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You arrive home to find an unmarked envelope on your door mat. Who is it from? What does it contain?
Let me know in less than 500 words.
UNTITLED (321 words)
On Thursday, I wrote a letter. Not to send, you understand, since it wasn’t really to someone, and not to keep either, because once I had written it, and re-read it in that way that people do when they are shocked by their candour, I felt embarrassed by it. Embarrassed by the uncontrolled rage and disappointment that I had poured onto the pages. Embarrassed by my failure at life, as evidenced by my own words. My lack was there in every paragraph – lack of achievement and of purpose – with years of emptiness and despair; heartache and hopelessness, scrawled in leaky blue pen across half a dozen A4 pages ripped from an unused, faded workbook.
This letter, then, was my silent scream in the dark. I signed it, not with my name, but with an ellipsis … for who was I really, beyond the broken promises, and what words could possibly voice my longing?
In disgust, I threw the letter on the fire and dispatched my anguish to the cosmos.
The following morning, an unmarked envelope lay on the mat inside my front door. As I stared at it from the top of the stairs, did I wonder, even for a second, at the peculiarity of that, since there is no letterbox in the front door? No. I confess my astonishment was simply because I had received something – anything – that wasn’t a statement or request for payment, no matter its method of delivery. I walked steadily downstairs, neither too fast nor too slow, lest the mysterious envelope should disappear, one hand on the bannister and the other pressed against my ribcage to hold my racing heart in check. Was it my imagination, or was the world outside suspended? As I reached down to pick it up, the envelope trembled beneath my fingertips and words flared across its surface:
MESSAGE RECEIVED. YOUR WAIT IS OVER.
STANDBY FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.
Me?
ME??
There’ll be kites [497 words]
It isn’t often that seeing an envelope on one’s doormat transports one back some forty years through time.
Took me long enough – the wrestling of the key in the lock ever more painful thanks to the curse of arthritis; the nudging open of the door with my shoulder just enough to know I’d be able to push it wide enough to step inside after I’d bent and picked up my shopping bags – to recognise it was an envelope; colour and shape not what I usually received and, face down, no hint as to where it had been sent from.Once inside I went along the hall to the kitchen, set the bags down on the worktop and, because I’d been reminding myself to do so all the way home and knew I was in danger of being distracted, removed the too-easily squished tomatoes from top of the bag, took out the chocolate ice lollies and put them straight into the freezer. On offer but still too expensive to let go to soggy puddle waste because of my own forgetfulness.
That done; the conjunction of shape and colour tugged for my attention, I looked back up the hall. The envelope – square and scarlet – had landed on the doormat – biscuit-coloured sisal with narrow black stripes – in such a way as to emulate at least the style – conjunction of urban incongruity with lace and rainbows – if not the actuality of a painting by an artist I’d once revered.
Still did much appreciate, of course, but since I no longer painted, to less practical effect.
I bent to pick it up, conscious, as I did so, of voices outside. Shut them out as I turned the envelope over and saw that it was unaddressed and contained no more than a single sheet of paper. As I did so I registered a darkening caused by someone outside my front door. Voices more distinctive; a woman and a child. Then a knock, and a giggle, but in a way that had me doubting they meant mischief.It was mother and daughter of the family who’d just moved in opposite. The daughter immediately reached to take the envelope from me, her mother warning, ‘Emily …’ as the child said, all in a rush, ‘It’s an invitation. To my birthday tea. This afternoon. All my friends now live too far away so there was going to be no-one and I thought you might like to be a new friend. But I didn’t know your name to put on the envelope.’
Quickly, I checked the mother’s face. She was proud of her daughter’s initiative; apprehensive I might not feel the same. Under other circumstances, I might not have done, but the reminder of a time when, like Emily, I’d been young and eager for new experiences, urged me to accept with what was, I realised, unfeigned delight. Which multiplied when I saw the crimson kite Emily had drawn.‘I’m Matilda, and I’d love to come. Thank you.’
The Unmarked Letter
It’s a circular, sitting there on the mat. Or is it? It doesn’t look like the sort of envelope they use. And they usually say To the Householder or something like that. When Arthur was alive, he’d say, ‘That’s me. The householder,’ as though I didn’t count. This one has nothing on it.
Right, that’s Edith at the door. I’d better get a wiggle on. Check what the letter is when I get back.
Home again. The letter’s right there on the table where I left it. Did I leave it on the table? I don’t remember picking it up. Must be losing my marbles. Odd. It’s expensive paper, this envelope. It feels like only one sheet inside.
And now there’s the phone. No peace for the wicked.
‘In the car? I don’t know—I’ll have a look. Hang on.’
She leaves her glasses everywhere. They’re probably at the restaurant or by the till in one of the shops. No sign here. ‘Sorry, Edith, they’re not in the car. Why don’t you give the restaurant a call? Let me know if you find them. Good luck.’
I could do with a cup of tea and a biscuit. I like Custard Creams. Arthur liked Rich Tea. He used to say, ‘Rich Teas are the best so there’s no point in wasting money on anything else.’ So, we only bought Rich Tea biscuits. I buy Custard Creams now.
That’s better. And a nice cup of tea. Not Earl Grey. Why on earth did he buy that stuff? I hate it and he only ever had one cup when he made it, and he usually left half of that.
It’s a funny thing. That letter looked important, but I don’t see how it could be. Not without an address on it. Unless it was hand delivered, I suppose—by somebody who knows where I live. Ooh! That thought’s made me shiver a bit. Don’t be daft. Just open the flipping thing and get it over with.
But where did I put it? Wasn’t it on the table? I can’t see it anywhere. Arthur said I wasn’t organised enough so it was no wonder I couldn’t find anything. But honestly, I’m sure it was on the table. Maybe he was right after all. He annoyed me so much, but maybe, just the once, he was right.
‘Get yourself organised, woman,’ he’d say. ‘It’s a good thing you don’t have a job, or you’d make a right mess of it.’
And I’d say, ‘I did have a job before we were married, Arthur. I liked it, and I thought I was good at it.’
He never listened. But maybe he was right after all. Maybe he was right about other things too.
There it is, tucked behind the clock on the mantlepiece. Arthur’s retirement clock. Well, blow me down, it’s open. I’m sure I didn’t open it. Let’s see. What? What on Earth is this? Just one sentence.
‘Brenda, you’re doing fine.’
497 ex title
Nia Price
The son of a gun had done it. I should have known it was from him, only he would use an unmarked envelope. I held the letter, signed by Nia Price, a discount anagram of his real name. He always told me if I got a letter signed by Nia, he had faked his death. I didn’t think he would do it, even when he said he found a way to make it to Fire Island.
He was drained by the fame, supposedly. Had to escape. He probably faked his death to spite me, knowing it would force me to do the one thing that would kill my soul.
# #
I lied, “He’s deceased.”
The policeman, wild eyebrows and a grey goatee, snapped his finger. “Just like that?”
I nodded. Another lie. There was nothing worse than violating honesty, the longer I stayed at the station, the more I would have to lie.
The rusty fan sat there in the corner, judging me. As it should.
I rose. “I should get goin -”
“I loved his second album.”
“It was a great album,” I lied. Again. “I need to -”
“Did the Thai police contact you?”
“They’ll send the paperwork.”
The estate would pay me two million. I should give it all to the police force to make up for my dishonesty, but my therapist would say that was regression. But what else could I do? I told four lies since I had been in his office. Two-million-dollar donation, tomorrow. And go to confession although I was atheist.
“I must go. I have to plan the funeral.”
That was an unnecessary falsehood, his mother was organizing the funeral. I would climb Mount Misery seven times tomorrow morning, I deserved it.
“There’s an internet rumor that he faked his death,” said the policeman.
I fidgeted with my handbag. “There’s an internet rumor that you can eat cheeseburgers and lose weight.”
He stared at me, circling his finger around a rubber band on his cluttered desk.
“Officer, I have a full day and -”
“Investigator, not officer.” He leaned forward, his eyes never leaving mine. “That internet theory is intriguing.”
“The internet thinks Bigfoot is real.” I giggled.
I paid for a pensioner’s groceries, carried her home. I was a good person.
“You don’t seem distraught for a grieving widow,” the inspector said.
“It hasn’t sunk in.”
He snorted. “His fans have a shrine outside your mansion, and it hasn’t sunk in?”
This was going worse than I anticipated. I was supposed to be in and out, one untruth that he died. No Mount Misery, no donations, no confession could make up for my lies.
“It would be a shock, I suppose,” he said. “You’re free to go.”
If only it was as easy to be free from the weight of my dishonesty. I was off to my therapist, but first I had a donation to make. And to find a Catholic church. Why did he send that letter?
497 words excluding the title
Thank you all for a fabulous batch of stories.
Seagreen – you had me on the edge of my seat wondering what was in that letter.
Sandra – such a lovely heart warming tale.
Athelstone – I love that kind hearted Brenda got the reassurance she needed.
Alex – oh! Such a tale of mystery and deceit. Thus feels like the basis for a longer story.
A tricky choice as always with such high calibre writers – but I have to choose, so I’ll go with Seagreen. Over to you.
Well done Sea, for an intriguing tale, and thank you Kate for a topic that had me seeking a tale I KNEW I’d written on this theme, then, not finding it, having to concoct something else. Thanks also for all the other entries; I still haven’t solved Alex’s anagram.
All were great entries. Loved the ending of Seagreen’s story.
Sandra’s story was very touching.
I enjoyed being inside the head of the MC in Athelstone’s entry.
@Sandra, the MC’s husband was named Ian Pierce with that extra ‘e’ in Pierce dropped.
This was a fun prompt, Kate.
Congrats Seagreen.
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