Paper With Some InkA Story by Chrissie MuldoonIn this small tale of small kindnesses with large consequences, a young man finds that he is now responsible for delivering a letter that has come into his possession by sheer accident.Paper With Some Ink by Christina Muldoon The man woke up to a throbbing in
his legs. Half asleep, he attempted to stretch, but couldn't. He had completely
forgotten where he was, and for a moment thought that he was having some
horrible dream in which he couldn’t move. He had been watching this post box
for a while now and saw that no one deposited or picked up letters anymore. He
didn't know if the postal service removed post boxes or what, but he'd make use
out of a good thing while he could. He fought for hours to jimmy the door open,
and he managed to line the inside with his cardboard and took the tape off of
the letter slot for extra ventilation. It wasn’t much, but for now, it was
home. He fumbled in the darkness and
unlocked the door. Cool, clean air rushed into the post box as he got out to
have a stretch. He first looked up and down the street, making sure that the
coast was clear. However, even if there happened to be someone, he knew the
odds were that he would be ignored. Obviously, to see a fully grown man climbing
out of a decommissioned post box would be a shock to anyone, but quickly they
would look straight ahead and pretend as if they hadn’t seen a thing. They
always did. Such is the unwritten rule of society: treat the invisible as such.
You don’t have to deal with what you don’t see. He gave his back and legs a good
stretch, yawned and rubbed his eyes. He lingered outside of the box in the
pre-dawn darkness, looking up and down the street yet again. Loneliness and
silence radiated from him to either end of the block. He sighed and went back into his cramped, temporary home.
Something hit his face and he woke
with a start. It took him a moment to piece together that someone had put
something through the mail slot. He fumbled open the door to the post box and
looked around. He saw her, walking down the street. A woman with her hands hung
at her sides, her shoulders slumped in either defeat or exhaustion, or both. He
couldn’t be sure, but he thought she was crying. In his waking stupor, he
remembered that this post box was out of commission. Why would she even put
her envelope in… oh, hell! He suddenly remembered that he removed the tape
for ventilation. He began to walk after her. He'd
tell her to put it into another box since no one would be by to collect from this
one. Good deed for the day done. But as soon as he started, he stopped. How was
he going to explain to her that he was sleeping in the post box? He might scare
her, and she would for sure report him. He stood on the sidewalk, fumbling with
the envelope in his hands. Then he realized that he could put it in another post
box. There was probably one a few streets over. But, oh… his little home.
Leaving it alone was a risk. What if someone else came along and took it over?
It wouldn't be the first time it had happened. He almost died the last time he
fought over a spot. He didn't want to risk that again and he didn't want to
leave something he had just found. It served his limited needs perfectly. Why
gamble that away? He looked back down the street for
the woman. She had turned a corner somewhere and was gone. It was only him
again. Him and the envelope. It was a piece of paper with some ink on it. None
of his business or concern. He needed to look after his home, to make sure that
he had somewhere to sleep tonight. He needed to take care of himself. As he
decided to crumple up the paper, the writing caught his eye. The woman wrote
like a person who didn’t grow up texting or emailing. This writing was romantic
and elegant. Personal. Much like his auntie’s. His auntie had been a teacher
and only wrote in cursive. She told him that handwriting was a dying, simple
art, and here in his hand, this envelope was hand written. This woman, whoever
she was, had not let her art die. Oh, come on, he thought, don’t
be stupid. It’s just a piece of paper with ink on it. But to someone else,
it was more than that: it was a document filled with words, thoughts, memories and
perhaps hopes that no one but the writer and reader would understand. Perhaps
it was an apology. Or a plea for help. Or just simply a small gesture of nonsense
words, reaching out in hope of escaping mutual loneliness. And though he hated
how much his romanticizing was spinning out of control, he couldn’t help but
think about how people so often wrote down what they felt they couldn’t say out
loud. He flipped the envelope over. The recipient’s last name was the same as
the woman who wrote it. Well, s**t, he thought, and let out a huge sigh
that sounded a bit like a groan. He continued to stare at his involuntary burden. He
fumbled a bit more with it. It didn’t have to be important to him. Just a paper
with some ink. He sighed again, and turned back to his small home, locked it as
securely as possible and set off to find another post box. Two streets over, there was one that
was being emptied. He'd wait until the postman left though. No one would
believe that a person like him had penmanship like this. He might get arrested
for stealing someone's mail. S**t, he didn’t want that, despite the possibility
of being able to sleep stretched out in a warm cell for a night or two. He
waited until the postman went around the corner before he walked up to the post
box. He opened the slot to drop it in, but looked again at his tiny charge. The
more he thought about it, the more he saw the similarities between this woman’s
writing and his aunt’s. It made him think of things he didn't like to think
about. Things that used to make him happy, but now just made him sad. She wrote
him letters all the time when he was little, his auntie. Even though they lived
in the same small town. Letter writing was one of the kindest, most personal
things you could do for someone in this world, she often said. It showed time,
patience and effort. It showed how important you were to someone. A small
labour of love. Then came that horrible day that her letters stopped. After
that, for a few years he received mail--- notifications, flyers, and bills he
couldn’t pay--- but never a letter. And never hand written. A lump formed in his throat at the thought of losing it
to the post office. Things got lost in the mail all the time. Hell, this letter
would have gotten lost if it hadn't been for where he was sleeping at the time.
He had noticed before that the address was here in the city, and he kind of
knew where. He didn't want to lose this to the post office. This piece of paper
with ink on it was too special. For the woman who sent it, and he hoped for the
person who was to receive it. But it was special to him too. With the letter in
hand, he walked further into the city. He needed to find bus routes. He only had a bit of money on him.
He was saving it up for a day when he felt like a cup of coffee or a bit of
soup to warm him, but he spent it on a return ticket. He sat by himself on the
bus. Though it was a busy time of day and crowded, no one wanted to sit next to
him. He didn't mind though: the thought of his letterbox made him stretch out a
little bit more, guilt free. He got off at a stop a few blocks from where the
letter had to go. As he walked, his heart beat a little faster. He wanted to
put it down to the incline of the hill, but he knew it was being somewhere that
he was no longer invisible; he was now very... visible. But he kept
going. Auntie always told him that some things were bigger than one’s self. No
matter how true that was, he fear kept growing. He was in an older part of
town. Rich people weren't tearing things down and building expensive
monstrosities. Not yet, anyway. And thank God. If he was in a rich area, the
police would have been called by now, and he’d be in handcuffs. But this area
seemed kind of rough. Here, he might be able blend in a bit. He saw the house
where the letter needed to go. Now, all he had to do was--- oh s**t, he
thought, how am I going to deliver it? What if it was one of those communal
letterboxes, where you need a special key to get into it? Or a mail slot is in
the door, and someone is home when I put it through the slot? He began to panic. What was he doing
here? Anxiety and fear hit him like a lead brick that had embedded in his
chest. He couldn’t breathe. He spun round, trying to see if people were already
staring at him through their curtains and on the phone, describing him to
dispatchers. The panic made him think of his post box--- his home!--- that he had
left unattended. Someone might be there, someone who wasn't afraid to hurt him
for what they found and he'd abandoned. He had spent most of his money. It took
him about three weeks to find that change, and he spent it all on a damn bus
ticket. He was on a street where the invisible never went. He was in the middle
of a panic attack on a strange street, and for what? This paper isn't from his
auntie; it’s from some woman he doesn't know to another person that he’ll never
meet. All this foolishness over some sentimentality? Screw that piece of paper
with the damn ink! He began to look up and down the street as if at any moment,
he would become swarmed with police. He felt his heartbeat in his fist as he
crumpled the small, folded paper. He was waiting for the sirens and
flashing lights. His head thrummed. His breath refused to pass his
throat and go into his lungs. The thrum turned into a rhythmic
clunking sound. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. He opened his eyes and saw spots. Clunk.
Clunk. Clunk. An old, rusted car passed him and pulled into the driveway of the
house where the letter had to go. The clunking stopped, and a young woman got
out. She struggled with the jammed car seat, trying to get it to go forward
while telling someone to be patient. Finally, after putting her whole body into
it, the seat gave way and out came a small child. His clothes looked new. Her's
did not. He looked like he didn't have a care in the world; she looked like she
carried them all for the both of them. As the small boy ran around the yard,
she closed the door and went round to the trunk. She tried to open it, but it
was stuck. Frustrated, she kicked it. The latch gave over and opened, only for
her groceries to fall out. In that moment, she had the same look as the woman
who wrote the letter: exhausted and defeated. He didn’t even register that his
panic was gone. He just knew. Somethings are bigger than the individual.
Without hesitation, letter in hand, he crossed the street and was picking up
oranges. The young woman stood straight up with a look somewhere between shock
and fear. “Can I help you with your bags,
Miss?” She was quiet for a moment, unsure
of what to say. Then--- “No. Thank you. My dad--- and my
husband--- are inside. They can help me. Thank you, though.” He doubted that there was anyone
inside, but he understood that she was nervous. You and me both, he
thought to himself. They stared at each other awkwardly, her, silent with fear, him, silent for fear but also guilt from having scared her. They stood in silence until something caught
her eye. “Carter!” The young woman took off after her son, who was already
half way down the street. The man let out his breath, took out the letter, and
smiled tenderly at it. Time to say goodbye. By the time she had turned back
around, the man was gone. She looked up and down the street just to make sure.
And once she hustled her son and the groceries inside, she firmly locked the
door behind her. She was sorting through the bags, cursing under her breathe.
He had probably taken something while her back was turned… and then she spotted
it. A little paper with some ink. Ink in the shape of her mother’s
writing. Hands shaking, she opened the
envelope she didn’t ask for but had wanted for some time now. She cried as she
read the letter over and over, soaking in the words. She continued to cry when,
for the first time in a long time, she phoned her mother. They talked about
everything and nothing, and the strange way the letter had come into her
possession. Her mother assured her that she had put the letter in a post box.
The daughter assured her that it wasn’t a postman who had delivered it. That night, the mother returned to
the post box, intent on finding some sort of clue as to who delivered the
letter. The streets were abandoned, except for a homeless man carrying his
cardboard up the street. But when she got to the box, she found that the mail
slot had been sealed with tape, and the box was locked shut, as if no one had
ever been there. © 2023 Chrissie MuldoonFeatured Review
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StatsAuthorChrissie MuldoonBelfast, Down, United KingdomAboutHI! I'm a Canadian who is living in Northern Ireland with my equally Northern Irish husband :) I'm a theatre school graduate with a diploma in acting and playwriting, and currently work as an online E.. more..Writing
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