Michael stood at the mailbox, bills in one hand, the letter in the other. He stared at it. There was no return address, but he’d know that writing anywhere.
Mitsy was dead; two years, seven months, two weeks and 4 days dead.
Yes, he counted.
Would he open it?
Why would he do that?
“All this time, it’s been in the dead letter file?” he asked, and barked bewildered laughter.
He sat at the table and slid a note from the envelope. It was covered in bright red lipstick kisses.
One the back, red ink declared “Wish you were here.”
About the Creator
Paula Shablo
Daughter. Sister. Mother. Grandma. Author. Artist. Caregiver. Musician. Geek.
(Order fluctuates.)
Follow my blog at http://paulashablo.com
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More stories from Paula Shablo and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Final Call
She flings her arms around my neck and squeezes me like she’s never going to let me go. My head spins as her lips brush against my cheek. She must be able to feel my heart thumping in my chest. I shuffle backwards and ram my hands into my coat pockets, watching her reach down and heave the rucksack across her shoulders.
By Caroline Craven3 days ago in Fiction
A Digital Pandemic.
After a long day in the department, Emily dropped her worn and tired dark leather bag on the counter before navigating through the small and disordered kitchen to grab a cold beer from a contrarily empty fridge. She hadn't had a chance to unpack since moving from Newcastle to Glasgow, let alone shop for sustenance, except for cold brews naturally.
By Billie Whyte7 days ago in Chapters
Comments (1)
Horrific!!! Left some love!!!