No Return Address

 

A quiet psychological story about an elderly woman, an unwanted letter, and how fear can take over a life without ever raising its voice.

 

The letter had been in her box for two days. The mailbox had tilted dangerously under the burden of an enormous jasmine vine, and time had left it to suffer rust. She had seen the envelope lying in there, trying to look unassuming. It had been there again yesterday.

Still.

Quiet.

Waiting.

She cussed colorfully for an old lady, a lot like a sailor, her late husband had once said. When you want the goddamn postal thieves to steal mail, they are nowhere to be found. She left it one more day, hopeful.

A knock on her door pulled her off the sofa. Slippers, shuffling slowly, she braced on the door frame, pulling the heavy door open only as far as the chain allowed. A fresh-faced mailman handed the day's mail to her through the door slit, “Hey, Mrs. Cooper, I thought you might want this mail. You okay?”

“Yes, if it's any of your business,” she muttered, “You always go around personally handing people their mail?”

“Only the ones I care about,” he offered, saluting her as he turned to leave.

“Take this one back,” she hastily called out to him.

“No can do,” he eyed her raised brow, and added, “No return address.”

She eyed the letter spitefully, recognizing with certainty now the rolling script she had seen once long ago. The envelope was old, tattered, and worn-looking, like it had a hell of a time reaching her mailbox. For a moment, she wavered, then tossed it into the desk trash can, as if that alone might stop her life from changing.

“Why can’t an old lady just be left in peace?” she ranted, to no one, aiming a kick at the trash can. She felt faint for a moment, and her heart stuttered until she breathed again.

A week went by. Then another.

She had not emptied the trash, but stared at it from the sofa. It had made her miss parts of her favorite shows, until she couldn’t follow them, so she had moved the trash can a bit farther out of sight. Somewhat mollified that the letter was still in there, unable to magic itself free. But she hadn’t slept well. In her dreams, the letter was everywhere, on the mantel, on the bathroom sink, the kitchen counter by the coffee pot, and worse, on the empty pillow beside her. Almost every night, she got up, put on her robe and slippers, and peeked into the trash to see if it was really still there.

It was.

When she had to leave the house, which was rare, the first thing she did when she came in was check the trash.

It was still there.

It became almost impossible to get anything done. She’d make breakfast, clean up the counters, and then find excuses to pass by the trash can all day. Sometimes she went into the other room, picked up something random, and passed by the can. Pursing her lips, she’d glance away, letting it know she wasn’t interested.

Even on occasion, she added a piece of discarded junk mail on top of it with satisfaction.

She had even turned down bingo night.

She skipped her hair appointment, her usual grocery store run, and even her friend's retirement party.

Her friends called. “She was fine. She was too busy. Possibly sick. Too tired.” She stopped picking up.

Finally, she moved the can back to its previous spot in clear view of the sofa and left the TV off.

The old clock ticked, the refrigerator hummed, and the house creaked.

The letter sat in the can.

Her hair by this time had exploded into a profusion of tangled gray curls. She couldn’t concentrate on makeup or wardrobe selection, so the robe and slippers were what she wore every day.

Her daily crossword puzzle went by the wayside every time she tried to write in the answer she was spelling—l-e-t-t-e-r—no matter what the question.

There were some things she had to do, like pay bills, to keep the electricity on, cook something, so she didn’t starve, but the whole time she kept glancing at the can going by and checking to see if the letter was still there.

She had a quarter and decided to flip it heads or tails. Heads, she’d open the letter. She tossed the quarter. Of course, she thought, it came up Heads. She threw the quarter in the can beside the letter.

Finally, there was nothing in the house she wanted to eat. Her prescriptions had been filled days ago; if she didn’t pick them up, the pharmacy threatened to re-shelf them. She had stayed in her robe for so long that real clothes felt alien.

There was no fixing her hair, so she stuffed most of the rat-nest curls under a beanie hat.

And then she paced.

Every time she got to the door, she backtracked to the trash can, her heart beating faster, sweat beading on her upper lip, and she felt faint at the thought of leaving it.

It was ridiculous. She knew it.

Her mind had been worn out from the scenarios, playing on an endless loop.  She had woken many nights feeling herself slitting the envelope open with her fingers, pulling the letter out in her dreams. Or seeing herself put it in the freezer, as if that could undo the damage. Or into the trunk of the car, out of reach, but no, that was too far away. Maybe she could bury it in the backyard. Burn it even— on the stove top.

In the end, it stayed in the trash can, as she hurried out the door on her errand. She didn’t look back at the house, knowing better than to test herself. Some things only had power if you gave them your attention, and she had almost drowned under the letter's spell.

Twenty minutes later, her scheduled housekeeper came and did the usual chores, leaving the house sparkling.

When Mrs. Cooper returned, the house carried the scent of lemon cleaner. The counters gleamed. The floors had been vacuumed.

She stood very still in the doorway, clutching the grocery bag to her chest, keys dangling from her fingers. The refrigerator kicked on, humming in the quiet.

She released a long breath, eyes sliding to the empty trash can. A sense of loss and disorientation—then relief—in her exhale.

 

Acknowledgment to Reedsy.com for providing the prompt:

“https://reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/author/boni-woodland/”

 contest #335, which inspired the story.

 https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/

 

 

The Yellow Number 2

              An ordinary pencil, a weary writer, and a bit of unexpected enchantment collided one winter night. 

As if things couldn’t get any worse, some friends from work had sent more presents home with me. The unwritten rule was to return the favor, right? Great… Now I have to go out and find presents for them. Go out in the snow, fight the crowds, and oh god, the parking!  And then there were those people with their perpetually happy faces frozen into smiles that must have hurt by the end of the day, and all those dang “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmases they sling around! And don’t even get me started on the store music, how many times do we have to hear Jingle Bells!

Take this gift, for instance. I just opened the box, and it's a pencil— can you believe it? Somebody sent me a pencil. It’s not even a fancy one where you click and a lead comes out. It’s just a yellow number 2 pencil with a regular eraser and a pointed end. I guess they thought that because I’m trying to be a writer, it wouldn’t hurt to have another pencil.

I tossed it on the desk, feeling just a bit guilty. I did feel grateful. Mostly. But my gratitude was stretched thin, like the tinsel on my plastic tree. It’s just one more thing.

Where was my holiday spirit? It had fizzled out like the Christmas lights when I plugged them in.

I picked the pencil up again to read the lettering on the side: "Enchanted Writes." I laughed. I could use a bit of enchantment. I needed a fairy tale; I needed a good fairy tale story before Friday.

I set the pencil down a bit more gently and checked for a card. A sticker on the box side said: “For your Holiday Spirit. S.N.”

I snorted, trying to imagine which friend thought this was a good idea. Did I even know a S.N?

I did a quick tally of my bank balance. It was already suffering. Christmas had a way of making me feel inadequate.

I grabbed my wallet and keys, flipped off the lights, and thought of all the other pressing Christmas chores to do as I left the apartment.

Meanwhile, in the dark, the yellow pencil rolled quickly across the desk, banged into a stack of books, and flipped onto its pointed end. Its red eraser split into a wide grin as it point-hopped to a large, open notebook and began writing on the blank page in large, looping script.

             Alone in the dark, it wrote:

Once upon a time, there was a peculiar forest that everyone knew could not be entered. Hordes of ticks lingered at its edges, ready to greet unsuspecting hikers. Poison oak could present itself suddenly everywhere, even out of season.

The scratching sound the pencil made swallowed the apartment's silence, and would have raised hairs on the back of anyone's neck, had they been there.

Much later…

Three flights of stairs, arms full of bags, my last bit of patience evaporated just as I came home, flipped on the lights, and dumped the purchases on the drooping sofa. My eyes flicked to the unopened wine. If I started with that, I’d never get a story written— the deadline already a weight on my chest.

The writing desk was my pride and joy. Yes, it was a put-together IKEA piece, but it held the heart of my life. All the things that made my writing hand tingle and twitch, ready to write, sat there—my favorite stack of writing-help books, my piles of papers, and the oversized metal snail paperweight. My eyes traveled over it, pulling a grin to my face, which froze when my eyes snagged on my once pristine writing journal next to it. I had left it open to crisp, empty white pages, waiting for my words. But someone had got there first! Thick spidery words filled the first page and the next, and the next! Quickly, I began to read; it was a story I had in my mind, but had never written.

How in the world? How could this happen? Was I losing my mind? I felt instant fear, then switched to indignation. How dare someone write this without my permission!  I called out, “Who did this?” instantly feeling foolish.

The pencil box on the desk rattled. I’m sure my eyes widened as I stared at it. It continued to rattle until the lid popped open, and that Yellow Number 2 rolled itself upright on my desk. It point-hopped to the nearest page and wrote "ME" in a looping script.

I went looking for the wine opener.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ah— Yellow Pencil, sir— that is not the story I’m writing!” I scolded the pencil.

“What I mean is it's not your story to write, who said you could get into my mind, my stuff— and why am I talking to a pencil!” I waved my hands expressively.

It began writing again, but I snatched the notebook away, wine opener in one hand, “We are not doing this!”

I erased the first lines of the story, and heard scratching, looked down, and saw the pencil writing on yet another piece of paper on the desk:

"Once upon a time,"

I scribbled over it: “No Forest, no bugs!”

The pencil leaned back and took me in. It eased around my hand and scribbled quickly again:

“Mushroom fruits popped up from the leafy forest floor like submarine periscopes to check out what there was to see.”

“Not that line,” I practically screeched, “That was one of my best sentences!”

I went looking for a glass, glaring back at the Pencil, “Break a lead, or something. I have to write a real story! With you know, witches and unicorns, magic fairy tale stuff.”

I could hear the pencil scribbling madly as I popped the cork and shouted, “Knock yourself out—I don’t have a pencil sharpener!”

Which was a lie, I did.

“I want it to say in a land far, far away, and end with happily ever after,” I snapped.

 Also, a lie.

Back at the desk, I eased into my chair, sipping wine. The pencil paused as if thinking, a grin cracked across its eraser, and it scribbled even faster.

“What, what are you writing now?” I reached for the paper, but the pencil slapped at my fingers, like a teacher’s ruler.

I quickly snatched every available piece of paper off the desk, hugging them to my chest.  That darn pencil looked up at me, leaned backwards, an open “O” mouth shape in its eraser, and then started scribbling madly on the desk top itself!

“Wait, wait, stop!” I shouted, “Not the desk, please! OK, I’ll look at what you have.” It stopped mid-scribbling and looked at me attentively.

I sorted the pages and found its latest scribble at the top of the page; it said, "Merry Christmas list.”

“Oh God, not you too, I moaned dispiritedly.

Then read: Item 1: Apartment C4 needs a new apron. Use the last white elephant gift from last year, still with its tag, in your closet.

“What?” I whispered and slowly stood to check the closet, and indeed, there was the apron. I glanced down at the paper again.

Item 2: Apartment E15 desperately needs a big bag of kitty litter. Get it from the corner market. In parentheses, (she can’t carry it up the stairs, broken hip) was added.

I looked at the pencil with growing wonder. I swear its eraser was cocked to the side, as if it was saying, "Well, get going."

That yellow number two had a simple list right from my own apartment building, neighbors I hadn’t spoken to or seen in a while, if ever. I sipped wine as we began to collaborate, feeling excitement build. It felt so different knowing I could make a difference in someone’s life rather than just giving an obligatory gift.

We made plans together and discussed what I could afford and how to go about it until I fell asleep at the desk, my head on my arms, and the pencil nestled in my hair behind my ear.

By morning, I bravely and expertly traversed the Christmas terrain of town once more. I even heard myself humming along with Jingle Bells and shook my head. What had gotten into me? But I smiled a broad, genuine grin, feeling warmth in my chest. Yes, my cheeks ached just a bit, and I smiled even more.

I had dropped off the wrapped apron gift earlier on my way out. A rush of warm, sourdough scent had wafted out of the apartment when a flour-covered young woman gazed at me wonderingly from her doorway. "It's just an apron,” I had said by way of introduction. “I am your neighbor in C7,” I added lamely.

She had thrown herself at me, squeezing me in a serious hug, tearing open the package, and exclaiming, "Oh my, it's just like the one my granny used to have! Where did you ever find it!”

That had started my smile.

By the end of the day, I had found a loaf of warm bread in a bag outside my door, and inside on the desk, my fairy tale story sat finished. The one in my head I didn’t think was good enough, written in that looping script. The pencil lay still and quiet beside it.

For once, I felt happy, really, happy. I pulled out more wrapping paper and tape and started in, humming along with I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas playing loudly from Apartment C5.

Acknowledgment to Reedsy.com for providing the prompt:

"Write a story that includes the phrase “once upon a time…”, “in a land far, far away…”, or “happily ever after…”

contest #334, which inspired the story.

https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/