Mailbox Miseries Series… Nearing the End

Written by Sara A. Harris 

(A witty tale for the hell-bent writer)

The screen fades to black, as does my mood.  Suddenly a gust of wind whips from beyond, a midnight cat crosses, the Witch’s house next door alights in a conflagration of ethereal luminosity, and I stand alone… as if a moment straight out of The Shining.  From the dank plastic of a synthetic, impassioned box, a phenomenon is bestowed.  It sneaks in, virtually unseen… slithering like a legless, criminal phantom… sordid and unwarranted.  My handwriting glares back at me from the wretched self-addressed-stamped-envelope– I recognize immediately the supposed oracle “mailbox gods” have disregarded my objection– and I’m inundated by withered shades of sallow.  A fetid stench billows in the heat, I’m suffocated among shaken by this unspecified, Dear Writer salutation that has been crammed into my brimming mailbox of miseries. 

Who is Dear Writer? 

Why exactly has my name vanished from all acknowledgment when I was informed of the specific submission process of correctly identifying receiving editors?  Why do I torture myself this way?  In my wallowing angst of Writer’s
Defiance, this literary assailant strikes unflinchingly and I’m pummeled once again into a disaffection of pinching doubt.  Figuratively speaking I’m reminded, “Don’t shoot the messenger… the innocent postal carrier.”  I repeat the phrase incessantly…

The attempt to hide quickly enters my mind, followed by the realization that there is no escape.  Seemingly enough, there never is in these horror-fest scenes of life.  I persevere, laboring through the mounting stack of unsolicited mail as they elicit one grainy scrape after another.  Yes, that’s correct…  I said unsolicited mail.  To my grave cynicism, I am bombarded by the sadistic resolve of money-starved conglomerates kowtowing to a cast of doppelgangers in effort to conform every American citizen by their false advertisements and cheap paper sign-on benefits.  Elimination stifles rejection and every superfluous piece of mail the post office wants to rid itself of has morbidly found my address. 

Distracted, I examine my handwriting a second time. 

To be continued…