Postal Service

"Dear My Love,

Another starry night and a sky of dark blue

The evening commences as it began

I wake up in a panic and look for you

My disillusionment animates the frenzied actions of a madman

Can I last another night without you Anne?

Yours Truly,

Krillin"

The wet ink glistens on the paper from the archaic quill pen. The lantern on the table begins to dim as the night drags on. The young boy stands up he blows on the paper to expedite the drying process of the wet ink. The numerous discarded drafts of paper that scatter the ground beside the table give credence to the brief epiphany of another night wasted. Not only wasted but wasted...for what? For Anne Yedlin. The home-schooled girl with the dictatorial parents. The same girl who received every letter, but had yet to respond to his numerous written declarations of love. 'She must have read them all' he mutters to himself. He examines the paper that is now dry. 'She will have to respond to this one. This is my best one yet.' He smiles.

Krillin opens his door slowly and peeks to listen for any noises. Silence responds to him and he sneaks down the hallway and the staircase. He reaches into his back pocket to present his furry canine friend with a treat to appease him to not unleash his infamous bark. Boomer accepts his offer and returns to his previous comatose state. Our young Krillan's eyes now intensely fixated on the next-door home that he frequently visits on nights like this. Butterflies grow in his stomach as he thinks of her. He envisions her smile, her laugh, and even her possible response.

The flickering streetlight that illuminates the street gives shoddy guidance toward his destination. His chest heaps as he takes a deep breath in front of the mailbox in an attempt to channel all of the courage he has. After placing his letter in the mailbox he retreats to his doorstep and sneaks back into his house and his cozy room. His face pressed against the window and now he waits. His eyes remain fixated on the mailbox waiting for one of the Yedlin's. His acute patience in this endeavor was no different from one watching paint dry. As he forces his eyes open to continue watching the gravity of his eyelids begin to close his eyelids shut. The night begins to brighten to sunrise and the nature outside of his bedroom window begin to awake.

His mother's knock on his bedroom- a sound that has become synonymous with that of an alarm clock- did not wake the young boy in the same alarming way it usually did. "Time to get up!" his mother firmly utters. He opens his eyes to realize that he fell asleep leaning on the window watching and waiting. In exasperation, he presses his eyes up against the glass to draw attention back to the fixation of his attention.

"Krillin! The bus will be here soon!" his mother shouts from downstairs. "okay mother" the young boy responds. To his intrigue, Mr. Yedlin walks to grab the mail and looks through it leisurely as he retreats to the house. One piece of mail alarms him and he carelessly throws it into the nearby trash can. The young boy sulks to his bed. "Krillin! The bus will be here soon." his mother now yells. "I'm not going to school today" the young boy mutters. "What?!" the mother responds. "I don't feel good" the young boy mutters.

His mother enters the room for the first time this morning with a look of concern and motherly instinct on her face. "My poor Krillin. What is wrong?" his mother asks. The young boy remains silent with his face pressed into his bed. "Is it pain? Or is it-" his mother begins. "It's pain" the young boy interrupts. "Pain everywhere" he continues.

As day turns to dusk, a young girl maneuvering as a sleuth moves in a direct path to the side of her house. In a path that she has taken many times before. She reaches her hand into the nearby trash can and feels around before pulling her hand out and sneaking back into her house. Back in her room, she steps over balled up pieces of paper soaked with ink and sits on her bed to read the letter. The young girl smiles. She soon reaches under her bed to add the letter to the numerous letters from the previous months. She looks discouragedly at her ink and quill set before locking eyes on her laptop. She smiles.

The difficulty of scratching quill on paper on the days before is juxtaposed by the ease of her small fingers grazing across the computer keyboard. The audible tapping of her keyboard continue throughout the night. The dark recesses of the night are replaced in due time by the rising sun of the morning.

"Dear My Krillin,

Your letters have found me well

To ease your worries you do not need to search for me

I am yours already can you not tell

The oppressive walls of my home confine us from what we could be

Our futures are intertwined you shall see

Yours Truly,

Anne"

She returns outside her house again to approach the young boy's mailbox. She silently moves toward the mailbox and places the printed letter in and scans her surroudings before returning home to her spacious room. Her morning soon returns back to its normal mundane nature after this. Multiplication tables, geography studies, and French studies. Her mother slaps her on her wrist with the meter stick that she keeps handy during class time considerably more times today than other days. Her mind remains distracted by thoughts of the young boy and if he will receive her response.

Unbeknowst to her, at that moment, the young boy had already been beginning to compose his response. The sound of quill scrathing against paper fills the small confines of his room.