The Mailbox

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.