Young Writers Society

Snow blankets concealed the Rook's lawn, hiding away the unkept, October leaves that scattered in every direction. The morning air strung at Matthew Rook's vulnerable face, flaring a burning color within his cheeks as he pulled his jacket closer to his body to calm the trembling. His feet dragged him begrudgingly across the slippery, ice ensnared concrete and over to the mailbox, which was drenched in snow as well. It looked as though the box itself would snap completely off the post if Matthew had accidentally brushed his hand against it the wrong way. One swipe to the right and...

Whack!

Matthew's head turned as a snap broke through his thoughts and branded the noise into his ears. His eyes raced to notice the big maple tree that had resided peacefully next to his home for twenty years had now lost a branch. It was the size that, had Matthew slipped by some coincidence of an ever cruel universe, it was possible that he would have been murdered by a tree branch because his clumsiness stalled his journey and had caused his ever approaching demise. But by some miracle of convenance, his boots beat the friction and he managed to smoothly make his way over to safety.

In this moment he had questioned whether or not he had wanted to be saved by the coincidences of the universe, as far as he knew another version of him was dead.

Or was eating a unique dish near the equator where the damn cold wasn't stinging his bare flesh and forcing his body to go into a trembling panic. But he didn't really care to know. He just knew that he was still suffering in the cold. And he just wanted to go back inside to the bickering of his parents as the mere idea of him being rejected from college after college was something that would ruin their lives and not his. He much preferred the screaming and rage to the punctures of freezing cold temperatures. It wasn't as if he was already rejected, he just knew within the cynical mind of his that he was going to be accepted. He hadn't many activities outside of school, his grades were poor due to procrastination and his utter careless personality, but not to mention the essays. Oh, the essays would seal the deal on his horribleness.

He didn't tend to write pretty things. Not to say Matthew didn't know how to write. He would inscribe poems into the lucky pages of paper that would be chosen for him to scribble upon. He would mimic Shakespeare, Aesop and Grimm, but in reality that is where the problem did lie. He wrote the longest essay that was recorded to date on his own record, being over eight pages. Simply, it was about death. Not the beauty of it, how God only chose the most beautiful of flowers from His garden, or how life would give presents of love to death, he wrote about the anguish and about his fascination with it.

It started with Mister Berks. Mister Berks could be described as many things, a ghoul, a freak, the boogieman to some. Matthew saw him as a Darwin, or as a Newton or Mendel or, dare it be said, Madam Currie. Berks was something that Matthew not only admired, but aspired to be. He showed Matthew his first cat stomach when Matthew had gone in for anatomy research. Unlike many of the common reactions to a severed cat organ, Matthew was intoxicated by the mere appearance of the filleted tissue. Mister Berks, being the only available scientist within the small town, was a gem hidden by layers and layers of dirt and on the surface sociopathic like tendencies.

Mister Berks, like all living things Matthew would ever grow to love or cherish, died at the ripe old age of thirty nine. He died on September 23rd, at the hands of a drunken, teenage driver who had swung his car directly into Berk as he crossed the street to arrive at his seven thirty appointment with what witnesses could only describe as, the lady of his night. Fractured skull, fractured ribs and several broken bones Berks had suffered from. He died after two hours in the hospital, while the driver of the car simply vanished from the scene and was never to be spoken of again.

Of course, Matthew never forgot, never forgave and never relented on his fascination and anger with the death of his mentor. If Matthew could ever had a mentor.

The cold stabbed again at Matthew's cheeks, shaming him with a rosy pink color. He hated the feeling of fresh air against his face. If he could, he would breathe stale oxygen for the rest of his mundane life. In his thoughts about how oxygen was literally lighting his energy productions on fire, he had realized something. He forgot what he had come out for. Not that was uncommon, Matthew constantly forgot where he was, what he was doing, and sometimes the scariest thing of them all, who he was. Not the metaphorical ideals of inside emotions and how to comprehend them into being your own, special little person, but the actual being. He could forget his name, age, body type, or even basic memory if he stood out long enough. Sometimes he wished he could just forget entirely.

But his mind raged on and so did his stride. He brushed his hand against the mailbox gently as to prevent the most miniature avalanche in all of his town's history. Once he hand a good handle on the handle, he pried open the mailbox. He was surprised, however, by another snap, and ended up popping the cover too rapidly, which allowed the snow on top to trample over his jeans.

"Oh fu-" He had been cut off from his loud proclamation as his eyes caught sight of something within the container. Generally the Rook's mailbox was empty, the townsfolk did not have any kind words they wished to write to the family. Matthew expected it was because his parents were always bitterly fighting and were not very welcoming. Matthew also figured it might have been because his room constantly smelled of embalming fluid from when he dissected and stuffed dead animals. Of course, he didn't let that last one linger in his mind. It wasn't like he killed the animals. He would find them as roadkill or products of predators that stalk innocent rabbits in the night. Besides, Mister Berks had done it all the time and told Matthew how to do it, so it couldn't have been all bad.

Despite the oddities of the Rook home, here laid an envelope, wrapped up in delicate blue string. It reminded Matthew vaguely of Mister Berks. He loved to cross stitch. Matthew remembered that he had the phrase "Mortuary sweet Mortuary" stitched up in pretty blue on the front door of his house. Besides being the only cooky scientist in the town, he was also heavily involved in funeral arrangements. Berks was always gentle when it came to death.

Matthew forced his thoughts away. He couldn't bare to think of the dead friend for much longer than a few minutes. This time it wasn't the cold that made his body shake.

He delicately reached for the envelope, his fingers gently grasping at the material before pulling it towards him. Matthew Rook was written upon the envelope, in a gentle blue cursive. He felt his heart catch in his throat. The blue ink brought back many memories in a sudden flood. The only A he had ever received in his high school career was in blue ink. It was given to him by Mister Berks, and could Matthew ever remember his smile.

His fingertips cautiously pried at the string until it undid itself in one swift movement. He then went to open the envelope, hands maneuvering themselves eagerly to get their hands onto the message. He had realized for the first time that there was no home address on the envelope, and there was no return address either. He did not let that fact bother him as he grasped within his hands the first letter that had ever been written to him. He felt as though he was holding the smallest newborn baby within his hands, and he nearly cradled the paper in his hands as he attempted to keep all crinkles and blemishes from the precious letter.

He unfolded the parchment after admiring it for a moment of his lifetime, then let his eyes drift across the writing. Simply, these words were inscribed

Dear Matthew Silas Rook,

It is a pleasure to be writing to you! I know we have not spoken in several months and I apologize sincerely for not getting to you sooner my dear boy. I know it has hurt you greatly that you feel alone, especially since I have left the premise of the neighborhood. But I just wish to give you special Christmas regards that you, Matthew, are in fact not alone, nor have to fear rejection. Rejection comes as it will, but it will make you stronger and even more determined than the previous rejection.

I should know. I have had it several times to me, and look at me! I am fantastic! Even as I am gone, I still feel the need to share my glory with you. You who needs a little positivity, who needs a small light in a world of darkness. Do not focus on dead creatures Matthew, as fascinating as they are, they are no where near as intriguing as the living. There is good and there is bad, and sometimes it is good to lie somewhere between the two, as most humans do.

Relax Matt. Have a Merry Christmas! Or Hanukkah, whatever you Rook's celebrate. Perhaps just a pagan holiday or sacrificial day for the lambs. Either way, find some time to breath Matthew. Feel free to respond too! Just leave a letter in the box and I promise I will get back to you as soon as I can!

Love Cornelius Berks.

Matthew's eyes grew in confusion and he let the letter drift from his hands onto the cold ground below. This had to have been some sort of cruel joke that the neighbors were playing on him. Who could have it been? Quincy Bower, the jock who possessed more narcism than your typical high school bully with mama issues? Or perhaps George Hitchcock, the cruel stoner who would threaten to roll you in a blanket and light you so he could smoke you? Yet the letter was clearly written in Mister Berks handwriting, and a scream erupted through Matthew as the sudden realization hit him in his gut. He had just received a letter from his dead teacher, and was advised to send one back.

He stopped his horrific yells of panic before the next door neighbors could hear, or more importantly, his screeching parents. He cautiously got to his knees to retrieve the letter. As he reread the blue writings over and over again sudden tears stung at his eyes. Who could be so cruel to be playing him like this? He forced himself to calm his emotional outburst, and he dragged his pointer finger across the first sentence, and then the second, as though touching the words would somehow bring him closer to his beloved science teacher.

He feared the worse. The letter was nothing more than a cruel joke. That is all it had to be. Someone just had to slip the letter into the mailbox...It made sense to Matthew. Everyone did know about how Matthew revered Berks, and how Berks in return saw Matthew as a sort of protege. Yet how could someone be so vile as to condemn their friendship in this moment of his life? Three months after his death, and two days before Christmas?