Charlie and the Postman

Charlie was a peculiar boy. He loved to chase dogs, his small legs pumping as they yipped and darted around.

But what made Charlie different from most kids was his habit of throwing rocks at the poor pups. Every time one would yelp, Charlie grinned, proud of his mischief. He’d crouch down, pick up another stone, and aim carefully at the next dog that dared wander into his path.

Charlie never went straight home after school. Home meant rules, chores, and a mum who never looked up from her phone. Out here he was free. No one to tell him what to do, no one to notice when he wasn't there. He drifted from street to street, a stray, filling his time with whatever entertained him.

One afternoon, as Charlie was in the middle of a particularly intense rock throwing spree, he didn’t notice the postman watching him. Dressed in his fluro uniform, the man sat on his postie bike. One foot rested on the ground as he adjusted the satchel full of letters stretched across his shoulder. He'd stopped in his tracks, eyes wide as Charlie hurled another rock.

This time, it was a black terrier that yelped, and Charlie’s smile grew even wider.

The postman kicked his stand down, dismounted and began walking towards Charlie, his shoes crunching on the gravel. He cleared his throat.

“Charlie, hey there! What are you up to?”

Charlie froze, his eyes flicking to the man. His heart raced, but instead of scolding him, the postman grinned.

“You know, I used to do that when I was younger,” he said. “Throw rocks, I mean. It was quite fun.”

Charlie stared at him, confused. Was this man saying it was okay?

“Out here all alone, causing trouble. No one to teach you the right way to do things. I remember what that was like, Charlie boy, we'll have to change that. ”

The postman chuckled and crouched down, eyeing the small pile of stones at Charlie’s feet.

“See, this is where people go wrong. Most blokes just grab any old rock and chuck it. Amateurs.”

He picked one up, turning it over in his hand.

“Hmm,” he muttered. “Not terrible, but see how this side’s all rough and uneven?” He held it up for Charlie to see. “That’ll mess up the flight. Makes it wobble.”

He let the rock drop and started sifting through Charlie’s pile. His fingers worked with the precision of a man who had spent years perfecting his craft.

Finally, he plucked one out.

“Now, this…” He held it up so Charlie could see it. “This is a thrower’s stone.”

Charlie leaned in, disbelief and eagerness written all over his face.

The postman ran his thumb over the surface, nodding in approval. “Good weight, smooth on one side, just enough texture to grip.”

“Shining one side lets you curve it, pull off impossible throws, but only if you have the skill.”

Then, without another word, he gave it a big lick and began rubbing it back and forth against his pants, polishing it intently.

Charlie recoiled. “Did you just—”

The postman looked him straight in the eyes, deadly serious. “Lick it? Of course I did. My old mentor used to do the same thing. Swore by it. It’s always the small details that make you succeed. Two percent here, three percent there. It all adds up.”

Charlie nodded like this was sacred knowledge being passed down.

“I’ll never forget that one time, though… the day he mistook a dried dog turd for a small stone… it still brings tears to my eyes all these years later!”

The postman exploded with laughter, grabbing at his aching sides.

Charlie stared at him. Surely he was joking. He couldn’t actually be serious. Could he...?

“Anyway,” the postman said, snapping out of it. “Time for you to test it out.”

He extended his arm out toward Charlie, offering him the stone.

Charlie’s breath hitched as the sun caught the polished surface.

He hesitated. Did he really want to touch this rock that the postman had just licked?

The postman waved him off. “I don’t have leprosy, mate, she’ll be right!” He winked. “Although, I did lose a toe once... who knew mowing the grass in thongs was a bad idea?”

Charlie’s eyes shot to the postman’s boots, then back to his face.

The postman just grinned.

“Now,” he said, tossing the stone to Charlie. “Give it a shot.”

Charlie took the stone, noticing the warmth it held. With this small gesture, the postman had shown him more love than his own family ever had. His cheeks glowed red, and he stood taller, his head high with newfound pride. He would make sure not to waste such a precious gift.

He looked around for a target.

There—A German Shepherd—PERFECT!

He cocked his arm back—

"Wait,” said the postman, bending and grabbing a small bit of loose dirt in his palm.

He threw it into the air, watching it dance in the wind.

“Northwesterly, light breeze. Perfect conditions.”

“Okay, Charlie, flip the stone over—yep, now rotate your wrist a little—stop! Perfect! Now, aim to the right a bit, flick your wrist as you throw, and let it fly!”

Charlie put all his body weight behind it, timing the release perfectly. The stone carved through the air, hitting the dog squarely on the hind leg.

YELP!

Charlie’s heart pounded as he turned to the postman. The postman cheered.

“You're a natural, mate!” he yelled, almost like a proud dad, teaching his son to ride a bike for the first time.

Charlie blinked, breath catching in his throat. No one had ever praised him before. Not his mum who didn't care, or the dad who'd left when he was five. Something unfamiliar stirred in his chest, something warm, something good...

From that day forward they were the best of friends, united by their shared love of rock-throwing.

***

It had been years in the making. Charlie was 16 now, nearly finished his schooling. The postman had trained him tirelessly, rain, hail, and shine. Everything had been leading up to this moment.

“You're finally ready to learn the secret technique that's been passed down through generations of postmen—the two-for-one,” the postman told Charlie as they crouched behind a picnic table. “A single throw… two yelps. A thing of beauty. But everything has to be perfect!"

Charlie watched as the postman selected his stone, carefully licking and polishing it, adjusting his grip, a master of his craft.

“You do the honours, Charlie.”

Charlie knowing exactly what he meant, bent down, grabbing a handful of dirt before tossing it into the air.

“South-westerly. Medium wind.”

The postman adjusted his aim slightly.

Then—he let it fly.

The stone spun through the air, whistling as it curved, bouncing perfectly off one dog’s tail before striking another’s paw.

YELP! YELP!

The postman fist-pumped the air, eyes gleaming with triumph.

“I DID IT! THE TWO-FOR-ONE! I TOLD YOU, CHARLIE! WARNIE HIMSELF WOULD’VE BEEN PROUD OF THAT ONE!"

THEN—SIRENS!

Charlie and the postman froze.

THE POLICE!

The postman hesitated. Then, as the sirens grew louder, he screamed—

“RUN!”

And they ran like their lives depended on it.

Charlie sprinted through a backyard, leaped over a fence, then nearly crashed into the postman as they rounded a corner.

“We need to hide!” Charlie panted.

Just as he spoke, his foot slipped on the wet grass—PLOP! He tumbled straight into a backyard pool.

"Arghhhh!" he screamed, flailing in the water.

He scrambled to the edge, clambering out, shaking himself violently, spraying water in every direction.

The postman burst into laughter.

"You look exactly like one of those dogs now, Charlie!"

Charlie wiped his face, wet but still grinning. “That was close.”

“A little too close.” The postman wiped the sweat from his brow, then reached into his satchel. “Speaking of which... I have something for you.”

Charlie looked on in shock as the postman held out his satchel—the same one he’d carried throughout their whole friendship.

“I’m retiring,” the postman said, tears in the corners of his eyes. “This satchel... You’ve earned it. It’s been passed down through generations of postmen. And now, it’s yours.”

The leather was worn, soft from years of use.

He opened the flap. Inside carefully placed were smooth stones, each one picked with care.

Charlie swallowed hard. “You're sure?”

The postman smiled. “I wouldn’t trust it with anyone else. Keep the tradition alive.”

“Happy hunting,” he added with a wink as he handed it over.

***

MANY YEARS LATER...

Charlie, now a postman himself, walked along whistling a merry tune. The years had been kind to him; he was no longer a young boy, but a middle-aged man.

A little dog yapped in the distance.

He smiled, remembering his mentor. It had been years since Charlie had thrown his last stone. Maybe he would throw one more, just for old time’s sake.

He paused, scanning the ground.

And then… he saw it.

THE PERFECT STONE!

He tested the wind speed, before cocking his arm back, ready to throw, when all of a sudden…

YELP!

Charlie looked around. That... wasn’t him.

He spotted the boy, tossing a rock in his hand.

Charlie smiled as he walked over.

“You know, I used to do that when I was younger,” he said. “Throw rocks, I mean. It was quite fun.”