I’ve yet to title it, but it’s coming. I’d love to get your guys’ input. I haven’t done much editing yet, what I’m most interested in is: does it grab your attention? Anyway, enjoy!
———————
The little red flag atop the mailbox, a beacon across the rich green grass, stood at attention, like a soldier declaring news. The sun itself was a golden goddess, high in the sky, warming existence in its entire with her nurturing rays of life. Birds squabbled in the window-side tree, airplanes launched overhead in streaks of artificial clouds across the flawless expanse of sky, and somewhere down the street, a child laughed.
It was an ugly day.
Somewhere deep inside him, the monster creeped and crawled, the gut-shredding terror that spoke in whispers. Invisible fingertips singed the back of his neck, and he slapped them away, only to be overcome with the rage that he felt when the creatures became a little too real.
You’re doing this to yourself, you know, you’re letting them eat you.
Patrick stood and pressed his hands and face against the window pane. He stood there for several minutes, taking in the simplest of scenes. The painful reflection off of the neighbor’s car windshield, the Canadian geese as they soared overhead, and an unfamiliar woman walking her golden retriever through the neighborhood street. Before he realized it, he was standing at the open door, watching the same scene, but through different eyes.
The angle was all different. He took in the fresh scent of the grass, noticed a shard of glass on the pavement just outside his door.
The little things one notices when one is likely about to die.
Patrick stepped out into the sunshine, the hairs on his arms standing up to greet the sunlight. For a moment, he closed his eyes and hung his head back, tasting the honey on his lips and reveling in the wash of warmth on his face and neck. God, it was something else.
If you really want to appreciate life, start dying. Otherwise the sunshine is little more than solar irradiation in the earth’s atmosphere, strong enough to cast shadows. Which is still a minor miracle in itself, but to someone who’s dying, it’s completely different.
He stood at the mailbox then, his hand poised and ready to release the latch, to release the truth inside.
When he opened it, there lay the simple #10 self-addressed postage-paid envelope with his name on it. He stared for a long while, looking at the mangled paper rectangle. The editors hadn’t been exceptionally kind to his letter, it seems, and he wondered if they had treated his manuscript with the same respect, provided they hadn’t shredded it upon contact with the editor’s desk. He reached his hand into the mouth of the mailbox and pulled out the tongue, his letter.
He moved quickly, then, tearing the envelope half to shreds and unsheathing the folded truth inside.
“Dear Mr. Marlowe,
We regret to inform you that we have no use for your manuscript at this time. Regards,
The Editors”
That makes one-hundred.
He stared at the lettering all jumbled together through his blurry gaze.
We regret to inform you that time has no use for you.
Marlowe, we regret you.
At this time…
We regret…
You’re useless.
“That’s fine, that’s fine,” Patrick said through clenched teeth. He massaged his temple and willed the encroaching headache to please, for the love of God, give one moment without the pain. His heart pounded, and with each beat of his heart, the throbbing in his head worsened. He saw flashes of light with each pound, pound, pound of his brain against his skull, heard the pound, pound, pound in his ears, so loud that he felt if he opened his mouth he could megaphone to the whole world
pound
pound
pound,
and they would all hear the cancer in his brain as it pound
pound
pounded away.
He stared at his fist, which held within it the crumpled letter and envelope with the words that had damned him. One-hundred no thank-yous, one-hundred we can do withouts, one-hundred fuck yous.
