about you, now I appreciate this small pocket of your attention to give my gratitude for showing me that amidst anger and sadness, I have collected a collage of colors and shapes that appeared since my birth. Colors that contour my spirit and shapes that form the letters of ‘Magnus’.As a farewell request, give me a cold hard slap before I come into the clouds. I doubt that I will remember my appreciation for you, for words have a way of escaping once they are out of your hands.                                                                                                                             From Magnus”
","August 23, 2023 00:21",[]
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,xhdmjz,Ms. Volunteer,David Marshall,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xhdmjz/,/short-story/xhdmjz/,Fiction,0,"['Christmas', 'Holiday', 'Kids']",7 likes,"
 
 
Living overseas can be a challenge. Especially when you are living in a country that you are not familiar with for three years because your husband is serving in the armed forces. Ms. Elena knew what she signed up for when she walked down the aisle five years previously in a small church just outside her hometown. This is the military life, and I will do everything that I can to support our family while we are here. 
 
Ms. Elena loved challenges and she also loved to help people. There were many times that she would go out of her way to take food to strangers who were hungry, give women shelter because they were domestically abused, or open her home to military families because the spouse had to leave early to comply with military orders. 
 
Over a year into her current stay, she was feeling the urge to help again. How can she make everyone happy while at the same time serving her country like her husband was doing without going into the armed forces? Suddenly, a fantastic idea came to her. 
 
“Everyone is getting prepared for the holidays which was couple of months away, and since we are in a foreign country, many service members and their families will be depending on Christmas packages, cards, and letters from their loved ones at home to make their holidays.” 
 
“That is it!!” 
 
“I will volunteer at the military post office.” 
 
“I know helping people out would make them happy and that is always my calling!”
 
Eager to start, she got up early the next morning and rode with her husband to his work because the post office was only a few blocks away. After she arrived, Ms. Elena peaked at the door to see if there was anyone there? Seeing an attendant at the counter, she asked to speak to someone about volunteering for the upcoming holiday season. The attendant pointed to the person in charge who was in the back sorting out the daily mail after the trucks arrived earlier that morning. 
 
Ms. Elena approached him and asked if she could help in any way especially with the holidays approaching. The boss was more than happy to see her because he needed the help more than ever. However, Ms. Elena would have to fill out paperwork to make it official and to make sure that she understood that it was just on a volunteer basis, with no pay or salary involved. Ms. Elena was very excited about the arrangement, and she filled out the paperwork right away and gave it to the boss. 
 
Of course, it would not be easy working at the post office, and she had many things to learn. She teamed up with another volunteer and the team lead to learn the ropes. First was unloading the mail from the trucks during the morning run. Next was separating the letters and cards from the packages. Afterwards was organized the letters and cards into different sections according to where the mailboxes were located. Then came filling out cards indicating to the recipients that a package arrived for them. Afterward, was distributed the mail, cards, and package notifications to the individual mailboxes. To Ms. Elena, this was one of the fun parts of the day, because she knew that someone was going to be very happy to find something special in their mailbox, she loved distributing the mail just like the Grinch distributed the mail during the movie How the Grinch Stole Christmas especially when Mr. Grinch was throwing mail into the Whoville post office  boxes while saying “jury duty, jury duty, jury duty, junk mail, pink slip, eviction notice etc.” 
 
However, the most satisfying part of the day, which made Ms. Elena's day was watching the service members and families opening their mailboxes and seeing the Christmas cards, letters, and package notifications. It was great watching their eyes light up, smiles come to their faces, and their spirits light up because of what was in the mailbox. Ms. Elena really enjoyed being at the front counter, taking the notifications, and getting the packages for the customers. It was awesome watching the children jumping up and down in excitement because they knew that there were Christmas gifts in those boxes even though they knew that they couldn’t open them up until Christmas morning.  
 
Even though it brought great satisfaction to Ms. Elena to put the Christmas Cards, letters, and package notifications in the mailboxes, one of the other things that she loved to do was to assist in delivering packages, letters, and cards to the loved ones at home in the United States. Ms. Elena was more than happy to make sure each of the gifts had special care and to ensure the senders did not worry because the post office will do everything in their power to make sure all will be delivered safely so that all will have a great Christmas. 
 
Ms. Elena had so much volunteering that she stayed several months after the Christmas season to help where she could. The joy of seeing people’s faces when they picked up their mail was because she knew how a letter or a card would bring happiness to those in receipt.
 
In the late spring, it was time for her and her husband to go back to the United States to a new duty station. During her last week at the Post Office, her boss and the team had a special going away luncheon in her honor to thank her for all the help and joy that she brought to everyone during her time there. After the luncheon, the boss presented her with a gift, a certificate, and a trophy symbolizing all the appreciation that he and the team had for Ms. Elena for her time there. There was an inscription on the trophy that said, “A special thanks to Ms. Elena for all her time and efforts in making the Post Office a better place to work.” Thank you very much, Ms. Volunteer!! 
 
 
 
","August 24, 2023 02:15","[[{'Raven West': 'Nice story, except that there are NO ""volunteers"" at any mail department - it\'s a government agency, they have to pay employees.. it\'s also a UNION shop - wouldn\'t allow free workers... but nice thought!', 'time': '22:32 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'David Marshall': 'Thanks, Raven for the comment. However, at Howard AFB, Panama, there were both volunteers and paid workers and since it was on a U.S. Military Base there were no unions!!', 'time': '02:00 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Raven West': 'Thanks for the clarification - I worked in the USPS, but it was US based, not military and yes, I was a member of the union!', 'time': '09:33 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'David Marshall': 'Thanks, Raven for the comment. However, at Howard AFB, Panama, there were both volunteers and paid workers and since it was on a U.S. Military Base there were no unions!!', 'time': '02:00 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Raven West': 'Thanks for the clarification - I worked in the USPS, but it was US based, not military and yes, I was a member of the union!', 'time': '09:33 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Raven West': 'Thanks for the clarification - I worked in the USPS, but it was US based, not military and yes, I was a member of the union!', 'time': '09:33 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,y61rzk,Kenneth's day.,Shaun Griffin,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/y61rzk/,/short-story/y61rzk/,Fiction,0,['Fiction'],7 likes,"
One Tuesday morning Kenneth Wilson came to the realization that he despised people. He was about to open the doors of the small post office when he glanced up at the informal queue of waiting people. Each wore the same look of quiet impatience. It was a look that said he was the sole reason for the delay to their self-important lives. He stopped, key paused halfway to the lock, and smiled. The squat, balding man standing in front responded with a puzzled frown. For the briefest of moments Kenneth considered not unlocking the door, if only to see the look of bemused surprise on their idiot faces. They would be quite powerless to stop him, yes, quite powerless. If only that were true. But he was not the owner of this post office, nor was he the manager. That role fell to Mr and Mrs Granville, the owners of this particular post office franchise. Besides serving behind counter 1, his job was to open the post office in the morning and close it again at night. The only reward for having worked there the past ten years.
 
Kenneth inserted the key and turned the lock. He opened the door and offered a perfunctory ‘Good morning.’ 
“Good morning,” mumbled the squat man and pushed past him.
Kenneth sauntered back to his station purposely ignoring the queue now forming behind the squat man. He carefully removed the ‘Closed – please use next counter’ sign looking over at counter 2 as he did. Shirley was late, again. Probably still in bed, hung over from another late night out on the town, he thought.
 
The squat man strode purposefully up to the counter. He pushed a small package over the polished surface of the counter and nodded to the large clock on the wall behind Kenneth.
“It’s ten past nine,” he growled.
Kenneth turned about to look at the clock.
“So, it is.” said Kenneth, turning back to face the man.
“Post office is supposed to open at nine,” observed the man sourly.
Kenneth shrugged.
“Yes, sorry about that,” he replied in a tone which betrayed anything but regret.
He adjusted his glasses and proceeded to process the delivery details. 
“Would you be requiring additional cover?” he asked.
“Why?” scowled the squat man.
“Standard cover it is then,” noted Kenneth. “Special delivery?”
The man nodded.
“Eight pounds, ninety-five,” said Kenneth.
The man muttered something about ‘ridiculous cost’ before placing his credit card against the card reader. Payment successful, he snatched up his invoice, turned on his heel and left the shop with the same purposeful stride.
 
A young woman of around twenty was next. She reminded him of Belinda, the previous counter 2 girl. Thickly applied makeup, false eyelashes, platinum-blonde styled hairdo, and Botox pout. It seemed the look every other girl aspired to these days.
She placed a number of parcels on the counter.
“Small business?” enquired Kenneth.
She stared blankly at him, chewing her gum mechanically like some masticating cow. 
“What?”
“Its just that I’ve noticed you come here quite often with a lot of parcels,” replied Kenneth. “If you own a small business you might want to talk with Mr Granville to arrange a better postage rate perhaps.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You, watching me or something,” she looked down at his nametag, “Ken?”
He adjusted the nametag pinned to his shirt.
“It’s Kenneth,” he corrected.
“No Kenneth,” she replied. “I do not own a small business, and it’s none of your effing business how many parcels I choose to mail every frigging week!”
Kenneth proceeded with the transaction as fast as he could. 
The girl picked up her invoice, long false nails clacking on the counter as she did.
“You know my fiancé, Rashid?” she asked.
Brimsby was not a large town, but Kenneth doubted very much he’d ever frequented the types of establishment Rashid more than likely hung around, nor did he care to.
“No,” he replied simply.
“Maybe it’s betta then I don’t mention this, yeah?” she sneered.
Kenneth nodded meekly.
He watched as she left the post office, her ample ass jiggling in her tight active wear.
 
He deserved a reward for that, he promised himself. He’d nick a parcel on his way out tonight. His little reward for having to put up with this sort of thing. His little reward for the interminable hours standing waiting on people just like that. He was better than them. Yes, better than all of them. A year ago, Mr Granville had begun to investigate the issue of missing parcels. It had been relatively easy to slip a small package into Belinda’s bag. It was pay back for the time she’d sniggered when some big lummox of a man had threatened to ‘pop his head like a pimple’ when Kenneth had deliberately overcharged him. It was something Kenneth had done from time to time as revenge if he felt he’d been insulted. Most never seemed to notice but this man had. Kenneth had never attempted the same thing again. He glanced over at counter 2. Shirley had still not arrived. Perhaps it was time to slip another small parcel into someone’s bag, he thought. It would be relatively easy, despite the security camera Mr Granville had installed in the backroom. It would serve her right, the vacuous little cow.
 
Mrs Jones was his fifth customer of the morning. She was a small woman of slight build, in her late seventies. Kenneth watched as she shuffled up to the counter and carefully placed a square neatly wrapped box on the polished countertop. Her quick furtive movements reminded him of a mouse.
“Another package, Mrs Jones?” he asked with feigned cordiality.
“Yes, Kenneth,” she replied brightly. “It’s the final one.”
Mrs Jones had become something of an institution these past weeks, shuffling up to the counter every other day with yet another neatly wrapped package clutched tightly to her chest. It seemed a pity this was the last one, for he’d begun to enjoy watching her muddled attempts at calculating the postage (she insisted on paying cash), or all the times she’d written different return addresses. Silly old bat.
“Mr Jones still not well, is he?”
“Oh, yes, poor dear,” replied Mrs Jones. “He’s not been well these past weeks, but I think he’s turned a corner. Should be on his feet any day now, I shouldn’t wonder.”
That was a pity, thought Kenneth. Her husband was a cantankerous, vicious old bugger and he’d certainly not missed the regular visits paid by old man Jones coming to purchase yet another Royal Mail Special Stamp issue for his collection.
“You keep well, now, Mrs Jones,” said Kenneth as he handed over her change.
“Thank you, my dear, I will.”
He watched her shuffle away before turning to the next customer, his fake smile firmly in place.
 
Shirley breezed into her spot at counter 2 at quarter to ten, a full fifteen minutes before Mr Granville arrived from his usual Tuesday morning golf game. He’d played a poor eighteen holes, made all the worse by losing a substantial bet he’d placed on the game beforehand. Except for the constant sniping from Granville, the day had proceeded the same as any other for Kenneth. Mr Granville had appeared especially annoyed at him and for a moment Kenneth wondered if Granville had begun to suspect he was the culprit of the missing parcels. Of course, the thought had not prevented him from rewarding himself at the end of the day. He’d slipped the closest package on the shelf into the bin as he’d exited to throw away the rubbish and later retrieved it after he’d closed the post office for the day.
 
Home for Kenneth was a little bedsit over a fish and chip shop on Coddington road. Later that night, after he’d had his tea, he retrieved the package from his backpack. He placed it reverently before him on his bed. The package before him was a square neatly wrapped box and he suddenly realized it was the one old Mrs Jones had handed him that morning. He quickly pushed aside the small twinge of guilt. After the day he’d endured he deserved this. He rubbed his hands. Every time felt like opening a Christmas present. Using a small knife, he proceeded to cut away the binding, then carefully removed the brown paper wrapping. Kenneth finally opened the box and there inside he saw the perfectly preserved head of old Mr Jones.
","August 25, 2023 06:44","[[{'Helen Sanders': ""Quite the 'surprise' ending. Though I wondered why Kenneth didn't show more curiosity at the imagined 'weight' of the parcel.  Also, the different addresses part, really intrigued me... Makes me wonder, what else has the old lady been up to. Enjoyable reading..."", 'time': '05:11 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Karen Corr': 'Great story! What an ending! I enjoyed reading it.', 'time': '16:02 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Shaun Griffin': 'Thank you, Karen. Glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '03:34 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Shaun Griffin': 'Thank you, Karen. Glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '03:34 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,f7nsr4,Going Postal,Cindy Strube,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/f7nsr4/,/short-story/f7nsr4/,Fiction,0,"['American', 'Contemporary', 'Fiction']",6 likes,"
Going PostalIt wasn’t Mattie’s fault.Put it down to a chain of events. Circumstances. An uneven floor; a wobbly cart; a gap under a cabinet. Perhaps slipshod maintenance, or a less-than-diligent cleaning crew.Mattie was a temporary employee. A college student, home for the holiday break. His job was to roll a canvas cart full of mail from the receiving room to the sorting center, and it was not his fault that the cart had a wonky wheel. Certainly it wasn’t Mattie’s fault that the wonky wheel caught on a floorboard which sat just a bit too proud above its neighbor. Not his fault that a nut came loose and the wheel fell off, causing the cart to tip and spill the mail across the floor. Not his fault—and nobody blamed him. Mattie was sent back to the receiving room for a fresh cart full of mail, while the sorters bundled scattered envelopes willy-nilly into the bins. Someone shoved the disabled cart off into a dark corner, where an eager spider took up residence in the underframe.Carriers began to line up, waiting for their route allotments. “Where’s our loads, Jolene?” grumbled Phyllis. A veteran on the cusp of retirement, she had not a qualm about speaking up. “Had an incident in here,” came a response from behind the swing door. “Bad cart. Be with you shortly.”“Hrmph!” hrmphed Phyllis. “If I wasn’t about to clock out for good, I’d call for an audit of this place. Ain’t like it used to be! Care and efficiency has gone out the window. But it doesn’t matter to me at this point. I do my route, and I do it well.” She crossed her muscular arms and stared around at her coworkers. “But whoever wins my route, better keep up my reputation!”At last they loaded their bins and set off, aiming for the swift completion of their appointed rounds. Jolene turned off the lights in the sorting room, and no one knew there was one envelope left behind.✉️After hours, the cleaning crew arrived. “This place needs a remodel,” Russ observed, ticking off on his fingers, “Install LED lights instead of those outdated incandescent globes. Pull out the wooden cabinets and put in stainless steel. Take up this warped floor and replace it with linoleum. Wonder how often someone trips on that sticking-up part there.” He scuffed his foot across it. “Original hardwood planks,” Donny explained. “Historical Society wants to keep everything vintage.”“Well, it could at least be sanded down and refinished.”Donny bent down to run his thumb along the ridge. “Yup. Make it easier to maintain.”“All right, guys,” Betsy scolded. “We got work to do. Let’s get cracking.” She grabbed a broom and swept together a small mound of dirt and bits of paper. Where was the dust pan? Not on the cleaning cart. Donny was plugging in the floor polisher, while Russ sprayed glass cleaner on a window. No one was watching Betsy. She pushed the pile of sweepings under a nearby cabinet. A bit of something white was just visible, so she swished the dry mop vigorously across the gap. Next time, she promised herself. Next time, I’ll clean thoroughly under there.Betsy’s promise was never to be fulfilled. She was called away to care for her great aunt, who’d had an aneurysm. Unfortunate, but it has no bearing on this story other than to explain Betsy’s sudden departure.✉️The phone was ringing when Jolene arrived.“Yes, Phyllis is still on the route… She retires at the end of the month… Yes, I’ll be sure to tell her. She’ll watch for it… Yes, very conscientious… ”“Mrs. Agnelli?” guessed Raul.“You got it! She’s expecting a very important letter in the mail, and it should have already arrived. She has utmost confidence in Phyllis, but—could I please remind her to look for it?”✉️Sandra joined the cleaning crew to replace Betsy. The first evening, trying to learn what was what, she asked about shifting the cabinets.“Nope! Far too heavy. Those things are solid oak. Been there a hundred years. Literally.”“But… Eww, no one ever cleans under them? There must be a century-deep layer of crud under every one of them.”“Ah, but it’s historic crud!” Russ winked.“I guess I’ll just poke a yardstick under and swipe it around. Dislodge the loose junk, at least… Oof!” Sandra sputtered at the puff of fine particles. Dust bunnies, tiny paper fibers, a feather (a feather?), a couple paper clips, a dime—anything thin enough to fit under the cabinet had found its way there. “Aaa-chooo… I think that’s about all.” She pocketed the dime and the paper clips, swept up the rest, and moved on to the next cabinet.By the time the cleaning crew was ready to turn off the lights, Sandra had accumulated quite a stash of paper clips, two shirt buttons (regulation postal service pale blue), and twenty-seven cents. She set the buttons on top of a cupboard for someone else to find. ✉️Mrs. Agnelli called again. She still hadn’t gotten her letter.“Are you sure it was sent?” Jolene drummed her fingers on the countertop as the unhappy customer rattled on. “What was the date?... You know, we have an awful lot of mail this time of year… Well, unfortunately, sometimes that happens… I would suggest… Mrs. Agnelli, listen please!… I would suggest asking the sender to use priority mail next time, if it’s important.”  Jolene set the phone down ever so gently. “Whooo. I understand that she’s in a stew about the missing mailpiece, but I guess I’m supposed to magically produce it for her. Or Phyllis is.”“Hey,” said Raul, “I read an article the other day about missing mail delivered decades late. Maybe it’ll be one of those!”“Argh. Raul, don’t even go there!”✉️Phyllis retired. Mrs. Agnelli continued to call. Kim got the coveted route. She came straggling in late on the first day, sweating and haggard.“How’d it go? You look beat!” “Mrs. Agnelli!… How can one old lady make such a fuss? I may regret taking this route, Jolene. She made me turn my mailbag inside out! All I can say is, no wonder Phyllis could get cranky.”✉️Raul listened with half an ear when Jolene picked up the phone. Fully expecting it to be Mrs. Agnelli once again, he continued thumbing through a stack of envelopes until he realized that Jolene’s tone was sober and businesslike rather than overly patient. He paused.“I see. Yes, we’ll expect them next week then.” She set the phone down. “Raul. That was Gina, secretary to Inspector General Erik Wulf. He’s coming with an audit team—”“Next week. I heard. I’ll get the word out—The Wulf Pack is on their way.”✉️The operational audit report named several items. An uneven floor; several wobbly carts; unsanitary gaps under the cabinets. Maintenance was deemed to be slipshod, and the cleaning crew less than diligent. “But there are remedies!” announced the Inspector General. “If it were up to me, I’d say let’s install LED lights instead of those outdated incandescent globes. Pull out the wooden cabinets and put in stainless steel. Take up this warped floor and replace it with linoleum. However—we can’t run athwart the Historical Society. So here’s the plan.”✉️Mattie (conveniently back home for spring break) hired on for the renovation work. “We’re going to move the cabinets,” Donny instructed, “so Sandra can give the floor a good scrubbing. This one first. Ready? One…two…”They grunted and groaned, lifted and shifted, revealing a grimy gray rectangle. On it sat a scattering of rubber bands (rotten or not), a few paper clips, coins that Sandra hadn’t claimed yet, and—tucked tight against the baseboard—a rumpled envelope.Mattie stepped across the grunge and reached gingerly for the wayward, once-white epistolary evidence.He stood amidst the decades of debris, straining to read the inscription, but it was too faded to discern. Someone would need to look at it under a bright light. It wasn’t his job. He set it down on the cabinet that they had just moved, and forgot about it.“Well!” Donny brushed his hands together in satisfaction. “Heavy lifting’s done until the floor’s clean. Let’s see what else we can do. Mattie, how about you tackle that alcove? Looks like a pile of broken-down stuff that needs clearing out.”Mattie grabbed a broom and cleared away some spider webs before venturing into the alcove. Behind a hand truck with flat tires, there was a folded canvas cart. The kind he’d used a few months back, to transport mail. He unfolded it, and something dropped to the floor with a soft plop. Another stray envelope.What a coincidence! It was addressed to Dorothea Agnelli, his next-door neighbor. He would hand deliver it. She was a bit of a pain, but she liked Mattie. And it wasn’t his fault that her mail was delayed. Was it?✉️
","August 25, 2023 20:23","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hope Mrs A gets good news.', 'time': '22:22 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,qz0585,The Letter,Shawna Burge,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qz0585/,/short-story/qz0585/,Fiction,0,['Fiction'],6 likes,"
 
The Letter
By Andy Pearson © 2023
 
 
	Joshua Weston moved the cane to his left hand and pushed on the door with his right. It swung open slowly. The cowbell hung above the door clunked and clanked as the door struck it. Getting his balance, he shifted the cane back to his right hand and stepped into the lobby of the post office.
 
	Walking past the rows of tan mailboxes, each with a little window showing the edges of the mail inside, he made his way to box one hundred and forty. Looping his cane handle over his blue jacket-clad arm, he reached into the pocket of his tan twill pants. Pulling a set of keys out and twisting them around, he found his mailbox key. Working it in the lock, he swung the small door open. 
 
	He pulled the mail out of the box. Rifling through the contents he found a flyer for Johnson’s Hardware, a circular for Weston’s pharmacy, which made him smile, and a small slip of yellow paper with his box number written on the back. 
 
	Turning the slip over, he realized it was a call slip for something being held at the counter. 
 
	“Humph...Junk and probably more junk,” he said eyeing the slip and the ads.
 
	He closed and locked the little door, and dropped the keys in his pants pocket. He put the yellow slip into his jacket pocket. Getting a grip on his cane, he made his way to the counter after dropping the circulars into a trash can by the door.
 
	Leaning the cane against the counter, he pulled the yellow slip from his jacket pocket and laid it amid the various taped-down postal service reminders. A young man wearing a green apron walked up to the other side of the counter.
 
	“Yes sir.  What can I do for you?” the man said happily.
 
	“Well, Mark,” Joshua said leaning forward and reading the name tag on the apron. ”I received this slip in my box and am wondering what it might be.”
 
	Mark took the slip and turned it over. “Box 140?” 
 
	“ Yes please,” Joshua said.
 
	“I’ll be right back,” Mark said as he walked away from the counter. 
 
	He returned quickly with a letter and a piece of official-looking stationery. 
 
	“Let’s see.” Mark said looking up with a smile and showing Joshua the stationary,” I’ve never seen one of these before. It’s from our Dead Letter Office in Omaha. They track down the owners of lost letters.”
 
	Mark read through it in silence and looked at Joshua. “This letter- your letter- was found in a decommissioned mail truck. It’d fallen behind a piece of interior paneling and just sat there.”
 
	Mark looked at the envelope some more. ”It sat there a long time. Anyway, after it was found, the good old USPS took its time getting to it, but they finally got around to tracking you down. They found you here in North Platte.”
 
	“May I have the letter?” Joshua asked, his hand shaking as he extended it across the counter.
 
	“Oh yeah. Sure. Here you go.” Mark said handing the letter across.
 
	Joshua stared at the envelope. It was dirty and stained. The long-canceled stamp was pink. Joshua recognized it. A six-cent airmail stamp. Looking at the return address, he drew a deep breath. Kearny, Nebraska. 
 
	The handwriting on the envelope was familiar. It ran through his life. He’d seen it on letters, signed on checks, on grocery lists, birthday cards, and notes in his lunch box. It was Maggie. Maggie who had been gone for so many years now.
 
	The letter was addressed to him at an address that was even more startling.
 
	“Are you ok?” Mark asked from across the counter.
 
	Joshua looked up and realized he was still in the post office.
 
	“Yes. I’m sorry. This is just … so … surprising.” Joshua replied.
 
	“It looks really old,” Mark said leaning over the counter and pointing at the stamp on the envelope. ”We don’t sell them. I’ve never seen one.”
 
	“No. No, I don’t imagine you have.” Joshua said absently.
 
	“And the address is an APO. That’s military, isn’t it? Were you in the military?” Mark asked brushing his lanky blond hair back from his forehead.
 
	“Yes. A long time ago. A long time ago.” Joshua said turning the envelope over in his hands. The back was as grimy and stained as the front.  
 
	“Wow, this is exciting,” Mark said watching Joshua not open the envelope.
 
	Joshua studied the address. He remembered it well. Battery B 555 FA BN APO 301. The 555th Field Artillery, Battery B, APO 301. That address would have taken this letter to Korea in 1953. He hadn’t thought about those numbers or Korea in years and still, he knew them intimately. 
 
	The memories once faded and ghostly came back full of color and life. He could smell the dirty, acrid coal fires and the sour, fermenting smell of kimchi. He felt the Korean cold. The weary bone-breaking freezing wormed its way into every layer of clothing and hugged his body cold. He remembered George and Sam and Ralph. They were there in his memories along with so many other faces and names. These moments hadn’t been resident in decades and now returned in technicolor with surround sound.
 
	Joshua shook his head clearing the memories. With his finger, he loosened the flap and opened the sealed envelope. The paper inside was clean and white. The fold creases were sharp. He saw the writing. Maggie’s without a  doubt.  A young Maggie, but still unmistakably her. He held a letter he’d never gotten from her. A time capsule in their relationship waiting to be savored. His heart buoyed.
 
 Dear Joshua, 
 
 I must break off our engagement.
 
	Joshua stopped reading as his head came back sharply. He stared at the line, but couldn't see it. He turned to the envelope and looked at the address. It was addressed to him. 
 
	He didn’t understand. He and Maggie were married soon after he returned from Korea. They had three children. They had seven grandchildren. They were married for almost fifty years. 
 
	He read more.
 
 While you have been gone, I have fallen in love. It was not planned. I thought I loved you, but after spending time with Richard, I realized that I am in love with Richard. I’m so sorry. I know that this is not the time to tell you, but I felt I must be honest. 
 
	“Are you ok,” Mark asked coming through a door and around the counter to Joshua.
 
	“What? Oh yes.” Joshua stuttered quietly.
 
	“You look a little pale and unsteady and you got quiet standing there.”
 
	“I’m sorry. Yes, I’m fine. This letter is a surprise after all this time.” Joshua said.
 
	“Would you like to sit down?” Mark said indicating behind the counter. ”I’m not supposed to have anyone back there, but you look like you need a moment.”
 
	“No, but thank you. I really must be going.” Joshua said trying to collect himself.
 
	“Are you sure? You look a little pale. Should I call someone?” Mark asked looking at the elderly man who appeared to be shrinking in front of him.
 
	“No. There’s nobody you need to call.” Joshua took a deep breath. ”Perhaps I will sit a few minutes in the back.”
 
	Mark opened the door through the counter and helped Joshua navigate it. He settled Joshua in a tattered roller chair at a pale green formica table with chips on the surface. He brought a cup of water in a paper cup, placed it on the table, and sat down with Joshua.
 
	“I don’t want to keep you,” Joshua said.
 
	Mark waved his hand,” Oh, I’m due a break and I can see the counter from here.”
 
	Joshua leaned back and unfolded the letter.
 
 Dear Joshua,
 
 I must break off our engagement.
 
 While you have been gone, I have fallen in love.  It was not planned. I thought I loved you, but after spending time with Richard, I realize that I am in love with Richard. I’m so sorry. I realize that this is not the time to tell you, but I felt I must be honest. 
 
 Please forgive me and I hope that we can still be friends.
 
 Maggie
 
	Friends?
 
	The amazing mother of their children. His closest companion for forty-seven years. They worked their way through college together. They opened the pharmacy together. They made it a success together. They were a family. They built a whole life together. A life in which he never had cause to wonder about its bedrock truths.
 
	Friends?
 
	After they sold the pharmacy and retired, they traveled like they'd planned. They traveled with Richard and Molly.  England, Germany, and France were their go-to destinations. They spent the holidays with Richard and Molly. They were present for the births of each other's children. The countless bar-b-ques, dinners, and projects they helped each other with were strands in the basket of his life. They were two men getting older while watching their families grow and move outward.
 
	Joshua thought about Maggie. He remembered her getting sick. The doctors said cancer. They planned to beat it. They were stronger than cancer. Richard and Molly fought with them. He and Richard kept their hair shaved in support as Maggie lost hers. The doctors ended up being right. It wasn’t a fight they could win. Richard and Molly were there through it all. When Maggie died, Richard and Molly kept him and the kids moving until he could do it himself. 
 
	Then Molly.  He was there when she passed away. A beautiful day on the front nine. They were playing as a slow threesome. Molly fell over walking across the green on the short third hole and was simply gone. The doctors said it was a massive heart attack. He pushed and cajoled Richard to rejoin the world. 
 
	After that, it was just Richard and he and all the kids. The kids grew up together and behaved like siblings. Holidays were always together. The kids and grandkids all made sure that he and Richard were included.
 
	This complete life they all lived felt solid. It felt honest. This letter shook everything. 
 
	Joshua looked at the envelope again. The stamp was canceled in August 1953. He left Korea in September 1953. This letter wouldn’t have gotten to him in time even if it hadn’t been misplaced. He remembered getting off the transport ship and calling Maggie from a payphone. She was subdued. He thought was because her family was listening to the call. When he arrived at the train station in Kearney, she was waiting. 
 
	He smiled. He could see Maggie in her best dress. The blue one. The blue one that he loved so much. He remembered the way it fit. He still believed he had never seen anyone so beautiful. She ran across the platform when he stepped down from the car. Her hat flew off. He grinned remembering how she slowed while looking back at the hat and then laughing, she ran even harder. They flew together and hugged longer than any two people ever did.  
 
            From that moment on the station platform, their lives moved forward in step. Joshua paused recalling one nagging detail. For a few months after his return, Maggie was interested in the mail. Interested in this letter he realized. This letter that never came.
 
	“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Mark asked watching Joshua finish reading the letter again.
 
	Joshua wandered the memories of a marriage nearly fifty years long and a life-long friendship between two families. He drew a quiet breath. He looked at the letter trying to divine its meaning then and what it meant now. With his eyes closed, he tried to imagine how to proceed with this revelation.  
 
	He smiled and opened his eyes. Gently he folded the letter back along its sharp creases and fit it back into the stained envelope. He pushed the flap closed and smoothed it against the table with the side of his hand.
 
	“May I borrow a pen?” Joshua said.
 
	Mark reached into the pocket of his green apron and handed a blue pen to Joshua.
 
	Joshua took the cap off and patiently wrote across the front of the envelope. Recapping the pen, he handed it to Mark.  
 
	“Thank you,” Joshua said, and turning the envelope around, he slid it across the table.  
 
	Mark looked at it.  
 
	“Return to sender?” Mark read the blue writing and looked at Joshua.
 
	“Yes. Please. None of those people live here anymore. They left many, many years ago and I wouldn’t know where to find them.” Joshua said happily. With that, he stood up, gathered his cane, and strolled out the door remembering it was almost time for brunch at the clubhouse with Richard.  
","August 26, 2023 01:42","[[{'KD Weinert': 'Hi Shawna! I love this. What a great inciting moment. Poignant to think how his life would have been altered had he received the letter. Well done!', 'time': '23:10 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Shawna Burge': 'Thank you for reading it.  Being part of this group of talented people here has been pretty exciting for me.', 'time': '23:23 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Shawna Burge': 'Thank you for reading it.  Being part of this group of talented people here has been pretty exciting for me.', 'time': '23:23 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,q5kdu2,A Tomorrow Letter,Daniel Brandt,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/q5kdu2/,/short-story/q5kdu2/,Fiction,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction']",5 likes,"
John Mayors fumbled with a book about dolphins and their relationships, a chocolate muffin from yesterday and a giant spiders nest of keys in the other hand as he arrived at his destination. A charming green post office door that had been painted a vast number of times throughout the years since its inception more than a hundred years ago, which had created a moon-like surface if one looked closely. Postman Mayors rarely looked closely. As for anyone, looking at the moon up close for the first time is a mind boggling experience, for the secret inhabitants of the moon it was just another tuesday.
 
The post office was not straight. Located in a small village in the scottish highlands, a village that never really seemed to wake up but always exist in the twilight zone of a grumpy morning and after the second coffee. The building leaned in all the various directions that the good lord had graced reality.
”Mornin’ to ya, waiting for a letter?” Postman Mayors said, cheerful about this tuesday. There was nothing special about this tuesday morning per se, it was as any other tuesday morning. But that was exactly the types of tuesday mornings that Mr. Mayors liked. What else could man ask from God than predictability. Change, ah, what would that be good for?
”Morning John. Yes yes, do you have a letter for me?” Mary replied. Leaning on her crutch. It was a family heirloom that crutch, passed on for generations. ”No sorry Mary, no mail for you from yesterday, maybe it’ll come today.” Mary did not respond, but tilted her head upwards, pointing her thick demanding nose up at the sky whilst peering out from under a flowery hat. ”No rain today”. 
 
Postman Mayors followed the direction of her nose. ”No that you be right about Mary, no rain today it seems.” He took a bite from his chocolate muffin and began to ponder about the shape of clouds. 
”You’ll be even fatter from that one”. Mary pointed with her crutch at the muffin.
”Huh?” Mayors looked down at the muffin. He smiled. ”What you know now Mary, better fat and happy than fit and staring down the cliffs of dover”
He began to unlock the door. One had to insert the key from a certain down-right-slightly-up-angle, pull the door towards you, push the handle half way, twist the key as if you almost wanted to snap it and. pull the door up slightly with the handle, whilst still pulling mind you, and then rotate the key the rest of the way. And then push the door open.
”I’ll be sitting here outside.” Mary said. ”I’ll be coming out with the coffee soon.” Postman Mayors went inside, put his items on a counter and ventured into the back office and put some coffee. 
”I’m old, I cant be standing here all day” he heard in the background. ”Be right out!” he yelled back. He took a woodden chair and carried it out and sat it down on the sidewalk. Mary gave him a stern look and sat down. ”Will young mr. Allane be joining you today?” she asked.
”Ah yes Mary, that he will be, all the way until school starts again.”
”Good, that boy needs some direction in life. I seen it before you know, young man like him, about to come of age with no sense, life of trouble in the end.” 
”Ah don’t you worry, he’s a good lad. But what you say Mary, how about a cup of joy?”
”Yes, why not John, that would be nice.”
Postman Mayors brought out both two cups of coffee, a small table and a bundle of unsorted envelopes that the village had put in the post office mailbox. He sat down, smiled at Mary and they both raised their cups in a small cheer. He began to gently sort the letters.
”When’s the post coming today?” she asked.
”In the afternoon Mary, as always.” 
”Today i’m waiting for a special letter you know.”
”A special letter you say?”
”Yes yes, very special.” 
In the distance they could hear a sharp high pitched sound from a small motor trying its best to carry the load from its passenger along the road. 
 
”That be the young Allane I bet” Mayors said and sipped from his coffe and looked at his watch. ”early”.
His prediction was right. Allan Allane shot through the narrow roads through the village cutting the corners in perfect angles at a life threatening speed of 21 miles per hour on an old red painted Honda C90 moped. He breaked hard when he arrived to the elderly couple enjoying the morning. He unbuckled his helmet and hung it on the steer.
”Morning!” 
”Quite the racing driver you” Mayors said.
”a menance!” Mary held her hand over her heart. ”driving like that, you could be gone one day!” she gasped.
Allan Allane, brushed through his curly brown hair with his hand, got off the moped, lifted it up on the sidewalk and leaned it against the post office wall.
”Me? I’ll be racing realy motorcycles soon, then i’ll show you menance!” he laughed and gave Mary a light kiss on her chin. She looked at him in horror.
”No you wont, i’ll be having a chat with your pa long before you get to sit on any motorcycle you”. She fended him off with her crutch.
”You’re here early” Mayors cut in.
Allan Allane sighed dramaticly. The type of sigh only a teenager whom wanted all the sympathy for his or her very, and most certainly uniquily, detrimental situation, could perform. ”Pa rushed me out of me bed! No reason, just ”out! out! Work like a grown up!””. He mimiced his father. Allan Allane put on a somber face.”Mary, my babe, special letter coming today?”
She frowned. ”Mannors mr. Allane, one does not go around calling old ladies babe.” she raised her commanding nose into the air again. 
”Ah Mary, forgive me darling” he smiled. She did not budge. Mayors chuckled. ”There’s fresh coffee if you want” he motioned towards the inside, ”and the mail from yesterday is sorted so you can deliver it here in town now and then we have time to do the rest of the folks after a nice long lunch.”
 
Allan Allane engulfed the remaining coffee, reviewed the sorted mail from yesterday and the delivery list Postman Mayors had done to identify the optimal route. He put the mail in a backpack, put on his helmet and was on his way. Waving off the man and the woman, still pondering about life, one with a half empty cup and the other with a half full.
Eventually Mr. Mayors had to go inside and work as the owner of the Rose Garden Shop, Fiona, arrived with a rather large and heavy package she wanted to send away. ”Dirty, the prime dirt for roses you see” she commented when Postman Mayors asked. 
”You waiting for a letter?” Fiona asked Mary as she exited the post office.
”Oh yes, a very special letter” Mary replied. She had finished her coffee by now and was writing down thoughts and observations in a small notebook about people she saw.
”Ah ye from whom?” 
”My son, he’s been away you know, so he’s sent me a letter.”
”That’s wonderful” Fiona looked down at the scribbles in the notebook. ”You don’t let anyone get away with anything do you?”
Mary looked up at her. ”the Allane boy came rushing down with his moped like mad this morning I tell you! You never know with people you know, so when something has happened it’s all here” she patted her notebook. ”you’ll be happy the day something happens to you and coming to ask me”. Mary snapped, waving her crutch around.
“Calm your nerves Mary, only making conversation.” Fiona replied and frowned.
“After I get my letter, i’ll just stay at home and do nothing so you wont be bothered by old ladies like myself.”. Mary turned her head away from Fiona and ignored her until she left.
 
Allan Allane returned three hours later striking Marys nerves like a wild guitarist on his last solo. “Mister Allane!” she protested and got up from her seat. She wildly poked Allan Allane with her crutch. “Hey hey there” Postman Mayors rushed outside and took Mary in his arms and pulled her away from Allan Allane. “No need to become violent Mary, it’s just a moped.” he glared at Allan Allane. “And you, you know she’s old. Just because you can don’t mean you should do Allan.”
“He.. he! That boy!” Mary spat and yelled. Tried to break free from Mr. Mayors arms but to no avail.
“Calm calm, he didn’t mean no harm did you Allan?”
Allan Allane shook his head and raised his hands defensively. “No no, sorry Mary, no harm. I just got caught away”. A lie. But one that he could live with and Mary, to her credit, accepted.
“Allan, get us some lunch”. Mayors gave Allan Allane some money. The young boy walked accross the street to the local pub, The Wild Goose and Boar. Neither animal had been sighted in the area for years. The place should change is names Allan Allane thought. He brought back three plates with mashed potatoes, gravy and fried pork. Mr. Mayors had brought out another chair and they huddled up around the small table. 
“You‘ll kill yourself one day” Mary said. “or me! or someone else! I’ve seen it before you know, young men like yourself, carried away, no responsibility, just gone one day.” 
Allan Allane sighed as only teenagers who get told how to live their lives from an adult can do. What was the harm of driving around full speed on his moped? It was the slowest vehicle in the village. Even the tractors went faster.
“Now now Mary, he’s just a young lad, he needs to live a bit”
Mary made displeased grumpy old-lady sounds. “As soon as I get my letter i will be going home from this death trap”.
They ate. Postman Mayors and Allan Allane chatted about Allan Allanes plans for the future, his friends, how difficult his father was with all the demands about homework and not being out too late on weekends. Mr. Mayors brought back the plats to the Wild Goose and Boar and surprised the old lady and youngling with apple pie for dessert. Time passed. A few customers came and went.
 
Eventually a truck arrived and gently parked outside the post office. “See, that is how you park” Mary said. Allan Allane smiled and said nothing. Truckman Greggg with three G’s, because his father was drunk at the time of naming and no one thought of protesting, exited the vehicle and greeted them.
“Not a lot of mail today John” he said, opened the back of his truck and produced a beige bag that seemed to hardly have any content at all, and handed it over to Postman Mayors. 
“Let’s see if you have your special letter today” Mayors said and took it inside. He poured the contents of the counter, a handful of letters. Allan Allane followed him inside. They went through the letters and sorted them.
Allan Allane fiddled with a pen. “I still don’t understand how she can’t know that your brother drowned in the lake. I haven’t even been alive as long as he’s been dead” 
Postman Mayors put down the letters. “Sometimes thats how the mind works, to protect itself. She wasn’t always like this, but old age can change people.” 
“Isn’t it hard for you?” 
Mayors did not speak. He took a deep breath and made a long exhale. His shoulders sank and he leaned over the counter with a weak posture. He sighed again. “C’mon, let’s close for today. We can deliver the rest of the mail tomorrow”. 
Postman Mayors went outside. “Sorry Mary, no letter today. Maybe it’ll come tomorrow.”
Mary nodded silently. “Maybe tomorrow, yes, i’m sure of it.” Mr. Mayors and Allan Allane carried the chairs and small table inside and Mayors locked the door in a similar manouver as unlocking it. He waved off Allan who gently drove away.
He turned to Mary and smiled.
“C’mon ma, time to go home”
Mary looked to her left and right, leaned on her crutch and gave her son a short nod.
“Tomorrow John, tomorrow we’ll get a letter.”
“Yes Ma’, tomorrow” he put his arm over her shoulders and they slowly walked away from the post office.
","August 25, 2023 09:19","[[{'Helen Sanders': ""Okay Daniel, my spin on your story writing:  You write dialog well. Definitely brings characters to life.  Do work on editing. Reader should not have to edit too.  And for me, the intrigue in your story began with this dialog:”You waiting for a letter?” Fiona asked Mary as she exited the post office.\n”Oh yes, a very special letter” Mary replied.”   So as writers we speak too, 'cause...What does this statement really say about the Author:  “Mary made displeased grumpy old-lady sounds.” \nThank you for being a Writer who submits."", 'time': '06:08 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Daniel Brandt': 'Thanks for the feedback, I fully agree with the editing. It was a last-minute submission written on a bus so I fell on my sword for not writing it earlier :)\n\nThanks again. I am happy you liked it.', 'time': '07:09 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Daniel Brandt': 'Thanks for the feedback, I fully agree with the editing. It was a last-minute submission written on a bus so I fell on my sword for not writing it earlier :)\n\nThanks again. I am happy you liked it.', 'time': '07:09 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'This really is a quaint charming account of a son watching over his aging, forgetful mum. There are many punctuation and spelling mistakes. I am not sure if you were in a hurry or it was intentional to add colloquialism?', 'time': '21:06 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Daniel Brandt': 'Thx, it was 1h before deadline and I was on a bus 🤪', 'time': '17:46 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Okay, the enough to correct.', 'time': '18:42 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Daniel Brandt': 'Thx, it was 1h before deadline and I was on a bus 🤪', 'time': '17:46 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Okay, the enough to correct.', 'time': '18:42 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Okay, the enough to correct.', 'time': '18:42 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,xhyo8p,A Goosey Gander by Caitlin E. Elia,Caite Elia,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xhyo8p/,/short-story/xhyo8p/,Fiction,0,"['Fantasy', 'Friendship', 'Adventure']",5 likes,"
To Chaddeus P. Waddlebury,
Hovering Goose of Letters, Pixie Parcel Division,
 
On this day, I find myself in a rather peculiar state of mind. It could be attributed to the recent arrival of my newest son, a robust little lad who's but the size o’ your thumb. I realize you lack thumbs, but I know you catch my drift. 
 
Then again, it might also be the consequence of a bout with fae froth hooch from the night prior. Anyway, I require your assistance with just one delivery for today.
 
Please proceed to the customary collection point to retrieve the package. To transport it, you'll need the enclosed map. No need to worry, though. Remember that the subterranean tubes designed for your unique mode of hover-flight are accessible solely through the mushroom circle nestled within the Northwest Woods. Following that, direct your attention to the entrance of the gnomish Great Tree.
 
The contents of this parcel–shame that I can’t tell you–but let’s just say that it holds a material needed by the astronomers who are currently stationed at the Observatory of Eternal Starfire within the Luminescent Caverns. I have every confidence in your abilities. Best of luck, my friend. I am well aware that you are more than up to the task.
 
Warm regards,
Fionnulin
 
 
At the crossroads dividing the various divisions of the Otherworldly Post, there hovered a goose. He was not your everyday long-necked, web-footed goose who simply honked and flapped wings at anyone who dared stray too close to his chosen waterway. No, he was a particularly handsome goose, with blue-tipped wings and a lustrous, curving tailfeather. Setting him yet further apart from a run-of-the-mill farm goose was the compact travel pack strapped to his form, safeguarding an invaluable parcel within. 
 
“Chaddeus P. Waddlebury,” read the tag secured to his trust and sturdily-constructed pack. He could not tell any chance persons he would encounter what the “P” stood for. Geese do not speak a human language, you should already know. Like your average goose, his proud beak served him just fine at honking. Fortunately, the ebb and flow of natural powers in the Otherworld he called home allowed most other species to decipher his honks with ease. 
 
 
As previously mentioned, Chad—affectionately referred to as such by friends and admirers—was suspended in midair at the crossroads. His surname confounded many, for it erroneously implied the expected webbed feet of his avian kin. Yet, Chad defied convention, lacking the expected appendages and owning wings reminiscent of an oversized hummingbird's, maintaining a feverish flapping, propelling him just shy of two feet above the path. It was no secret that, much like a greedy hummingbird’s slurping of nectar from copious blossoms, Chad was content to work for payment in pixieberry pie or gossamer-glazed berries. 
 
 
Chad's current objective revolved around the delivery of a package of purported significance–well, according to Fionnulin. This task was an integral facet of his role as a mail goose, a proud member of the esteemed Mystic Messenger Consortium, nestled within the specialized Pixie Parcel Division. This distinction became profoundly apparent when one contrasted his mission with those stemming from the Impeccable Imp Message Service or the Gnome Gram Society.
It's noteworthy that the exclusive domain of geese like Chad was the Pixie Parcel Division. This fact bore its roots in the synchrony of size between Pixies and their avian associates,and Chad certainly bore his duties with dignity and great enjoyment. “A hover-goose is the valiant steed to a mail-pixie, just as the horse to a knight,” boasted the affirmative catchphrase of their guild. Certainly, Chad and Finn’s proportions formed a harmonious symmetry, facilitating Chad's graceful navigation through the intricately planned hovertube network that gracefully intertwined amidst the lush forests and hectic cities of the Otherworld. Occupational relationship aside, Chad and Fionnulin had become the best of friends years prior, after the pixie complimented Chad’s skill at a hovering fowl race. 
 
Soon, one saddle fitting later, they were off on adventures to meet all kinds of elves, Brownies, and gnomes of the Otherworld. When Fionnulin made good on his promise of a drink in Chad’s favorite tavern, their sense of companionship made future work together not so much work as the best way to spend a day. 
 
Chad was unsure of how well he could accomplish a journey such as this on his own. This morning, after opening his envelope by way of thin lower beak slicing in the manner of a letter-opener, he had honked in exasperation then contemplated over a breakfast of pickled opaline herring and freshly-squeezed jade-fruit juice. “Honk honk hoooonk,” he sighed in his own company. In goose language, this meant, “Yeah, thanks, buddy,” in a facetious tone. 
 
Bracing himself for an odyssey into the unknown, Chad found the mushroom circle just past the wild rose knolls as Finn had outlined in the letter. Honking a greeting to Carina Inkfeather, the mushroom deva elder, she waved him through the gateway in the circle, “It’s that way, and be careful that you turn right to find the gnomish village!” 
 
Chad, studying the old map, did not turn right. In fact, Chad made two lefts and found himself cascading through a waterfall which he had splashed through seemingly out of nowhere. Carried by the cascading waters into a lagoon, he made a plunging splash. Looking around, he asked, “Honk hooooonk?”- and observed numerous pairs of eyes staring him down. A scaled, webbed hand snatched him as a voice echoed off the stony walls surrounding the lagoon, “Well, look at this!” A myriad of feminine, resounding voices  assaulted his sensitive ears at once:
“Aww, I don’t remember the last time we had a feathered friend!” 
 
“Don’t scare him!” 
 
“Look at what he has! Is that a little satchel?”
 
“QUIET! I can’t hear myself think!” 
 
“Let’s at least introduce ourselves.” 
 
Chad found himself overwhelmed with unwelcome caresses of his feathers and webbed fingers toying at the strap of his travel pack. He must not let these naiads have his package for it was labeled as “of utmost importance”. 
 
Honking impatiently, the water-dwelling spirits halted their battalion of questions and exclamations. They watched, with kaleidoscopic eyes and hair flowing upon the surface of their misty green lagoon. 
 
“I will have you know that I am a goose carrier of the Pixie Parcel Division. Only I am- without a pixie today. Usually, he is the navigator but I’m afraid all I have is this old map.” 
 
One naiad, with silver hair and eyes the blue of a storm at sea, looked sympathetically at the lost goose. “Well, we have no need for a parcel of the land. We have a way to help you find where you need to go.” 
 
She plucked a tiny fish, coated in iridescent lavender scales, from the water and, singing gently to it, Chad was stunned to see it glide smoothly to the air. “Protect him as he shows you the way you intend to go, then send him back.” 
 
Honking his thanks, and taking care to ensure his travel pack was securely tied, Chad propelled himself along the path the fish delineated. Thankfully, the waterfall had not taken them too far past Chad’s first blunder of the directions and they found themselves at the X marking the spot on the old map, the Great Tree of the gnomish lands. 
 
The little fish went gracefully on his way back to the lagoon and the naiads who lovingly cared for his kind. With a shuddering breath, Chad stole his courage from an unseen void and entered the hollow of the Great Tree.
 
Labyrinthine twists and inclines took Chad through the hovertubes of the subterranean Otherworld, his steadfast wings beating the damp, still air. Down here, it smelled of moss and worms. As a flight-gifted creature, he was not used to a world so far below his own. Still, there were magnificent things to see. Fox-faced bats and their elegant companions, the dark fae, both slept and tended to business upon the ceilings of caves. Glowing moths and bioluminescent flowers danced in the dark of this world. 
Not wanting to let Fionnulin down, Chad traversed this world, attending to his map. After a couple of hours navigating the paths below on his own, a pleading voice tore his attention away from the map. “Noooo, please! Please, let me go!” Chad almost smacked into the massive spider web stretched between cave walls like glistening lacework. In fact, it did remind Chad of the delicate threads of silver needlework he had seen upon visits to elven villages. In its midst, a tiny and adorable snail was struggling, rocking back and forth in her shell, eye-stalks waving wildly. 
 
“Honk?” inquired Chad. “My mother needs me at home! I have so many brothers and sisters to help her care for!” cried the snail. 
 
“Then what are you doing all the way down here?” sounded Chad’s replying series of honks. 
 
“I need to deliver a package! To prove my worth! But first, I need to get out of here!” the snail’s frantic words came in bursts.  
 
“It’s just a spiderweb,” Chad reassured the snail. 
 
“Ha-ha! Nothing is ‘just’ anything down here” squeaked the snail. 
 
A shadow loomed over them. Then, the scurry of eight legs added to the sense of fright. 
 
The spider had four sets of teeth, numerous milky-white eyes and sharp legs that sliced at the air near where Chad hovered. With no time to consider how courageous he was feeling, Chad beat at the air, now hovering by slicing both in speed and with his beak. 
 
Before the spider could set upon either of them, Chad had torpedoed his aerodynamic form at the terrifying creature and sent it down into the depths of the cavern below with a shrill shriek. 
 
Cutting the young snail free with his tried and true beak, Chad ensured that she was uninjured. 
“Thank you so much! The spiders in here are worse than any of the ones above ground and I’ve always been afraid of them.” Barely catching her breath after screaming so profoundly for her life, her eye-stalks roved over Chad’s travel pack. “Hey, what kinda package is that there?” 
 
Honking his reply, Chad made it clear that his package was truly significant and he must be on his way. “Please, please, could you let me take it? Snails rely on maps for delivery and I need to convince my tribe that I can be an official navigator.”
 
After further conversation, the snail revealed that her name was Mulberry and her greatest wish was to be rewarded the official gem-encrusted shell of a royal snail-mail navigator. “You, see, if I surprise my family and tribe by delivering something down here, and what’s more–to the Observatory- they will be so proud of me!” 
 
Chad, the kind fellow that he was, of course agreed to swap packages. Of course, he despised the idea of disappointing Finnoulin. He was moved by the young snail’s perseverance and dream of seeing the Observatory where his original package was due. To be fair, his heart just had not been in the task set before him today. 
 
Several hours later, aboveground, Chad maneuvered heartily through lands he knew and loved. He found the home of a fluffy and friendly old bear, Sir Ferdinand Furminus- the third, mind you. Fer, as he invited Chad to call him, opened his package. It was a jar of honey. “Oh, yes! Jar 585 of my honey for hibernation!” 
 
“What?” honked Chaddeus P. Waddlebury, the proudest and most shrewd of all hover-gooses employed by the Pixie Parcel Division of the Mystic Mail Consortium. 
 
With that one exhausted honk, his wings halted and poor Chad collapsed at the doorstep of the old bear. All this tiresome venturing today and his kindness for swapping packages with the young snail had resulted in this– delivering a silly package for a bear who already had a stockpile of honey to eat. It was only the beginning of summer, and the bear would not even need to plan for hibernation for months! 
 
As it was, Chad would have a nice respite in Fer’s cabin, tucked by the old bear’s wife beneath a blanket next to a crackling fire. When he woke, they would bestow him with a restorative drink of his choosing, and as luck would have it, an extra slice of pixieberry pie! 
 
The next day, reconvening with his old friend and fellow mail-worker, he would relay his story. Fionnulin would shrug and say, “What counts is that you put your heart and soul into whatever task is given to you.” Then, they would clink their bubbling tankards together and look forward to their next adventure, together. That was the end of that. 
 
","August 25, 2023 23:11",[]
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,asvftx,Retire Now,Patrick Davey,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/asvftx/,/short-story/asvftx/,Fiction,0,"['Friendship', 'Fiction']",4 likes,"
“Hello,” said a cheerful voice belonging to nobody I know. A stern look on my face usually wards them off. I have nothing to gain from greeting you, Mr. Random Man, as you are leaving. Why is that even considered polite? You are leaving and I am arriving. As with two ships passing in the night, merely avoiding each other should be the proper protocol.This line is so long. No wonder that guy was so happy. At least he is proof that the line does indeed move. How much longer until the next customer leaves? The sweat forming beneath my undershirt is soaking it. There are only two postal workers to get to over a dozen of us in this line that stretches into the post office box lobby. My calendar is clear for today but I still need to hurry. Once these letters are sent, that’s it—no more letting people down.I don’t recognize any of the customers except maybe the woman three spots ahead of me. Hard to tell from the back, but she might be Melissa. Such an enviable life she has within reach. Nearly perfect with a doting husband, adoring children, and upward momentum in most aspects of her life. A truly excellent situation except for her PTSD and depression. She is trapped inside the past and her own thoughts, forever wrestling images of herself until she figures it out.I am the best clinical psychologist my clients have ever had, so why am I doing this? They need me. They will suffer without me. I want to help them, I do. I understand them. I know them. I really know them. Most of them have spent years with me, sharing their secrets, desires, and fears. They can barely grasp the truth, that they can choose to cast away the anchor of their past. No, they need me to hold their hands through it, unraveling the clutches of their thought patterns on their current behavior and emotions. I am good at it. I am very good at it. They will suffer without me.I should turn back. They really do need me. It is ridiculous that I am even considering retiring. All because I lost track of scheduling one appointment. I haven’t lost track since then. I have made mistakes before and learned from them. It was just one newer client on her third session. The stress that I caused must have pressurized her greatly. She came to me because she ultimately suffered from abandonment issues—I deduced that almost immediately when she described the situation with her mother. If she ever comes back, I still need to be in practice to help her through that along with all my other clients.I turn around to leave but two more men have lined up behind me. “Excuse me,” I say to them as I step to the side to bypass them in this narrow section of the lobby. My momentum is stopped before I realize what happened.“Hey, watch it,” said the woman leaving after finishing with the clerk, her elbow raised defensively as she walked past.“Sorry, coming through,” said the next departing customer immediately behind her.The line ahead of my spot creeps forward as the next customers approach the clerks. The sour expressions of the men in line behind me are not necessary, are they? I really do not like dealing with people. I love helping the ones that I can, but it is time to accept that I will just let too many down. I am slipping. I am no help if I can’t keep to a schedule. It’s too late now. The line is moving forward and so am I. I will help my clients this final time by telling them to find a new psychologist.Another two customers leave. I need to focus on something else besides this doubt. If I just stay in line, I will be get to either postal clerk to send out these notifications. Only a handful of people stand between me and retirement. They won’t know it, but my fate will be sealed by these clerks. The woman working for Uncle Sam at the right counter seems cheerful, quick, and happy to help. She's too far away to make out her name tag, but her overly chirpy voice is distinct. The other clerk is much closer to where I am and I can read his name tag. Robert seems—Robert! I thought he retired!“What…” I say, paused in the doorway. I say it so weakly that even the next departing patron blading his body to brush past me does not appear to hear. It has been years since I last saw Robert; the golf trip to Tulsa. The fool used the rest of us on the trip as his excuse. I have helped addicts handle their addiction but he refused any help.The next two customers depart within a minute of each other. In a short while I will have an even chance of talking to him, the same odds as when he lost $12,000 on red. The broken promise to his wife is one thing, but his excuses were the last straw. That was his chance to admit he needed help, and he blew it.One more customer is finished mailing their package through him. He had retired or quit years ago I thought. What is he doing here?Two more customers leave. Melissa’s doppelganger approaches Robert and another customer approaches the other clerk. It’s definitely not Melissa from the angle I see her now. Good, I don’t need another opportunity for an awkward encounter and it’s always best to not encounter clients outside of the office. If this woman finishes with Robert first, I will probably not have to talk to him either.Oh great, the other customer finished with the chirpy clerk and the final customer in front of me approaches her. Now I just need Melissa’s twin to take a long time more with Robert and—“That’s everything, ma’am. Have a nice day,” Robert says to his customer. I turn to look at the posters on the wall to avoid eye contact. “Next! I can help you sir,” he says to me.“Hello, I—” the breath I drew just was not enough for this simple sentence. I try again, “I need to mail these off. There are 25 in total. All different addresses.”“That’s what we’re here for! Let me see those,” Robert was always cheerful with his work, but he seems more strained than I remember. Is he forcing it? Does he recognize me? He reads off the names as he adds the stamping and processes each letter. “Arthur Penning… Cherry Evans… Ethan Pinnock… These all have had the same ZIP Code so far.”“Well they all live locally.”“I see that.” He continues saying the names as he processes the letters. “Gary Winsworth… Joan Lambert!” He seems surprised.“You know her?”“She’s my niece. She’s had a rough go of it.” He says slowly. “But haven’t we all,” he points to his naked ring finger. “Something really bad happened to her with her ex. I knew someone that could help so I sent her to—"" With his mouth agape from the realization, he stopped processing any more letters. The high pitches of the other clerk carry over here to fill the gap.“So that’s why she said I was recommended to her.”“It’s been a long time, Samuel,” he says in a measured way as he recovers his composure. He has not restarted processing my letters though. With the letter to Joan in hand, he says, “My niece said you canceled her appointment. What gives?”“I need these letters to go out. I need to help these people.”He persists with his inquiry. “You didn’t help her.”“I can’t help those who don’t ask!” My eyes widen. The sharpness in my voice at the end took me by surprise.Robert appears unphased. His only movement is to resume processing the letters. “I thought she asked for help, that’s why she was there.”“Yes, she did. I—” Again, my breath seemed too shallow to finish the statement. “I had to cancel.”“Why? She could have really used your help. You are good at what you do with people willing to get help.”“I could not remember her appointment.” The release of pressure in my chest is wonderful. Aiding this feeling is the realization that he is halfway through the stack of letters.Robert laughed. “What? Let me ring you up a calendar to help out.”“I don’t need a calendar. Never have! My memory is like a steel trap. Or at least it used to be.”“But you just said you forgot. And now you say you are helping out these people. What do you mean?”“Those are letters to notify all of my clients and potential clients that I am retiring. They include recommendations for which psychologists they might consider for continued treatment.”“So you’re retiring. I’ve done that before, but the divorce shredded those plans and I like to eat.”“And spend your money on other things.” The barb hit home by the painful expression in his eyes.“Not anymore. I really hit rock bottom after Tulsa. Mary didn’t believe me when I told her that y’all were the ones that drug me to the casino. She could always see through me, but I guess the loss was just too big that time.”“And you promised her that you would get help before the trip,” I say to remind him.“That’s true.”“And you didn’t.”“That’s true. But after the divorce and being forced back to work, I finally got help. Cost me all the rest of my money, but I did it.” He finishes with the last letter and sets it aside with the stack.“You could have called.”“Would you have answered?”I pause to think. “The blame shifting was horrible.”“Yeah, the doc told me that that’s all part of it. I don't blame ya for how you feel. Anyways, that will be $15.75.”I put the money on the counter. “Sounds like you did not need me.”Robert talks faster. “You know, I sent her to you because you are really good at it. She was upset, sure, but that’s no reason to quit. You could just hire some help to track your business.”“I don’t need someone’s help. I need to not let anyone down again.”“Are you sure you want to send these?”“It’s time to move on,” I say to Robert, turning to leave.“Wait,” he says, handing me a calendar. “Here, take this on me.”""Okay, thanks. I think I will need those letters back too.""
","August 26, 2023 03:27",[]
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,9d9iqr,The Ryokoshi Post and World War II,Ryokoshi City,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9d9iqr/,/short-story/9d9iqr/,Fiction,0,['Historical Fiction'],4 likes,"
12/X/1941
So much as happened in such a short time, Japan launched an attack on Pearl Harbor and now we’ve declared war on them. There’s so much war going on already and now it’s on our doorstep! I can’t help but tremble at the thought of it, all the bloodshed that’s to come, but I put on a brave face at work. The last thing anyone needs is a trembling waif manning the post office counter while they’re trying to keep it together themselves.
 
So many people came in today to mail off letters to friends and family on the West Coast, fearing for their well-being and likely asking them to head East or at least that’s what I would do if I had anyone outside of town.
 
Of the familiar faces I saw today, the Madokas’ son, Niko was in tizzy when he came up to the counter with his letters. I asked him what has him so riled up and he said, “I have an urgent letter to send to my friend and to the President of Japan!”
 
I asked him what’s he sending a letter to the President of Japan for, and he says, “To tell him to say sorry for blowing up our ships!”
 
Kids like him are a highlight of my day, I told him I’d try my best to deliver it, but I can’t swim and there’s a huuuuge ocean between us and Japan. He just shook his head and told me I’m supposed to take a boat across the ocean; not swim, so I just told him that they might blow up my ship and then I’ll have to live on a desert island until my boss can rescue me.
 
He admits I make a good point and tells me to try tying it to a seagull instead and runs off home. I still have the letter in my ‘Undeliverable’ drawer by the window I like to take lunch at, I can’t open it and read it of course, but the address: “The President of Japan’s House” is more than enough to make me smile.
 
Hopefully things won’t be too bad, though I worry there will be a draft and all the familiar faces will start to disappear and my delivery route will start to get shorter and sparser. At least, I don’t have to worry about missing my special pick-up customers. Why, just this morning Mr. Taylor was out there at the mailbox with letter in hand, he seemed very anxious but that’s not very new or surprising. 
 
He’s a very fretful man with an ear for rumors and gossip, I asked him about it once and he claims he only keeps an ear out to stay, “Abreast of important and concerning matters.” I think he might just not know what to do with himself otherwise.
 
But that’s neither here nor there, for now I must rest before Mr. Taylor and Mr. Clark begin to write to each other in earnest and I am buried alive in envelopes and stamps.
 
12/X/1941
We all saw this coming, but Germany and Italy have declared war on us and now we on them. I don’t know exactly what that means for us seeing as our enemies are across either ocean from us, but hopefully it means that we only really need to worry about Japan. After all, our allies to the East should be their biggest concern.
But enough about all that, this is a work journal after all, so let’s begin again.
 
Today my boss my handed me mailbag big enough to kidnap a kid and told me to collect the incoming mail while I was out doing my normal pick-up route. Looking inside that bag was like staring into the endless abyss, I’ve since dubbed it the Omni-bag.
 
Saddled with the Omni-bag, I was pushed out of the warmth of the post office and into the frigid winter air. I wish I caught colds so I could take a sick day and tell my boss it was their fault, but that might just get them prattling on about, “These fragile women can’t deal with cold, can’t carry packages” blah, blah, blah. Most people can’t carry packages almost as big as they are uphill, boss!
 
Ahem… Moving on, I did my normal pick-up route and saw Mr. Clark waiting for me on his stoop. 
 
He gave me a tight smile and handed me his letter for Mr. Taylor, he just said, “If he tries to mail order a priest, please deny him.” then went back inside.
 
I must admit; I don’t know exactly what goes on between those two, but I sometimes don’t wonder if Mr. Clark isn’t his shrink. But I shouldn’t speculate.
 
Anyhow, as I did my route all the extra stops just made the Omni-bag heavier and heavier, if my boss isn’t a slave driver then I must be a prisoner of war. By the time I reached a particularly special client’s house my legs felt like they might fall off and shoulders ached, luckily all that trotting up and down streets had me all warmed up. If not, I might have been frostbitten too.
 
I knocked on the door and I swear I heard someone just about tumble down the steps just to answer the door. It turned out to be the town Overseer’s assistant, a flighty young lady with a penchant for dressing in black.
 
I have to admit, I asked if she just fell down the stairs and she just sort of laughed with a weird look in her eye, handed me the letter, and closed the door in my face. All I can say is that girl is an odd bird.
 
My last stop is one of my favorites even if it takes hiking up into the forest to get there. There’s no trail to get there except the ones people make themselves.
Though I think my trail is now the closest thing they have to an official one, it’s so well-trodden now.
 
When I reached the Orphans’ House, I only made it into the front yard before one of the kids spotted me and started ringing a handbell like they’d spotted the enemy line. I did think for a moment they’d finally gotten caught up in playing war games with all the declarations and I was about to be pelted by a small army with snow. But apparently, they were just that dead set on sending their letters.
 
I managed to survive the horde of children who came running out, some still yanking on coats and boots, and get to poor Nithos. He always hangs back on the steps with this slightly miserable look on his face, but today he looked like someone dragged him out of bed to attend his dog’s funeral.
 
I made the mistake of asking what was on his mind and he just asks, “Do we have ships and boats around here?” I told him we only have fishing boats and things and, if possible, looks even more morose, then he asked, “Are we going to get blown up?”
 
Kids say the darnedest things, huh? I told him it’d be weird to blow us up considering we live in the middle of nowhere and he seemed just a little bit better before I took his letter and skedaddled.
After work, I’m buying myself a bag of peppermints, kicking back, and so help me if anyone makes a liar out of me!
 
2/X/1942 
Things have been relatively quiet on the battlefront; I could almost forget were at war with the Axis completely if it wasn’t for the recent news that the President just signed into law that all citizens of Japanese descent living on the West Coast shut away in internment camps.
 
There’s been talk here and there about their loyalty and being spies and such, but a tight lid has been kept on it till now. With the President doing this, everyone suddenly feels it’s alright to say it openly. To be honest, it gets under my skin, maybe because new folks are still surprised to see me working at the counter or out doing my routes.
 
One thing I know is that the Madokas have it a million times worse as one of the few Japanese families living in town. Poor Niko came in today to send off a letter to his pen-pal, that poor gloomy orphan, and his mother came with him. She was quiet and polite like always, but I noticed her accent was milder and in her eyes was the vigilance of a hawk, Niko on the other hand hardly dared to look up from the floor. 
 
He was practically scared stiff and just handed over his letter and they took their leave. Poor thing is probably getting the brunt of the bullying right now, not to mention all the sniveling adults who’d rather sneer and pick at a child and his family then do anything meaningful. Ugh, I need a peppermint.
 
2/X/1942
Looshii came in today to drop off another report for the Overseer and they looked to be in a foul mood, everyone in the post office became quiet as stone statues until they hobbled out cane clenched in hand.
 
As soon as the door shut, my boss tossed me the Omni-bag and told me to head out on my normal routes and don’t stop for anyone else. Whelp, who am I to say no when Looshii wraith is on the table.
When I arrived at the Overseer’s place and knocked on the door their assistant flung the door open and snatched the envelope from me. She ran off up the stairs leaving the door wide open and shortly after half tumbled down the stairs in her haste to the door. She curtsied with a little smile before she shut the door in my face. All I can say is her manners are improving but still would appall most people including myself.
 
Next, I stopped by Taylor’s and Clark’s places to pick up one letter to deliver to the latter and then up into the hills I trekked to deliver the kids their letters.
 
As usual one rang the handbell at my arrival, and I was surrounded by the horde, letters being pushed into my hand and about a half a dozen kids all talking my ear off at once.
 
I managed to convince them that the sooner they let me go the quicker they’d get a letter back and they dispersed.
 
All that was left to get was Nithos’ letter, he was sitting on the steps with this dark look on his face. I have to admit, it made me hesitant to go over, but I can’t let the kids see me falter. He had two letters for me, one for Niko and one for the Overseer. I asked him why he was sending a letter to them, but he just smiled, gestured for me to keep quiet, and went back inside.
 
I still have a bad feeling about that letter, but I went out of my way to deliver on the way back, it should have been a simple drop-off but as soon as their assistant heard who the sender was, she made me wait on the doorstep. Some minutes later she came back out with a letter for Nithos from the Overseer themselves and another for Looshii. She instructed me to get those letters to them as soon as I could and shut the door in my face then opened it and curtsied before shutting it back in my face.
 
By that point it was getting dark, and I was exhausted but I pushed on to at least get Looshii’s letter delivered and tracked him down at one of their friend’s houses. They were enjoying bottles of soda pop and playing poker when I interrupted with my delivery. I must say, as soon as they saw me the whole mood soured and Looshii’s eye started twitching. I took off down the street and ducked into someone’s yard to hide in case Looshii was going to “shoot the messenger” as it were.
 
Down the street I heard a table flip and Looshii shout a curse before it all went quiet again. I was wise to have hid but the ruckus the lady of the house peer out her window and directly at me. I tipped my hand and crammed some letters from the Omni-bag into her mailbox and ran back to the post office.
I’ve decided to sleep in the mailroom tonight, just in case.
 
2/X/1942
I messed big time! As I was finishing delivering Mr. Clark’s letter to Mr. Taylor, Looshii found me to deliver a letter to the Overseer. They seemed more tired than irritated today, but it got me wanting to double check the Omni-bag to make sure everything was in order for the Overseer’s letter.
 
Once they left me to be on their way, I checked, and the letter wasn’t there! Last night I must have accidentally stuffed it into that young lady’s mailbox! I’m such a dunce! If the boss caught wind of this they’d say, “I knew woman can’t read half as well as they pretend to.” How can I counter that? The user manual for the Omni-bag explicitly warns to be careful when carrying letters with an open recipient!
 
I ran to the young lady’s house and snuck past Looshii’s friend’s house. Lucky for me the young lady was home and was happy to return the letter me and even had a letter to send off to the police chief. I asked her why she’s sending a letter there and she got so flustered until she finally explained that he helped her once and she wanted to thank him with a card.
 
I personally think she fancies him, but I as a filly on the hunt for love myself I won’t discuss it further.
 
Thanks to her, I was able to deliver the letter to Boko as promised and I must say, he was so excited to receive it that he was already up and waiting for me at the gates. He even tipped me with a pear.
Today was pretty good all things considered even if the radio is busted, boss is going to have someone look at it tomorrow, I think there’s something wrong with the receiver since we can still get all the local channels like the Nightly Mysteries channel.
 
6/X/1941
Things have been rather peaceful ever since the government secured the radio channels, I admit even now I feel a sense of pride in our local radio station turned broadcast station. They started all sorts of programs to help fill out the airtime and thanks to public funding only the popular programs get to stay on.
 
But that’s not the truly momentous event that was brought across the radio waves, nay that would be our victory over the Japanese Navy! Everyone was celebrating in the streets, many took off work and the kids were left out of school, Boss even gave me the morning off to join the impromptu picnic that the ladies held in the park!
Everyone was in such a good mood that even when it was time for me to do my route Mr. Taylor and Mr. Clark were in high spirits for the first time in months, Looshii was actually smiling for once, and I was tasked with delivering care packages to the Orphans along with Niko’s letter and gifts for Boko.
 
I have to admit that I spent some time relaxing with the Orphans and Mataline, ever since she took over for Mr. Chaplin the orphanage seems even more lively and the children much more polite although that could be due to many of them being sent to live at another orphanage with better accommodations.
 
All in all, the future is looking quite bright.
","August 26, 2023 03:33",[]
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,6zbl9e,Progression,Kurt Edmiston,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/6zbl9e/,/short-story/6zbl9e/,Fiction,0,"['American', 'Fiction', 'Coming of Age']",4 likes,"
As far as lobbies go, there are probably less inviting ones in this universe. Specifically, the DMV and prisons come to mind. But Jeff needed to be here in this beige box to get some closure. As he queued up behind the tired, poor, huddled masses of people with their boxes and papers and envelopes, he took note of the ancient signage adorning the even more ancient walls, the unmatched government floor tiles, the flickering fluorescence, and the disappointing number of people who would be helped before him.
 
Though technically in line, he still was not technically fully in the lobby, because the line extended to the door. He claimed his spot in the doorway, leaning heavily to prop the door open and taking care to not block the egress of those who came before him. He instinctively took out his phone to pass the time and was immediately bored by it. He slipped it back in his pocket and took note of the people in line.
 
This is going to take forever, he thought.
 
""Next in line, please!""
 
Jeff gave his shoulder a rest as each member of the line in turn moved two and a half steps forward. The door clamped shut behind him.
 
A kid in his late teens approached the counter. Jeff assessed that the kid most likely was shipping something he sold  online: a gaming console, or a laptop, or some other piece of high-end electronics that he traded for money to buy textbooks, or weed, or ramen. The kid had clearly put in very little effort, because the open, unsealed, unlabeled box was overflowing with packing materials. No doubt he passed a half dozen corner drug stores with abundant supplies of packing tape on his way here, but chose to inconvenience everyone behind him. He tried to appeal to the postal clerk for free tape but in defeat was forced to purchase a roll.
 
Idiot.
 
Several people in line were visibly agitated at the lack of common courtesy demonstrated by this fellow human. Once the box was sealed it was weighed, and once it was weighed, there was a battery of questions about hazardous contents. The myriad shipping options prompted the kid to stop and evaluate how valuable he believed the contents of this package truly were. Once the label was affixed and money exchanged, he went along on his merry, oblivious way, eliciting copious amounts of side-eye from the spectators. All told the entire exchange lasted less than 3 minutes, but to everyone in line it was an eternity.
 
""Next!""
 
The line shifted, and the happy couple approached the counter. 
 
The young woman took her hand out of her beau’s back pocket and began to rifle through her bag as she very formally introduced herself as Carol Ann Whittier and her boyfriend as Craig Rasmussen. She gleefully informed the clerk that they would be applying for passports today. Most likely to backpack from some pristine old-world city on the Rhine or the Thames or the Tiber to some other pristine old-world city on the Seine, or the Danube, or the Vistula. It's not entirely clear if that postal clerk was even capable of an emotion like joy, but there was a definite sparkle in her eye when those five ominous words fell from her mouth and landed like boxing gloves to the jaws of the happy couple.
 
""Do you have an appointment?""
 
In an instant three basic facts became clear to anyone paying attention:
 
An appointment is required to apply for a passport.
 
The grievous error of forgetting to make said appointment had been committed…
 
…by Craig Rasmussen.
 
After a brief and fruitless campaign to persuade the postal clerk to see them anyway, the couple quickly retreated from the lobby. (Shortly thereafter, an argument of epic proportions would break out in a post office parking lot and ultimately end 5 hours later in a living room four miles away. That day would go down in infamy as the day that Carol Ann Whittier ditched that deadbeat Craig Rasmussen. It was also be remembered as the day Craig Rasmussen won his freedom from that psycho Carol Ann Whittier.)
 
""Next in line.""
 
As the zombified father of three gathered his children and moved to take his place at the counter, Jeff caught a glimpse of the new line leader.
 
Where the hell did she come from?
 
The new object of his attention appeared to be about his age. She had a similar hurried, apathetic style as him. Her flip flops, pajama pants, and tank top almost mirrored his sandals, gym shorts, and dirty t-shirt. He glimpsed her profile as she turned to track one of the feral kids currently ransacking a display of shipping supplies, and thought she was stunning. She wore thick rimmed glasses, giving off a nostalgic Lisa Loeb vibe that a lot of guys would willfully fail to notice, but he thought it was endearing. Jeff always swore up and down that he didn’t have a type…but this was in fact Jeff’s type.
 
And in that moment he experienced an anxiety that he hadn't felt in exactly 2 years and 11 months.
 
So many questions immediately flooded his thoughts. What do I do now? effectively sums them all up. He wondered if it was acceptable to approach a stranger in a post office. Do people even still do that anymore? He wondered if there was some app that could help him break the ice. Oh God, I’ve been off the market for almost three years and don’t even know what apps people use anymore! Should he use a pickup line? I don’t know any lines! Should he just say hi? Boring! Would she feel threatened by a stranger making an unsolicited advance? What if she knows krav maga and pummels me? 
 
Not all of the questions were rational.
 
""Next!""
 
Dad had wrapped up his transaction and was in the process of moving his three children toward the exit. Lisa Loeb stepped into the spotlight, and now Jeff was on the clock. He needed a strategy, but also some information. The large elderly woman in front of him was blocking his line of sight so he leaned slightly to the left, but he still couldn't see. He shifted his weight and leaned a little further trying to catch a glimpse of that left ring finger. He tilted a few more degrees, and if he had listed any further he would have needed a kickstand. He failed to notice a cardboard display next to him and, of course, accidentally nudged it causing it to crash to the floor.
 
He tidied up his mess as quickly as possible and then turned back to his recon mission, craning his neck to see her hand, which was now hidden from sight. He glanced up and met her eyes, causing him to awkwardly jolt his entire body in a violent race to break eye contact.
 
Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT! SHE DEFINITELY THINKS I WAS CHECKING OUT HER ASS!
 
Well, there was nothing left to do at that point but mail his package and then curl up and die. Twenty-seven aggravating heartbeats later, Lisa Loeb told the clerk thank you and turned to leave. As she passed by Jeff, she offered him a noncommittal half-smile that conveyed absolutely nothing and then went on living her life.
 
“Next, please.”
 
Jeff assumed his position as the first and only person in line. The woman in front of him bought stamps while he replayed the previous two minutes in his head. As she waffled between 1980s nostalgia stamps and the 150 Years of Postcards collection, Jeff overanalyzed every moment of his tragic non-interaction with a pretty girl. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't notice that the stamp collector had moved on.
 
""Neeeeeext,"" the clerk snapped, which brought him back to the lobby. He plopped his package on the counter, and instinctively reached for his phone to check the time.
 
""Anything fragile, perishable, liquid, flammable?"" she asked.
 
""No, nothing like that,"" he responded. ""Just some clothes and books and stuff.""
 
""Do you need insurance?"" she asked.
 
""No,” he chuckled. “This is all of my ex's crap. I don't even care if it gets there."" He added, ""Just do whatever's cheapest.""
 
This elicited a noticeable smirk from the clerk. ""Ok, you're all set. Your tracking number is on the receipt,"" she said, handing him the paper. He promptly tossed it into the trash bin next to the counter.
 
""Thanks,"" he said, and turned toward the door. ""Have a good one.""
 
Well, that's done, he thought. Somehow the empty lobby didn't seem so bleak anymore, and he turned his thoughts toward the rest of his day. After double-checking that the lobby was empty, he danced up to the door and tapped the automated handicap button with his hip. He did a half turn and shimmied out into the daylight where he stopped dead in his tracks.
 
There leaning against the building was the girl, aimlessly scrolling on her phone. She looked up just long enough to notice him noticing her, and awkwardly fumbled her phone trying to shove it into her non-existent pants pocket. She gave him another half-smile and said, “Hey.”
 
He countered with an equally revealing, “Hey.”
 
After an awkward silence that lasted anywhere from a second to an eternity, Jeff mustered a question. “Are you waiting for someone?”
 
“Kind of,” she responded. And then, in a moment of forced confidence, “Were you staring at my ass in there?”
 
Shit!
 
She let him dangle momentarily while his thoughts flailed, attempting to generate any response in order to recover. And then she rescued him. “I’m just messing with you,” she said. “I know you were. What’s your name?”
 
“Jeff”
 
“Hi, Jeff, I’m Lisa.”
 
","August 26, 2023 03:51",[]
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,6ooi0f,C. O. D .,Hazel Carter,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/6ooi0f/,/short-story/6ooi0f/,Fiction,0,['Mystery'],4 likes,"
Kathy lived and worked her whole life in Wheeling, West Virginia. She worked at the local post office as a mail carrier. The carriers walked “the beat.” Most of the mailboxes are either a slot on the door, by the door or lined the sidewalk. Kathy entered the post office to pick up her mail bag in order to start her day. “Joe” Kathy called to the man that sorted the mail, separating the bags for the carriers. Joe did not answer, Kathy looked around the corner in the mail room and did not see Joe. “Joe!” she called out again, this time Joe entered yelling back, “Gosh, can’t anyone use the restroom in this place in peace. Joe was an older gentleman, he worked at the post office for the past twenty five years he was clearly overweight and what little hair he had left was all gray. Kathy couldn’t help but think, he must be getting close to retirement. “Hi Joe, what do we have going on today? Anything special? Kathy asked. “No, just another boring day,” Joe responded as he picked up more mail to sort. As Joe was sorting, Kathy made herself a cup of coffee, the energy drink for starting the day. “ Yeah, help yourself “ Joe muttered, “I’ll be glad when you carriers start adding to the coffee fund, you know, I pick up the coffee, they don’t pay me for it, and I make it. All you carriers do is come in and drink it.” “Okay, Okay” Kathy answered, “here” as she tossed him a quarter. Joe returned the quarter to her, “for you, it’s free.” Joe said. Kathy knew that Joe was really a sweet old man, he just liked playing the tough guy. 
“Well, look here.” Joe said, “what is this?” He turned to show Kathy a box that looked like the address was written in a bold red crayon. The letters were rugged and looked like a child wrote it. Kathy took the box from Joe and looked it over. “ Joe, I don’t think that’s red ink, it looks like it was written with something wet, see around the letters on the paper,  it looks like it absorbed whatever was used.” “ Huh, you’re right. What do you think it is? Joe looked concerned. “I’m not sure, let’s look at the return address.” Kathy looked at Joe and with a stammer in her voice, Joe there is none.” Joe grabbed the box, “ let me look at it” Joe looked, hoping to see an address that Kathy missed. But no such luck. “You’re right.” Joe placed the box on the table, feeling uneasy about the box. “  Okay, now we’re just being silly, it’s just a box with a weird looking address written on it, where is it going? Kathy asked. Joe looked at the box and read the address on it. It’s addressed to C.O.D. Four Twenty Six East Twenty Ninth Street, “you know that big house on the hill.”
”What, that’s my route, I deliver on that street and they never get any mail.” Kathy revealed with an uneasy sounding voice. “Kathy, what do you think is in it?” Joe was becoming more curious about the box. He was more intrigued, because that address never received mail of any kind in all the years he has been the mail sorter.  He looked at Kathy and stated, “I really want to open this box, we can always re-seal it.” “No!” Kathy couldn’t believe Joe would even think of such a thing. “That’s what I was thinking,  as Kathy started laughing, I never thought you would think of a thing like that!” After about an hour of talking, debating, they decided to open the box. 
“Are you sure about this?” Kathy asked Joe. “No, not really, but you must omit that this is a mystery. I have never seen any mail going to that address, not an electric bill, water bill, gas bill or trash bill, so why now? I was under the impression the house was empty. That’s why I think we should open it.” “Okay, Joe, let’s do this,” Kathy answered with some excitement. As Joe retrieved the box from the table, he slowly walked over to the counter where Kathy was standing with a box cutter. Joe placed the box on the counter and told Kathy to go ahead and open it!” “No way!” Kathy looked at Joe, “it’s your idea.” “ Yeah, but you had the same idea.” Joe said “Well I can’t, I’m nervous, you know we will be breaking the law, “Okay, give me the knife, I will do it.” As Joe took the knife from Kathy and started to cut the box open, Kathy grabbed his arm and pointed to the front door. There stood a very old woman, draped all in black, and wearing a hood. Joe and Kathy could see that her skin was so wrinkled that she did not look real, it also looked like she had a beard, she was slightly bent over and Kathy noticed the walking stick in her left hand, the ones you see in old photos of witches. The walking stick was black and carved with what looked like heads of screaming people all over it. Kathy couldn’t pull her eyes from it, it was  as though she was in a trance. Finally the old lady spoke. “Afternoon, I understand this is where I come to pick up packages that are mailed me, it was as if she had never been in a post office before. Her voice sounded old and evil, she looked at Joe, then at Kathy, who was still looking at the walking stick. The old lady pointed to the box that was still between Joe and Kathy, I believe that belongs to me. Both Joe and kathy looked down at the box, then at each other, both were thinking, how could she know that this is “her box?” Joe finally spoke, Ma’am, how can I help you? “I said,” again the old lady pointed to the box, “I believe that box belongs to me.” Can I ask for your name and address?” Joe asked, stumbling over his words. “My name is Caroline Odessa Davis and I live at Four Twenty Six East Twenty Ninth Street, the house on the hill. “Oh, yes I do believe this is your box, we were just checking to make sure it was addressed correctly.” Joe, still stumbling over his words.  “Here you are Ma’am, can I ask what is in the box? I don’t remember any mail ever going to that address.” The old lady looked at Kathy and Joe,” you will know soon enough, everyone in this town will soon know!” She turned and cackled a laugh, then she disappeared. After a few seconds Kathy shouted out “I GOT IT!!!”
C.O.D…..Caroline Odessa Davis. 
”
","August 25, 2023 18:34",[]
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,cg6wxr,Admin Work,Robert Garrett,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cg6wxr/,/short-story/cg6wxr/,Fiction,0,"['Adventure', 'Science Fiction']",4 likes,"
Rafe was a trapper.
He didn’t do admin work.
This was admin work.
Those were his thoughts as he heard the bell clang while opening the door to the last post office on the planet in Sitka, Alaska.
It was his first time here and it was even more depressing than he imagined.
The drab lobby had at least four different shades of gray for the floors, counters, walls and uniforms. It was a small room, maybe able to accommodate a line of 10 people. But behind the counter you could see it opened into a vast warehouse.
And you could definitely smell the distinctive sulfur of the plasma rocket fuel. That was the destination for his package. One Cryptillian to be dispatched to Promethios, the fiery prison planet
But first, he had to fill out the 195 questions for the manifest.
A tablet was thrust into his hand when he entered the lobby. There were two people in front of him and two were behind him.  They didn’t wear the distinctive armor of a trapper so perhaps they were sending care packages to the troops involved in skirmishes across the galaxy. Their faces were glued to their tablets as well.
Rafe sighed, reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out his glasses.
Scotty, his assistant, had given him a comprehensive lesson on all of the questions designed to trick people up. Scotty wasn’t here because he was “sick.”
“Sick of working,” Rafe muttered to himself as he started dotting the checkboxes.
After finding all of the potential land mines on the form, he went back to start the personal info section.
---
Rafe, born Ralph Williston, came screaming and crying into the world in 2179 after it had gone to hell. Seas rose and the world shrunk into large cities encased in controlled environments. Large swaths of rural America were lost. 
With all the major cities now bio domes, trusty ‘ol pneumatic tubes were used to deliver the post, and pretty much anything else. 
Rafe grew up in the Seattle biodome, one of the better ones as far as quality of life. His parents were both teachers, a highly esteemed position. They encouraged Rafe to follow in their path. But he was painfully shy and would never have the courage to speak in front of groups of people.
Instead, he found his calling when one of his teddy bears shorted out. The five-year-old grabbed a step stool to raid his father's toolbox of a hydraulic driver and voltmeter. The old man liked to tinker as well.
When Rafe showed his gobsmacked parents his handiwork, his destiny seemed clear. 
And then the sky ripped open. 
--
There's a bunch of names for it, but Rafe always preferred The Schism. He liked big words.
It started innocently enough. A wormhole appeared over the Western hemisphere approximately 20 years ago. None of our multiple space ports detected it until it appeared.
Another year later there was contact. After another three years of negotiation, they all met for a summit on the McAuliffe Space Port. The Sandarians wanted to mine the silicate on Venus and the Mithrovis harvested the heat from Mercury. 
Assurances and compromises were made. Lengthy contracts were signed. For years the wormhole provided for everyone. 
And then the Cryptillians ruined everything. 
We should have been warned by the Sandarians and Mithrovis. They both had a long history with the Cryptillians but that fact was conveniently not mentioned during negotiations.
They are a particularly greedy and evil race. They can only live off a host. If not, they start to wither and die. It takes about a week. When they do capture a host, it only takes them a few months to burn through them.
Cryptillians are roughly 6 inches long but they are extremely pliable. Their modus operandi is to find a place near a prospective host to hide. When the host falls asleep, they emerge and stretch themselves over the host in a micro thin layer. 
The host can feel, taste, see and hear everything. But they aren't in control.
The Cryptillian has strong neural processing abilities as well to take over and mimic your speech and thought functions.
When, and if, you find a discarded host it looks like they have been stuck in a dehydrating machine. 
After a few months and a score of bodies, someone found a tear in the wormhole. No telling how many of those things had gotten through. 
That's when the call for trappers was raised. 
--
Rafe was happy before that. 
He was the proud owner of a very successful refrigerator repair business. Most of the time it was dialing back the judgment of the AI interface.
“Don’t eat that whole pint of ice cream in one sitting, Rafe!”
But when his number one supplier was found jerk-ified (some dark soul nicknamed them Human Jerky), he decided to put his electrical skills to good use.
--
Rafe still remembered the colorful billboard at the tube port stating, “Alaska, the last outpost!”
Alaska was the last place you could live outdoors. 
He set up a repair shop, switching his focus to heaters because Alaska didn't need much refrigeration help. That was his cover.
Next, he had to find a Cryptillian. 
It was easier than he thought. Alaska was a gathering place for shady people.
The carcass wasn't alive, but he could study it.
It was metallic, scaly and rubbery. 
He couldn't exactly reverse engineer the biological aspects of it, but he did work on ways to identify them without the Cryptillians knowing it. Within a month he had devised a pair of glasses that would pick up the sheen of their skin. 
Rafe’s second discovery was the game changer. 
He was making his coffee one morning on his desk. The open container with the Cryptillian was by the cup. Rafe ripped open 3 packs of artificial sweetener and dumped them into the cup. He went to itch his nose and breathed in the powder causing him to sneeze. A light dust coated the Cryptillian’s tail, and it promptly turned black. 
Rafe spilled his coffee. 
--
The last step was testing. He headed to what was considered a Cryptillian hotspot near The Schism. The city square had a small park in the middle. He took a seat on the park bench and pulled out a book. Rafe calmed himself inside before reaching into his shirt pocket, fishing out his glasses, and putting them on. He pretended to read for a few seconds before glancing up.
Rafe’s heart pounded in his chest like a bass drum.
Cryptillians were everywhere. 
He still had one more test to run.
After about 30 minutes of abject fear, Rafe picked the smallest person he could find. It was a young lady walking away from the square towards a side street. 
He stuck his book inside of his jacket pocket, fingered the trigger on his weapon, and started to follow her. 
Thankfully, she was by herself when he approached. Rafe calmly pulled out a converted Nerf gun loaded with sweetener buckshot. 
It was a direct shot in the back. The gun was quiet, the victim was not.
A piercing, metallic shriek erupted and then the Cryptillian unleashed the half dead host onto the sidewalk. The little reptile like creature squirmed and stopped, paralyzed.
Not sure what to do, Rafe picked up the creature and put it in his pocket.
--
That was nearly ten years and 153 captures ago, thought Rafe with a smile. It disappeared when he looked up.
He was again surrounded by Cryptillians. Besides him, the postal worker was the only other human in the lobby.
“Next!” the attendant yelled. 
Rafe Approached the counter like business as usual.
“Exporting?” asked the attendant. Ralph, the nametag said. 
“Ralph, I’m Rafe.” 
Ralph’s face indicated his lack of interest. 
“I have one Class C export,” said Rafe, getting down to business. He handed the tablet to Ralph.
Rafe Leaned in close, imploring Ralph to make eye contact with him. There was a message on the tablet for the worker.
“Lobby full of C’s. Just stand still.” 
Ralph saw the message. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. Rafe made a calming gesture with his right hand and then slid his jacket to the side to show he was armed, and then pantomimed an explosion. 
Ralph’s eyes widened as the trapper made his move.
It was over before the Cryptillians could blink. 
Rafe took the tablet in his left hand and slung it right at the line of people to distract them. With his right hand he unclipped a SweetBomb grenade, slamming it to the ground and clouding the entire room with artificial sweetener.
The four impostors simultaneously extracted from their prey where Rafe scooped them all up.
“Make that five exports,” he said to the shell shocked attendant.
He was still coughing from the dust in the room. 
“Transport is on the house,” Ralph said. 
--
There was still one more thing on the list. Rafe had been a successful trapper for one reason. 
Privacy. 
No one knew anything about him or his methods. Every capture was unique and precisely planned. That's why he used an admin person. He didn't want to be predictable. With only one post office left on the planet, that was the one place they knew he would be.
Rafe climbed into his power wagon. He reached over to the compartment hidden in the dash, typed in the code, and pulled out the plasma pistol.
It was time to pay Scotty a visit. 
 
 
 
 
","August 25, 2023 21:37",[]
prompt_0016,Set your story in a post office.,sg9pbo,Big spider web of connections,Katriina Kuusela,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/sg9pbo/,/short-story/sg9pbo/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Friendship', 'Inspirational']",4 likes,"
It was Friday morning. Char was sipping her take-away americano, when Marshall, her boss walked to her. He wanted her to teach the new kid who was arriving any minute all the basics in the office. Char had worked in the most popular post office of Brooklyn for over 4-years and training the newbies was part of her current role in there.
“Remember to teach him how to have fun too! We don’t want any serious energy here do we!”
Marshall was no typical of a boss. He was the funniest, most humorous boss Char could’ve ever asked for. When she came to work, she actually had fun there. It was not like in many of her other jobs she had worked before.
Char had some other dreams too, it was not like working in the post office was her dream, no. Why was she there?
She liked stories. She was obsessed with stories behind people. Writing was what she wanted to do, and in the post office, her imagination had space to wander. Where was this letter going? Was it for a lover? Was it from adopted girl to her birth mother? A simple birthday card to a friend? Who knows. She rarely asked from the customers, which she didn’t even care to do. She liked the imagination and leaving it being a mystery. Sometimes, the mystery is better than the truth. Or, at least more exciting. That’s what she thought.
Char liked training the newbies. She liked teaching others what she knew. Of course, she would’ve loved to teach writing, instead of post office tasks, but it was what it was. It was also interesting to learn the story behind the person who was starting. Each one had different dreams of them, different reasons to start their work.
This one, was a high-school student Lee. Lee was a very ambitious young man saving for his studies. What he dreamed of, was being a pilot. His parents weren’t one of the richest people, so Lee had been working on the side of his high-school for 2-years already. He used to be a waitress in one of the up & coming restaurants in Bronx, but his parents wanted him to have more of a day job than finishing late night sifts in the city.
Then, we have Margaret. Margaret was not working in the office, but she was a regular, almost daily visitor. For a few years already, she had been coming in as regular. She was around 40, but had become good friends with Char. She was herself a children’s book novelist, so she and Char had writing in common. Margaret was a lady who was friends with everyone. Why is that? Well, perhaps because she always delighted everyone with her bakings. Almost every time she came in, she brought freshly baked muffins or cake with her; Combined with lattes from next door. She was a literal sunshine to everyone’s days.
Char knew Marshall had a huge crush on her, but he was feeling shy to make a move. Margaret was one of those women who everyone fell in love with, so Marshall thought he had no chance. He was a very attractive man and usually very confident, but when Margaret came in, he lost his confidence completely. For 2-years, she had brightened her day, but never had they spent time outside of the post office. Char find it kind of beautiful actually. That’s because of his love for stories. “Post-office romance”. She had sketched even some short stories around them. Obviously the end was going to have them together, probably going to birth a child in the office too. Well, maybe not that part.
Lee, the new kid arrived 10:10 am. His shift was suppose to start at 10. Well, the young ones, often arriving late. Char actually was up for that, having little looseness. She hated tight schedules. She loved freedom more and that’s why she and Marshall also had an agreement it was okay if Char arrived anything between 9-9:30, then she shall just leave that time later what she arrived. Fair enough, she thought.
Lee had baggy denim type pants on, sandals, and a kind of fancy like shirt on, but it looked perfect amount of fancy and perfect amount of casual at the same time. This kid had some style Char thought.
Lee arrived so confidently in, not in an egoistic way, but he just had this authentic, natural confidence in. Char felt little bit of jealousy. That was something she had to learn the hard way. Confidence I mean. She had lived her entire childhood and teenage years, and beginning of adult years shaming herself for who she was and who she wasn’t. Now she was in a good place with herself, but she really admired how a 17-year old had such a confidence in.
By lunch time, Lee had charmed everyone in the office. He fit in perfectly. Marshall was first a little skeptical of him, but that just seems to be the case from a man to another. But by the time he had shared of his love for golf, which Marshall was a huge fan of, they became friends. One similarity and boom, the knives were dropped. (Just to be clear, there weren’t actually knives, it was just Char’s imaginative metaphor for the situation.)
The post office was typically closed over the weekend, but this weekend was New York marathon weekend, so Marshall decided to keep the office open for possible tourist rush.
Well, it was saturday 2pm and not a single person had arrived yet. That’s it for the rush.
A moment later, Margaret arrived. Lee greeted her first, without knowing she was a regular visitor. Lee was extremely casual and chatted for a good moment. Char noticed how Marshall turned red when he saw Lee talking with Margaret. Margaret was laughing and laughing and Marshall’s face turned sadder and sadder. Char noticed this and felt little awkward over Marshall. I mean, Lee was just a 17-year old boy! There was no chance for him to start a romance with her. Char got up to greet Margaret. She explained to Lee how Margaret was a regular visitor for few years already. Lee found it fascinating and insisted everyone to have a coffee break right there and then, they didn’t have any customers after all. .
2 hours into talking, something weird had happened. They all realized some sort of long term connection between them. Lee’s mom was a hair dresser whom Margaret had gone every month for 10-years already. Marshall and Margaret had spent their childhood holidays in the same place in Connecticut, same holiday village. Margaret’s step dad on the other hand had been Char’s literature teacher in high school, the same high school Lee was at right now.
As they had been chatting for the last couple of hours, the weather outside had turned into a chaos. Heavy rain and thunder. Everyone outside seemed to be in madness.
Inside the post office was completely different scene. It’s like it was a magical place of calmness there. Laughter and connection. Lattes and carrot cakes. Surprises. Char looked around and realized. It was no typical post-office she was in. It was no coincidence she had been there for 4-years. This was all part of something bigger. What exactly, she did not know. But she was excited to find out. Day by day, what her destiny was and how come all these thought to be strangers had attracted each others to find out they had been connected somehow for years. Was it how the life worked? We are all connected to each others, all part of a big spider web, waiting to find the people whom we are meant to meet. Not by coincidence, but by a big universal plot. Is life just a pre planned game? God knows, but what Char knew was, she had a story for her first book.
","August 26, 2023 01:59",[]