| Mystery and Crime Fiction posted December 17, 2014 |
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Short Story
It Only Takes One--Yes
by michaelcahill
"You need to sign for this one, Mr. Longfodder."
"Sign for it? What the hell do I even want with it? No one writes me. This looks like it came from the bottom of a dead letter pile fifty years old."
"I don't know where it came from, sir. I just deliver 'em. It IS certified, so it must have been important at one time." Letter Carrier Snervis Klickenburn went by the book, and the book said the recipient must sign for this certified article of mail. He held out a pen, and produced a clipboard with the letter attached. "Sign here." He pointed at the bottom of a green card attached to the letter.
"What's the card for?"
"That's the return receipt. It informs the sender the addressee has received the article and your signature is proof should a dispute arise." He remained with the pen still offered and the clipboard at the ready to receive Mr. Longfodder's signature.
"Jesus Q Christ, boy, this letter is thirty-eight years old. Do you really expect the sender to be all that concerned about the recipient receiving it at this point? Hell's ringing bells, boy, what makes you think the sender is even above ground?" He laughed without the slightest bit of humor. He signed the card.
Snervis tore off the green card and placed it in his satchel. He handed the letter to the recipient, Henry Q. Longfodder. Snervis nodded his head as if to say, "Thank you", turned and continued with his route.
The letter looked to have been on the Hindenburg as it burst into flames highlighting the humanity. He briefly imagined a small child having folded it into the shape of an airplane sailing it out an open porthole. As the Hindenburg burst into flames, he could hear the boy in his daydream say, "I fly my hopes and dreams to you within this. Do with them, as you will. I did not dream them for myself."
His right hand twitched. The desire to write caused a twitching in his right hand. He ignored it as he had ignored it for thirty-eight years now. "Another great vignette your failure to acknowledge me caused." He often spoke out loud. The sound broke up the monotony of an endlessly silent existence.
"You sons of bitches. You rotten sons of bitches! I receive this now?" He blurted out those words upon viewing the return address:
Frank N. Doubleday Publishing Company, Ltd.
11224 Prince O Port Terrace, Suite 611
Taft Office Building
New York City, New York, U.S.A.
"This better be a rejection slip. That's all I have to say. You sons of bitches. I needed this answer thirty-eight years ago. What the Charleston dancing hell good does it do me now?" He shook with what could have been anger, but there seemed to be anticipation and excitement factored in as well.
"Bastards. Are you kidding me? Bastards! Did it not occur to you to send a second letter? JUST IN CASE I DID NOT RECEIVE THIS?"
Dear Mr. Longfodder,
We seldom publish an unknown poet's works. We do well with volumes of the old masters on a limited issue basis, but we find it difficult to market new poets, such as yourself. However, we find these pieces to be wholly unique, and we are pleased to inform you we are interested in exclusive publications rights to this, and any subsequent compilations you may produce. I personally found this following piece to be most inspirational to me:
The world is an egg, my egg
It is painted with the fanciest of colors
all difficult to pronounce
the egg is hinged
I open it
inside are my words
they are jewel encrusted
and set in gold
a thousand souls
perch on the head of a pin
admiring their beauty
and contemplating the meaning
which changes their existences
forever
I close the egg
I seek the next world to conquer
This has inspired me to steel myself to the tasks before me. I vow that the Doubleday name will one day be synonymous with published books. Enclosed find a check made out to you in the amount of ten thousand dollars. This is an advance on your contract. As a Doubleday author, you may submit work to only Doubleday. It is a violation of your contract to publish with any other firm and grounds to void the contract before you.
Your signature is required. Upon receipt of this document with your signature affixed, we will begin to ready your first book for publication.
Sincerely,
Frank N. Doubleday, Bookskeller
He stepped out onto the ledge outside his sixth story apartment. The ledge had standing room, but little more than that. Dangerous was putting his current posture mildly.
Down on the street below the ledge, Aces Donnely, the grocery clerk, happened to be arriving with Longfodder's weekly groceries. He looked up as a bit of grit struck his forearm.
"Mr. Longfodder! Get off of that ledge. What the hell are you doing? You've no business out there at your age. It's a long ways down. Go back inside, I have your groceries. Pistachio ice cream." Aces looked up unsure as to what to do. He spied a street cop out of the corner of his eye.
He turned and shouted, "Officer, officer, come quickly … it's an emergency."
The officer, a beat cop named Barney, looked up startled from his newspaper. He jostled his coffee cup sitting on the wall next to him. It spilled a few splashes of coffee, but he caught it before it emptied onto the ground. After deliberating for too long a time, he came at a good pace to investigate. He left the coffee and paper, but brought the white-powder-sugar donut.
Aces ran to greet the cop. "It's Longfodder, he's gonna jump I think! You gotta do something."
Barney tipped his cap up with his nightstick. Powder from the donut he carried in his other hand adorned his upper lip as he spoke, "Now, calm down, kid. Loonfatter, you say? Maybe he's just getting some air. Well, step back, I'll handle this. HEY! Lungfutter! Whatcha doin' up there. You come on down now. Nothing can be that bad. Your buddy down her … what's your name, kid?"
Aces looked dumbfounded at Barney. "I'm Aces. I'm not a friend, I just deliver groceries to him. It's Longfodder, Longfodder" He showed Barney the bag of groceries he still carried. Barney looked inside.
Barney continued, "Now your friend here, Mr. Ace, has your groceries here to bring up to you, Fudalong. Why don't you come on down now and greet him … get your groceries, good stuff. There's Pringles in the bag. You can't go wrong there. C'mon now, get down here. Ya want me to help? Get down here now, I don't have all night."
Barney's eyes got large as the image of Mr. Longfodder grew in size. The sound of him hitting the ground resembled a cartoon. It sounded like, "Splatt". Barney stood there frozen in place for a few long moments. Finally, he looked at Aces and shrugged his shoulders. He walked over to Mr. Longfodder.
Aces was already kneeling at his side talking to him, "Mr. Longfodder! Are you okay? Hey." He shook his shoulder, which moved unnaturally.
Barney put his hand on the kid's shoulder. "He's dead kid. He's splattered all over the sidewalk." He grabbed his walkie-talkie, "We need the coroner out here at 7th and Centurian Ave. We got a splatter here. Six stories. Now, step back, kid, and let me have a look." He noticed an old letter in Mr. Longfodder's hand. He looked around and slipped it into his pocket.
Sirens sounded in the distance; he took the letter out and read it. He looked around anxiously and returned it to his pocket.
The ambulance driver stepped up to him. "We've got to wait for the coroner. What happened?"
"He was standing on the ledge and he just went Lindbergh without a plane, splatt."
"Okay, we wait. The coroner has to call it … procedure."
About twenty minutes later, the coroner arrived. "He's dead all right. But, I guess you all knew that. Did he leave a note? Any family? What do we know about this guy?"
Barney stepped forward. "Nope, no note. No paperwork of any kind. Nothing in his hand or anything like that. Just an old man doing a full Gaynor off the sixth floor ledge up there, splatt, that's about it. The kid here is a good friend."
"I'm not his friend. I just deliver groceries."
"I see, did you have words with him, ya know, about the bill, an argument? Did you bring the wrong stuff, anger him?"
"No. Hell no. He was on the ledge when I arrived. I didn't talk to him, he just jumped."
The Coroner looked at Barney. "Well, nothing to do here. How's that writing coming along, Barney."
Barney put his hand over the pocket where the letter was. "The writing is coming good, coming good. In fact, I just came up with a great idea for a story. I'll be in Reader's Digest before you know it."
"You need to sign for this one, Mr. Longfodder."
"Sign for it? What the hell do I even want with it? No one writes me. This looks like it came from the bottom of a dead letter pile fifty years old."
"I don't know where it came from, sir. I just deliver 'em. It IS certified, so it must have been important at one time." Letter Carrier Snervis Klickenburn went by the book, and the book said the recipient must sign for this certified article of mail. He held out a pen, and produced a clipboard with the letter attached. "Sign here." He pointed at the bottom of a green card attached to the letter.
"What's the card for?"
"That's the return receipt. It informs the sender the addressee has received the article and your signature is proof should a dispute arise." He remained with the pen still offered and the clipboard at the ready to receive Mr. Longfodder's signature.
"Jesus Q Christ, boy, this letter is thirty-eight years old. Do you really expect the sender to be all that concerned about the recipient receiving it at this point? Hell's ringing bells, boy, what makes you think the sender is even above ground?" He laughed without the slightest bit of humor. He signed the card.
Snervis tore off the green card and placed it in his satchel. He handed the letter to the recipient, Henry Q. Longfodder. Snervis nodded his head as if to say, "Thank you", turned and continued with his route.
The letter looked to have been on the Hindenburg as it burst into flames highlighting the humanity. He briefly imagined a small child having folded it into the shape of an airplane sailing it out an open porthole. As the Hindenburg burst into flames, he could hear the boy in his daydream say, "I fly my hopes and dreams to you within this. Do with them, as you will. I did not dream them for myself."
His right hand twitched. The desire to write caused a twitching in his right hand. He ignored it as he had ignored it for thirty-eight years now. "Another great vignette your failure to acknowledge me caused." He often spoke out loud. The sound broke up the monotony of an endlessly silent existence.
"You sons of bitches. You rotten sons of bitches! I receive this now?" He blurted out those words upon viewing the return address:
Frank N. Doubleday Publishing Company, Ltd.
11224 Prince O Port Terrace, Suite 611
Taft Office Building
New York City, New York, U.S.A.
"This better be a rejection slip. That's all I have to say. You sons of bitches. I needed this answer thirty-eight years ago. What the Charleston dancing hell good does it do me now?" He shook with what could have been anger, but there seemed to be anticipation and excitement factored in as well.
"Bastards. Are you kidding me? Bastards! Did it not occur to you to send a second letter? JUST IN CASE I DID NOT RECEIVE THIS?"
Dear Mr. Longfodder,
We seldom publish an unknown poet's works. We do well with volumes of the old masters on a limited issue basis, but we find it difficult to market new poets, such as yourself. However, we find these pieces to be wholly unique, and we are pleased to inform you we are interested in exclusive publications rights to this, and any subsequent compilations you may produce. I personally found this following piece to be most inspirational to me:
The world is an egg, my egg
It is painted with the fanciest of colors
all difficult to pronounce
the egg is hinged
I open it
inside are my words
they are jewel encrusted
and set in gold
a thousand souls
perch on the head of a pin
admiring their beauty
and contemplating the meaning
which changes their existences
forever
I close the egg
I seek the next world to conquer
This has inspired me to steel myself to the tasks before me. I vow that the Doubleday name will one day be synonymous with published books. Enclosed find a check made out to you in the amount of ten thousand dollars. This is an advance on your contract. As a Doubleday author, you may submit work to only Doubleday. It is a violation of your contract to publish with any other firm and grounds to void the contract before you.
Your signature is required. Upon receipt of this document with your signature affixed, we will begin to ready your first book for publication.
Sincerely,
Frank N. Doubleday, Bookskeller
He stepped out onto the ledge outside his sixth story apartment. The ledge had standing room, but little more than that. Dangerous was putting his current posture mildly.
Down on the street below the ledge, Aces Donnely, the grocery clerk, happened to be arriving with Longfodder's weekly groceries. He looked up as a bit of grit struck his forearm.
"Mr. Longfodder! Get off of that ledge. What the hell are you doing? You've no business out there at your age. It's a long ways down. Go back inside, I have your groceries. Pistachio ice cream." Aces looked up unsure as to what to do. He spied a street cop out of the corner of his eye.
He turned and shouted, "Officer, officer, come quickly … it's an emergency."
The officer, a beat cop named Barney, looked up startled from his newspaper. He jostled his coffee cup sitting on the wall next to him. It spilled a few splashes of coffee, but he caught it before it emptied onto the ground. After deliberating for too long a time, he came at a good pace to investigate. He left the coffee and paper, but brought the white-powder-sugar donut.
Aces ran to greet the cop. "It's Longfodder, he's gonna jump I think! You gotta do something."
Barney tipped his cap up with his nightstick. Powder from the donut he carried in his other hand adorned his upper lip as he spoke, "Now, calm down, kid. Loonfatter, you say? Maybe he's just getting some air. Well, step back, I'll handle this. HEY! Lungfutter! Whatcha doin' up there. You come on down now. Nothing can be that bad. Your buddy down her … what's your name, kid?"
Aces looked dumbfounded at Barney. "I'm Aces. I'm not a friend, I just deliver groceries to him. It's Longfodder, Longfodder" He showed Barney the bag of groceries he still carried. Barney looked inside.
Barney continued, "Now your friend here, Mr. Ace, has your groceries here to bring up to you, Fudalong. Why don't you come on down now and greet him … get your groceries, good stuff. There's Pringles in the bag. You can't go wrong there. C'mon now, get down here. Ya want me to help? Get down here now, I don't have all night."
Barney's eyes got large as the image of Mr. Longfodder grew in size. The sound of him hitting the ground resembled a cartoon. It sounded like, "Splatt". Barney stood there frozen in place for a few long moments. Finally, he looked at Aces and shrugged his shoulders. He walked over to Mr. Longfodder.
Aces was already kneeling at his side talking to him, "Mr. Longfodder! Are you okay? Hey." He shook his shoulder, which moved unnaturally.
Barney put his hand on the kid's shoulder. "He's dead kid. He's splattered all over the sidewalk." He grabbed his walkie-talkie, "We need the coroner out here at 7th and Centurian Ave. We got a splatter here. Six stories. Now, step back, kid, and let me have a look." He noticed an old letter in Mr. Longfodder's hand. He looked around and slipped it into his pocket.
Sirens sounded in the distance; he took the letter out and read it. He looked around anxiously and returned it to his pocket.
The ambulance driver stepped up to him. "We've got to wait for the coroner. What happened?"
"He was standing on the ledge and he just went Lindbergh without a plane, splatt."
"Okay, we wait. The coroner has to call it … procedure."
About twenty minutes later, the coroner arrived. "He's dead all right. But, I guess you all knew that. Did he leave a note? Any family? What do we know about this guy?"
Barney stepped forward. "Nope, no note. No paperwork of any kind. Nothing in his hand or anything like that. Just an old man doing a full Gaynor off the sixth floor ledge up there, splatt, that's about it. The kid here is a good friend."
"I'm not his friend. I just deliver groceries."
"I see, did you have words with him, ya know, about the bill, an argument? Did you bring the wrong stuff, anger him?"
"No. Hell no. He was on the ledge when I arrived. I didn't talk to him, he just jumped."
The Coroner looked at Barney. "Well, nothing to do here. How's that writing coming along, Barney."
Barney put his hand over the pocket where the letter was. "The writing is coming good, coming good. In fact, I just came up with a great idea for a story. I'll be in Reader's Digest before you know it."
 Recognized |
This is based on the prompt about receiving an old tattered and stained letter. Rather than enter a prompt with two or three entries, I'd just as soon post the story. I'm guessing this is a mystery. It isn't a crime really. A story.
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