Letters from your Mailman

Trevos was a sunshiny place that morning. Our mailman in question, named Mo, was skipping down the sidewalk, his mailbag slung over his shoulder, the letters and parcels inside making crackling paper noises.

He stopped at Mrs. Fernwood’s and dropped a few white smudged envelopes into her slot. Next was Mrs. Hemmingway, then the Douglouses. Another two blocks and he’d be done for the day.

But why didn‘t our mailman drive his little car with the post emblem painted on the side? His motto really explains it best; ‘Where you can walk don’t ride.’ Accept he walked as little as possible, Mo preferred skipping. It’s really quite funny to see a twenty-something mailman skipping down the street, but it was normal for the residents of Trevos, they saw it every morning.

3 Hemmingway was right across the street. There where three letters and a postcard due to be delivered that morning. But as Mo stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street his mind was absorbed into a different place. His breath slowed, and his eyes glanced at the sky, into an oblivious stare. His body was forgotten on the corner of Dillmont Avenue as his mind traveled a few thousand miles away.

A girl sat on the porch of a modern house, in the middle of a suburban neighborhood. She was about thirteen and was watching a toddler play in the grass, dressed in a little peach jumpsuit. The girl, who was the tot’s sister, had a frown on her face and was looking off down the street at boys bicycling around, honking the horns attached to the handlebars. One boy, who’s name I will disclose (but I know who you are!), was riding his sister’s pink Barbie bike. The toddler goo-gooed and laughed at butterflies.

Walking down the opposite side of the street was a woman. She watched the boys with an unconcerned gaze. She saw the baby, but kept walking when she glanced up to see the girl. Mo knew what she was planning. He knew the woman’s name, where she lived, what she was thinking.

The girl jumped up from the porch and ran inside the house. Just what the woman could only hope for. She crossed the street to the unwatched baby.

Where was that girl? Mo couldn’t think clearly, the woman’s mind was stronger than his.

“Hello, darling.” she said smoothly to the baby.

The boys on the bikes didn’t notice. The baby looked at the big shiny sun glasses perched on her nose and drooled.

“You like these? Would you like them, darling?” the woman took her sun glasses off and put them on the child. “So cute.” she murmured.

She picked up the baby. “Would you like to come with me?”

Stupid girl.

“Hey, she ain’t yours.” said one of the bike boys, skidding to a stop in front of the woman.

“Oh, you’re so cute, what’s your name?” the woman asked the boy, starting to walk away.

“She ain’t yours…” he said again, pedaling along side her, only taking his eyes off the toddler for a moment to gaze into the big brown eyes of the woman. Right into Mo, it felt. The woman blinked, dazed for a moment, but recovered quickly.

“Darling, I’m her aunt.” she said smoothly.

“Oh…” said the boy, almost stumbling on his bike.

“Well, I’m just taking her for a walk, we’re going to the park.” said the woman.

“Oh,” said the boy again. “You’re Tammy’s aunt?”

“Why of course.” said the woman briskly. She smiled. “But I call her bumble bee.”

A horn blew into Mo’s ear. He stepped down onto the pavement, his eyes adjusting back to his mail route.

“Mo, watch where you’re going! I almost ran you over!” called someone from their car as it sped past him.

Everyone knew Mo’s name. The town wasn’t that big and the people always remember skipping mailmen who fall into traces every once in the while.

“Sorry…” muttered Mo under his breath. It was queer, but he often had these “flashes” while crossing the road. Maybe he wasn’t suppose to see this stuff. Maybe some mighty power in charge of unnatural ability cases wanted him hit by a car.

What was that suppose to mean, then? he thought as he stuffed a the letters through the mail slot in the door of 3 Hemmingway.

At the next house he heard a dog scurry to the door and yip in an angry voice. Oscar the dachshund lived at this house, and he hated mail with all his short being.

Mo slid the letters through the slot.

He had asked Mrs. Williams multiple times if she wanted him to put her mail into the box next to her door, but no, she said she wanted her mail through the slot like any normal person. When he said he knew the dog ruined her mail she frowned and exclaimed that Oscar certainly did not destroy mail, that he was a perfectly calm, reasonable dog. He would never rip up mail! But as Mo slipped the letters through the slot he heard Oscar’s jumping, growling, ripping.

He could see the little dog in his head - he had actually seen through the dog’s eyes before, jumping around, ripping Mrs. Williams’s mother’s letter to shreds, rolling in the paper and then trotting into the blue carpeted den, wagging his tail, delighted with himself.

Mr. Williams called through the house to his wife, “Your darn dog shredded the mail again!” and then the sound of Mrs. Williams scurrying down the stairs.

“Oh dear!” she cries. Oscar lays there on his doggie bed, wagging his whip-like tail.

“What is it Martha? Did the idiot destroy any of my mail?”

“Oh no -- you don’t have any mail, Dear,” says Mrs. Williams “It’s a letter from Mother! Oh dear…”

And now Mr. Williams smiles and glances down at the dog.

“Good job, boy. That wench mother-in-law was probably just trying to get herself down here for a visit.” he mutters, and goes back to his paper which he always walks to the end of the block to get each morning. He makes a point that it’s never delivered.

While practising for Word Wars (which I found I'm quite bad at) I wrote this, about a mailman charater I've been toying with. I'm not really sure what to do with it, possibly I'll post more if anyone wants to read it. :3