Logan and the Mailbox.

Logan was trying his best to keep from shuffling his feet on the cement, but it was proving pretty difficult to walk and write at the same time. The street was so quiet, apart from Logan’s scrrraaaaape pffffffttttt scraaaaaape-ing of his winter boots, and the quiet made it the best place in town to do his writing. His little black notebook was balanced in his palm and hugged tight to his chest, while his other hand gripped a weathered pencil and scratched onto paper the greatest story ever told in a little black book. Quite possibly, this would be the greatest story ever told in any little book, even little red books and blue books.

Logan slammed his fist into the walk button at the crosswalk and paused to read what he had so far; it was excellent. Another walk home filled with only the best writing by a fifth grader anyone was going to read. Ever. This story would be ten times better than Ben Foreman’s story. Ben’s story was a story that he wrote in a little blue book, and won some stupid writing contest with, and now that little blue book story is apparently published, so everyone thinks he’s brilliant. Logan had never read Ben’s story, and he didn’t need to: he knew that his little black book held the greatest story ever told.

“Walk! Walk! Walk!” chirped the stop light. Logan shuddered at the thought of his mortal enemy before loping across the street. He spoke in a low growl from behind his teeth. “I’m going to win this one, Ben.” Logan wouldn’t have cared at all about the writing contest if it weren’t Ben who was the current champion, but someone had to take Ben down a peg. Ben already won at everything, and it was annoying that now writing was just another thing he was good at. Ben was picked first for tee ball, he always won the spelling bee, and the lunch lady even saved him the biggest dessert squares every day. She’s not even his aunt or family friend or anything, Ben just wins at lunch, too. Last week when the school announced the big important award ceremony for Ben’s blue book, they also announced that another contest, just like the one that Ben entered, was now open for submissions. Logan knew what he had to do: everything Ben did, but better and cooler.

With all of his satisfying stewing about stupid Ben, Logan realized he had no longer been writing as he walked. Not only had he not been writing, but he hadn’t really been looking where he was going, and he’d strutted clear past his block. Logan spun on his heels to head home, when suddenly, he heard a voice.

“Congratulations!”

Logan scanned the street for the source of the voice, but there wasn’t a soul around. In fact, all that was around was a plain old mail box.

“You’ve just won $20,000!”

The city mailbox flapped it’s mail slot as if it were a muppet. It was a talking mailbox. Logan frowned and looked around for clues. “What a weird and... impressively planned prank,” he puzzled. “I don’t know how these sixth graders come up with this stuff!”

The mailbox flapped again, “just press on box 10 to claim your prize!”

Logan rolled his eyes, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out his little black book. He began to scratch down the peculiar situation to add to his story. Maybe in Logan’s story, the talking mailbox would be a robot cop, or an alien leader in disguise. One thing was for sure: Logan had been pranked enough to know that if something seems too good, it’s because it was. Box 10 likely contained something sticky, or smelly, or both, and a camera to capture his humiliation. It wasn’t happening— Logan knew better.

“I’m not an idiot, ‘Mr. Mailbox’! But hopefully you find an idiot real soon so your prank works out! Take care!” Logan snapped his little black book shut and hurried home: if he wolfed down his supper he may have some time to write more before homework and bed.

Logan came home just in time to wash up and help set the table for dinner. His mom stood over the stove with her cell phone pressed between her shoulder and ear, smiling at Logan and mouthing, “hi!” Logan gave an exaggerated smile and wave back, trying to get a laugh out of her. She widened her eyes and handed Logan a stack of plates before she went back to arguing with her colleague about boring money stuff. Logan set each plate in front of each chair and glided into the living room to say hi to his dad, who was tinkering with a broken remote on the coffee table.

“Hey, dad.”

“Afternoon, Log. How was school?”

Logan shrugged. “Nothing to mention.”

His dad looked up from his tinkering. “And the writing?”

“Brilliant.” Logan said with a grin. Dad grinned back and gave a wink. He picked up his screw driver and went back to his remote project.

“Speaking of,” his Dad said, gesturing to the television, “isn’t that the kid who won the last writing contest? He found $20,000 today.”

Logan felt a pit in his stomach. No, it wasn’t a pit: it was more like a black hole. He cringed as he rotated to face the screen. The big red ticker streaming across the bottom read:

LOCAL BOY WINS RANDOM $20,000 IN A MAILBOX.

And there, smug as could be, with a ridiculous amount of cash and a large, enthusiastic crowd on his lawn, stood Ben Foreman. He was being interviewed by Carl from Channel 6 News. Carl was waving a microphone around and staring into the camera.

“So here he is, the big winner himself, Ben! How does it feel to literally never stop winning?”

Ben chuckled from his throat like a wealthy murderer. “Ah, Carl, I don’t know what to say. It just feels right.”

The crowd roared with laughter. Carl patted Ben on the back and continued. “Terrific! One more time for the folks at home just tuning in: tell us how you stumbled upon this incredible prize!”

The anchor excitedly shoved the microphone in Ben’s face, which Ben pried from his hand. He leaned on his front porch railing looking out at the crowd, like a stupid jerk would.

“With pleasure, Carl. I was simply walking home from school when I heard someone, or as I would soon learn, someTHING, say, ‘Congratulations!’ I’m pretty used to being congratulated for being so amazing, so I turned around to thank an adoring fan, only to see no one was there! All that was there was the city mailbox I pass every day, but then I saw it flapping it’s mail slot open and shut as I heard, ‘You’ve just won $20,000! Just press on Box 10 to claim your prize!’ Now, no one pranks me because I am such a beloved member of this community, so I knew it must just be my lucky day. I pressed on Box 10, and I was showered in these bundles of cash!”

Logan was steaming from the ears. “I SAW THAT FRICKIN MAILBOX FIRST!” he roared. “IT WASN’T MEANT FOR BEN— IT WAS MEANT FOR ME BUT I THOUGHT IT WAS A PRANK AND I WALKED AWAY!”

Logan ripped his little black book out of his back pocket and opened it to his page of scribbles about the talking mailbox. He shoved it in his dad’s eyes.

“SEE?! I EVEN WROTE ABOUT IT WHEN IT HAPPENED!”

Logan’s dad leaned back and gently pulled his nose out of the little black book to read it. He stared at Logan blankly.

“You’re telling me that you walked by a mailbox that offered you $20,000 and you just.... walked away?”

Logan tugged at his hair and groaned. “DAD! I thought it was a prank! I thought I’d be covered in slime or confetti or farts or something! I didn’t want to be the next viral fail video or something! Plus: who just gives out $20,000?!”

Logan’s dad squinted, closed the little black book and handed it back.

“I don’t know, Logan. Maybe the same type of person who walks away from $20,000? Both are crazy, but one is sure crazier to me.”

Logan crept backward, staring at his dad, who stared at his screwdriver. He spoke in that growl behind his teeth again. “Are you saying that Ben DESERVES this win?”

Logan’s dad spoke calmly. “I’m just saying— if you walked away, it was fair game. You could try to prove you saw it first I guess, but I—“

Logan’s dad looked up to meet his son’s icy stare, but only saw the screen door ricocheting shut.

Logan sprinted down the street holding his little black book above his head like a trophy. He whirred past the mailbox, now empty and silent, and panted as he rounded the corner for Ben’s street. The crowd was still there ooh-ing and ahh-ing, Carl was still there wishing Ben would give his microphone back, and now Logan would burst onto the scene to claim what was rightfully his. He reached the sidewalk behind the crowd, screeched to a halt, and screamed, “I SAW IT FIRST!”

The crowd gasped. Channel 6 cameras whipped around to show a breathless Logan doubled over on the sidewalk attempting to catch his breath. Carl ripped his microphone from Ben’s sweaty little hands as he stared at Logan in disbelief.

“It appears another fifth grader has approached Ben’s home! He is very angry and not good at running!”

Logan stood up straight to address the crowd. “I saw that mailbox first, and that money should be mine. You already win everything, Ben!” He put his hands on his hips, gasped for air, and then hoisted his book into the air to continue.

“I once thought that this little black book held the key to my success in this year’s writing contest, but now I see what it really holds. THE TRUTH! Which is the proof that I deserve that $20,000! I can show you!”

The crowd gasped... again. Ben smiled softly, but it was an evil soft smile. The type of smile that you just know means, “I’m a huge jerk”.

“Alright then, Logan.” Ben sang. “If you’ve got the proof in that little black book, give it here. I’ll read it out loud and the crowd can decide. I want to be fair, of course!”

“Awwww!” the crowd cooed. Logan rolled his eyes.

“Fine! Here!” Logan hurled the little black book toward Ben’s porch. It fell about 6 feet short of the porch... and 6 feet to the left. A member of the crowd picked it up and hurried it over to Ben’s hands. Carl stared at the little black book and held the microphone to Ben’s mouth as he flipped through the pages of, finally stopping with raised eyebrows; he showed the page to Carl, who nodded. Ben took a deep breath, and a hush fell over the crowd.



The two old friends were in the kitchen of their shared apartment in hysterics.

“Dude” Ben screamed between laughs, “you were THIS mad at me? You called me your MORTAL ENEMY and then probably came over to my house the next day for a sleepover!”

Logan did his best to perform an exaggerated rip of his little black book from Ben’s hands and shoved it back in the kitchen drawer.

“I told you it was something! I don’t even understand how I was filled with such rage at ten years old. Or how I channeled it so well onto paper. Honesdly, a lot of adults could have really learned something from me.”

“Not to mention your flare for the dramatic.” Ben was still struggling for air. “I found $20 that week in the gutter. It was hardly a big win.”

Logan raised one eyebrow and tapped on his temple. “Ahh— but even then I knew a good story needed some intrigue. Would you rather read about dirty gutter twenties, or a talking mailbox?”

“I can’t believe this is my first time reading this, Log.” Ben wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Though, I do think it may be all that more hilarious to read for the first time ten years later. This might be my favourite piece of your writing I’ve ever read.”

The two young men sighed. Logan scratched at his neck and looked down.

“Do you think I should enter it, though? Like, is it funny to you because you’re my best friend or will it be funny to other people, too?” Logan asked.

Ben leaned forward in his chair.

“Logan— this is so great. It’s such a perfect fit for the contest, too. I’ve always thought you should put your stuff out there more, and this is the perfect example that you should have been putting your writing out there your whole life! I always said if you ever would have had the confidence to enter those contests throughout school, you would have won them every year, hands down. Enter, dude— it’s a great prize, and people can see a whole different side of your writing... and your origin story! What have you got to lose?”

Logan grinned.

“Oh, I don’t know... about $20,000?”