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Fiction Funny Happy

She had the backbone of an earthworm. Skin as thick as a green grape on a hot summer’s day. They said “Be ready for rejection” and “Learn to accept the silence” after a submission. Well, she tried. But she sought validation like a parking garage attendant seeking the time stamp on those little tickets. From her parents, her friends, even her cat Sophocles, who learned to purr the sadness out of her while snuggling on her lap. 

How many times would she write rot before her big break? Would it ever come? Oh, she also had the patience of a toddler on Christmas Eve, waiting with fierce anticipation of the shiny gifts to come. Only, hers never came. 

She sat at her computer staring at the screen. 

Words. 

Words. 

Blah. 

Words. 

Another pitiful page in the making. She sighed audibly and woke a sleeping Sophocles, softly purring on her lap. 

“All of these stories, and what do I do with them?” she queried the cat.

“Just keep writing them. Someday, one will be good!” she answered herself. 

Over the years, she submitted to publishers and entered countless contests only to fall short each time. A mountain of printed rejects filled her dining room. Mount Unworthy, as she came to call it. Did other writers have mountains too? What did they do with all the stories? 

She had started printing two copies of each story. One to add to Mount Unworthy, and one to deliver at midnight to the mailbox on Sycamore Ave. 

She came across the black mailbox with cardinal stickers on it late one afternoon several years ago. The bright red birds caught her attention, followed by the small blue house behind it with the peeling paint.  She slowed her car and took in the rocking chairs (two of them) on the front porch, and rows of marigolds planted neatly in the flower beds. Gold and orange like little flames shooting out of the dirt. Her grandmother had loved marigolds, and always planted them in her flower bed. She, in turn, loved to pop their flowery heads off and pull the petals out, throwing them in the air like bursts of fireworks. 

She wondered who lived at 88 Sycamore Ave, then decided she didn’t really want to know. She would rather leave it a mystery. And then she hatched her idea of leaving her Unworthies with the cardinals in the mailbox at 88 Sycamore. The cardinals would carry them off. Yes. That’s what she would do. 

She decided it best (and most dramatic) to make her deliveries at midnight. Nobody in the quiet neighborhood would even notice her blue Toyota Camry idle a moment at the box before its stealthy disappearance in the dark. 

The first midnight drop went smoothly. She took her story, “The Lighthouse”, to the box, opened it quickly and quietly, made her deposit, then drove away. An owl hooted his approval. Crickets chirped a cheer. She nodded into the night air, her task complete. 

It felt cathartic to release her stories to the cardinals. She imagined them gripping the pages with their sharp little beaks and flying steadfast to a land far away. Perhaps a castle, where an imprisoned princess waited impatiently for their arrival. Her only entertainment in a lonely world where she was kept away from people and amusement of any kind. 

She never put her name on her work. Only her initials at the end, signed in calligraphied script.  

            AW

With each mailbox deposit, the weight of repeated rejection lifted to a more tolerable level. Her stories, once released, could turn into anything. 

She thought to herself that the worst feeling was knowing nobody would ever read what she wrote. Nobody would smile at her silly similes, or alight at her alliteration. She wished her stories could get out there, even if it made ONE person happy. 

But all she had were rejections, and the cardinals on the mailbox. 

***

Another story was sitting in the mailbox, and George was excited to get his arthritic hands on it. He balanced on his cane, opened the box, and looked across the way at Mr. Loftus pulling weeds. 

“Afternoon, Mr. Loftus! Beautiful day today, eh?” he shouted. 

“Beautiful day indeed!” Mr. Loftus returned. 

George hadn’t always greeted Mr. Loftus when he saw him outside. Most of the time, he just grumbled and furled his brow, before limping back into his house. After George’s wife passed away, a perpetual scowl settled into his face. He sat on his porch staring into the distance, eyes glistening, then his head would bow before going back inside. He had placed cardinal stickers on his mailbox, wanting to be reminded of the bird that meant your loved one was still with you. He missed Nancy, and his world was dark and empty when she was gone. 

Until one day, a story appeared in his mailbox. It was called “The Lighthouse”, a little love story about a man falling head over heels for a woman he met at a lighthouse in Maine. The story made him think of when he and Nancy visited a lighthouse on a beach vacation, only to view it from the ground. 

“Climb to the top? Are you mad?” Nancy had squealed when she saw the seemingly endless staircase before her. 

“Well, that’s how you tour it!” George had said. 

“It’s beautiful from right here, ground level, no stairs involved.” Nancy smiled. George just laughed, gave her a kiss, and they walked the jetty to look for dolphins swimming on the horizon. Such a happy memory. 

George didn’t know why the story ended up in his mailbox, or who left it there, but he kept it. He liked reading it and thinking of Nancy. 

Then, two weeks later, another story appeared. Then another. George began to look forward to visiting his mailbox, always hoping to find another surprise story. He kept them in a pile in his kitchen, and would go back to read them and smile. 

“These stories are forming a little mountain now!” he happily thought to himself. 

As the stories grew, he began to think about ways to keep them all together easier. He knew Mr. Loftus was some kind of editor before he retired. He decided to check with him about how to get them printed together. 

Mr. Loftus took the pile of stories from George, and after reading through them, knew he could help. He reached out to several contacts, and before long, had them printed together in a book. He was so happy to see George excited about something after the death of his wife. He printed the books from his own pocket, and presented George with the final product. “A Collection of Stories” by AW. 

George wondered who was leaving the stories in his mailbox, and then decided he really didn’t want to know. He would rather leave it a mystery.  All he knew for certain, was that the stories made him smile. 

July 05, 2023 18:55

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27 comments

Graham Kinross
23:56 Nov 21, 2023

I see from this and your last story that you’re a cat person. Mount Unworthy sums up the feeling of rejection writers have to deal with to be published. At least her stories found an audience.

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Ken Cartisano
08:50 Aug 15, 2023

This is a good story, nice ending, but I would delete the first two paragraphs and the 'Words.' 'Words.' 'Blah.' 'Words.' The story should start with, 'She sat at her computer, staring at the screen.' I love the line, 'She had the backbone of an earthworm.' I would save it for another story. It doesn't apply to this character at all. The first two paragraphs is the author priming the story with the characters traits. Many writers, including myself, do this. It's one thing to set a scene, quite another set out parameters of your character...

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Luca King Greek
13:57 Jul 13, 2023

Fun story! Nice job

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Nina H
14:34 Jul 13, 2023

Thanks, Luca! 😄

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Mary Bendickson
04:05 Jul 13, 2023

I enjoyed this new purpose for her writing.

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Nina H
09:43 Jul 13, 2023

Thanks , Mary! :)

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Michał Przywara
04:03 Jul 13, 2023

Great! Funny beginning, parts (very) relatable to probably many people on this site, and then such a weird, neat idea - absolutely charming. "Her stories, once released, could turn into anything." Yes, very true! And you'll never know if you don't publish them, one way or another :) The second half of this is likewise sweet. AW might never know of her impact, but so what. There's countless dead authors whose work we enjoy today, after all, and they will never know their impact. Like it says, "She wished her stories could get out there, ev...

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Nina H
09:43 Jul 13, 2023

Hey Michael! Thanks for reading! And you’re SO right about the dead authors not knowing their impact. I hadn’t thought of that. Some never even knew they were published because it happened after death. You also point out the reader connection to a piece, and how important that is. Absolutely. That makes me think of things I’ve read years ago that I would read very differently now after time and life experiences. Thanks again for the read and aptly insightful comments!!!

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Holly Witte
22:44 Jul 12, 2023

Hi, Nina - Such an intriguing idea and you surprised me! I loved words words blah words - along with a lot of other constructions in your story. You captured what we go through as writers. You also captured how grief can be disabling but then something unexpected happens and suddenly there is renewed meaning. Nicely done.

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Nina H
23:30 Jul 12, 2023

Thanks for the feedback, Holly! I’m glad you appreciated the “words” part, and how sometimes they connect and sometimes they just fall flat when we write! And yes, George was able to find “renewed meaning” for sure when the mailbox door opens. ☺️

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Will Oyowe
23:25 Jul 11, 2023

Excellent Story, Nina. A great encouragement to all writers and uplifting on why we tell them! I like the symmetry of Goerge and AW not knowing each other and not wanting to know. Also this sentence ""She thought to herself that the worst feeling was knowing nobody would ever read what she wrote. Nobody would smile at her silly similes, or alight at her alliteration. She wished her stories could get out there, even if it made ONE person happy."" Is a nice encouragement for us writers!

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Nina H
01:12 Jul 12, 2023

Hi will! Thanks for reading and your feedback! I’m so glad it’s encouraging for a fellow comrade in the story writing trenches. Sometimes when it gets really frustrating, it’s nice to think that the stories we write can find an audience somewhere. :)

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Will Oyowe
08:32 Jul 12, 2023

So True !

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Frostie Whinery
04:23 Jul 09, 2023

I live across the street from an older gentleman who recently lost his wife (and his cat!) and is now living alone. I’ve often considered leaving him little inspiring stories! I thought this was a very sweet tale. And also relatable! Oh, and “She had the backbone of an earthworm. Skin as thick as a green grape on a hot summer’s day …” Those two lines hooked me in before I even clicked on the story. Lovely, lovely, lovely!

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Nina H
11:42 Jul 09, 2023

His wife AND cat?? Oh a double heartbreak for him :( Thanks for reading and commenting! I’m tickled you were drawn in by the opening lines!! 😄

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Oskar Reiss
13:51 Jul 08, 2023

amazing

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Nina H
14:01 Jul 08, 2023

Thank you, Oskar!

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06:27 Jul 08, 2023

Truly a brilliant story! Mount Unworthy is every author's real struggle and so is wondering if other aspiring writers have similar rejected piles of work. My favorite part of this piece is George's character portrayal, specifically how the lighthouse story helps him celebrate his memories with Nancy instead of grieving the loss of her.

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Nina H
09:27 Jul 08, 2023

Thanks for reading, Adarshini! I love how you summed that as celebrating the memories rather than grieving the loss. Thank you for that insight, and the kind words!

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Kevin Logue
12:48 Jul 06, 2023

That was wholesome yumminess. Really nice Nina, I smiled at your similes and your alliteration. The cardinals carrying off the pages just sold the daydreamer quality of the first POV. The writers struggle will resonate with so many on here. Loved the reflection of the mountains, one unworthy, one precious. Great job. And good luck.

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Nina H
12:59 Jul 06, 2023

Thanks so much for reading and your feedback! I do truly wonder, especially with how prolific the writers on here are, what happens to all the stories? They just build and collect? When an artist creates a canvas, it can be displayed. A story is a creative expression as well, but can’t be displayed as easily for others. Maybe I’m thinking too much about it. 😂

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Kevin Logue
13:23 Jul 06, 2023

No that's not over thinking, that's the creative juices flowing! Reminds me of a time I was walking through a woods with some friends and one fella said, you ever think about how many secrets a tree has heard. Stuck with for decades, ruminating, maybe some day it will be a story. 🤓

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Nina H
13:36 Jul 06, 2023

I completely love that! I think that absolutely needs to be a story. Secrets can take you in so many directions…where will yours go? 🤫

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John Werner
21:54 Jul 05, 2023

A really sweet story, Nina! I really liked how you showed the importance of the ritual from both sides. Nicely done!

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Nina H
01:28 Jul 06, 2023

Thanks so much for reading, John! And your kind words! :)

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J. D. Lair
21:51 Jul 05, 2023

What a whimsical story, one that makes a fellow writer smile. We all feel the struggle of rejection or fear thereof. I do wish George had left the printed book back in the mailbox with the flag up for AW to find. She would have been thrilled! They could have connected over her stories too. :) What could have been and the mystery of it is your point though, and it’s also a good way to leave it. I’ll just pretend they became best friends in the continuation of the story in my head. :P Also, I have a lighthouse based story on here, so tha...

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Nina H
01:51 Jul 06, 2023

I played with the idea of AW finding a print version of her stories in a local shop or something along those lines, then changed it to just let it be for the pair! But your head version of them connecting is intriguing too, as they would undoubtedly bond. How perfect the lighthouse story hit home with George AND you! Now I need to find your lighthouse story :)

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