4/8/09 05:23 pm - today's flash fiction entry.
written in thirty minutes, using these prompts and trigger words: "a man receives a letter in the mail"; the color green; smooth gesture; a dumpster.
The mail arrived earlier than usual. Henry slowly rose from his chair and shuffled his feet across the faded carpet. It was a beautiful day. His cat Francis raised his head from his usual spot on the antique table in front of the picture window and watched him as he made his first big move in hours. These things didn't come so easily anymore: simple movements, daily routines. His back ached and his mind was aware of what was missing. His overcoat hung limp around his shoulders; he had shrunk within it. How many years had he had this raggedy thing? He couldn't remember. Marie was still here. He knew that because she bought it for him.
He undid the lock and opened the heavy wooden door. He could hear a woodpecker in the trees, and spring was obviously on its way. He stretched his tired arms to the mailbox and reached inside, grasped a bundle of paper, and pulled it out, careful not to strain his side. He closed the door behind him and made his way back to his chair. Ungracefully, he sank into his chair and began sifting through the mail. After moving a couple of cheap catalogues and coupon booklets, he noticed it. A green handwritten envelope. It was the first piece of interesting mail he'd received in months. There was no return address. He opened it, and inside were a few sheets of folded paper with a familiar script. He was almost afraid to remove the papers, to read them, as if he would be invading her privacy again. He was always invading her privacy, though he had no idea what was so important that she had to keep so many diaries, or why each diary had a little lock on the side and there were no keys to be found anywhere not even in her bureau drawers! What young girl doesn't hide things in her bureau drawers? he always asked himself. He never did find out where she hid those keys.
He retrieved the letter and began to read. Like the loyal man he is, Francis leapt down from the table, crossed the room, and joined Henry in his chair. Henry's eyes gradually began to water. He never did understand why his daughter hated him, and she was all he had left. They could never talk to each other. She never liked sports, and she always kept to herself. He couldn't understand that. And for some reason, she always blamed him for Marie's death, even though she had cancer. If the doctor said there was nothing that could be done, what was he supposed to do? He held Francis. Francis looked up at him, so serene and silent, with eyes big and blue. For years he had waited for his daughter to write, and now that she had, he felt nothing but bitterness. Still, he could never pinpoint what it was that had happened. He knew what he had to do. Without giving it a second thought, he dropped the letter in the trash and turned on the television.
The mail arrived earlier than usual. Henry slowly rose from his chair and shuffled his feet across the faded carpet. It was a beautiful day. His cat Francis raised his head from his usual spot on the antique table in front of the picture window and watched him as he made his first big move in hours. These things didn't come so easily anymore: simple movements, daily routines. His back ached and his mind was aware of what was missing. His overcoat hung limp around his shoulders; he had shrunk within it. How many years had he had this raggedy thing? He couldn't remember. Marie was still here. He knew that because she bought it for him.
He undid the lock and opened the heavy wooden door. He could hear a woodpecker in the trees, and spring was obviously on its way. He stretched his tired arms to the mailbox and reached inside, grasped a bundle of paper, and pulled it out, careful not to strain his side. He closed the door behind him and made his way back to his chair. Ungracefully, he sank into his chair and began sifting through the mail. After moving a couple of cheap catalogues and coupon booklets, he noticed it. A green handwritten envelope. It was the first piece of interesting mail he'd received in months. There was no return address. He opened it, and inside were a few sheets of folded paper with a familiar script. He was almost afraid to remove the papers, to read them, as if he would be invading her privacy again. He was always invading her privacy, though he had no idea what was so important that she had to keep so many diaries, or why each diary had a little lock on the side and there were no keys to be found anywhere not even in her bureau drawers! What young girl doesn't hide things in her bureau drawers? he always asked himself. He never did find out where she hid those keys.
He retrieved the letter and began to read. Like the loyal man he is, Francis leapt down from the table, crossed the room, and joined Henry in his chair. Henry's eyes gradually began to water. He never did understand why his daughter hated him, and she was all he had left. They could never talk to each other. She never liked sports, and she always kept to herself. He couldn't understand that. And for some reason, she always blamed him for Marie's death, even though she had cancer. If the doctor said there was nothing that could be done, what was he supposed to do? He held Francis. Francis looked up at him, so serene and silent, with eyes big and blue. For years he had waited for his daughter to write, and now that she had, he felt nothing but bitterness. Still, he could never pinpoint what it was that had happened. He knew what he had to do. Without giving it a second thought, he dropped the letter in the trash and turned on the television.