SMR7 - Bluecat's Story

A night of endless pondering and fitful dreaming later, I joined my friend Bluecat for breakfast and this was the story he told—

SMR6 - Quiet before the storm

Monday afternoon. The sun was high in the clear sky for the second day running and the townsfolk knew then summer was officially upon them. A jubilant mood seemed to infect the small town, even the postmaster got out of the somewhat grim office he liked to squat in day to day, and was seen basking in the warm breeze, smoking a pipe and beaming at passers-by. The only unfittingly grim person, however, seemed to be me.

Three days had passed since I delivered the mail to the Mansion, and though there was no mail coming over the weekend, I had been finding myself excuses and pretenses to be around the mansion. I kept back letter No.25 and dropped No.31 and No.6 (now made 16 by me) in the mansion mailbox on Friday morning, the house dead silent in the morning shower, and in the afternoon when the storm stilled a bit, returned to deliver the left out letter. I was almost going to drop it in the mailbox as usual, having taken a good look at the solitary house in its desolate neighborhood, but something in me nudged and nagged: This is a perfect opportunity to find out…if No.6 mattered, if anything mattered at all…and I was both shaken and emboldened. I had hardly put down my hand from pressing the bell when the heavy oak door swung open again, and this time the Mr. King standing before me was even a stranger person.

It was startling to reflect that it had been only a few days since I last and first saw him, and his already translucent skin seemed to have gone transparent, revealing small, purple veins crawling underneath his skin, the neurotic hand holding the door had its index finger freshly bandaged, and there were subtle water stains on the front of his otherwise spotless trench coat ( in this weather?) All these I took in within a fraction of a second, his crumpling frailness and extraordinary fatigue...but his nonetheless severe gaze on me was crushing my self-assurance by the second, and it was almost within one breath that I stammered out a thin story of the discovery of one mis-sorted letter stuck to the bottom of the bag and…'Yes, boy, that will do. Thank you.' He almost tore the letter out of my clammy hand and shut the door promptly. In that fleeting moment I was sure he for once lifted his gaze from my face and looked out beyond the gate. It was as if he was expecting someone…or not. Uncomfortable to linger on for another moment, I shot home straight, and only later did I realize the reason of my discomfort: the dreadful man himself was dreading something.

The next day, I went to ask my neighbor and good buddy Bluecat for a favor.

***

Bluecat was the son of the plumber of the town, Bobilong, and barely two years older than me, he was already making a name for himself as a better plumber than his drunkard of a dad. Though he's a humble and loyal friend, the best kind you can have in a closely knit town, he's not someone to confide in—he talks to his imaginary pet—a 'blue cat'—all the time! He had it since he got lost in the wild prairie some time when he was four or five, and after he magically made it home, wide eyed and feverish and mumbling—everyone then had thought he was a gone case and already preparing memorial services—he had talked down to the ground since, sometimes seen stroking and tickling air, addressing it as 'kitty kee' or more fancifully, 'master K'. When asked about who he was talking to, the reply would invariably be 'can't you see this magnificent diamond blue cat?' People thought him a little nutty from the incident, but who could ask more from a soul supposedly lost forever to them? So they gave him the nickname and joked and laughed about it, so much so his given name gradually dropped out of people's memory. Bluecat would pause anytime in the middle of his work, in a conversation, snap out of a nap even, to talk to the cat. Most things he said usually made little sense to anyone at all, but through the years Bluecat had also blurted out some things that alerted and puzzled the older folks in the town—they said a young lad like him wouldn't have known those things even if he were literate and cared for books, for they were really old history and some people would rather see them remain buried. Bluecat just shrugged; my poor friend never knew why or how anyway. A wizened gypsy woman who wandered into town every 2 years or so even wanted him to apprentice under her, and if not for Bluecat's mom insisting that he stayed and took care of his young sisters and brothers, he'd have gladly gone to see the world with his feline friend.

***

So I went to Bluecat, asking him to go to the mansion and see the man. I didn't tell him the real reason—god forbid if he should tell that to the cat in the middle of town square!—instead I told him I thought the mansion was in bad shape and might be suffering from termite problems, and it was good for business if he cared to offer to inspect it. I also told him that although the man might seem severe and disagreeable, he was really a kind-hearted soul. Bluecat didn't even think about it twice, said he'd go there after he got a job done in an uptown household, no problem at all, and set off with his satchel.

***

The rest of the day I sat on the front porch, peeling onions and waiting for Bluecat to return. The rain was reduced to a dribble by dusk, and almost stopped completely when it got dark, but no sign of Bluecat even then. Mom called out to me for dinner for the third time, threatening to lose her temper, so I reluctantly shuffled inside, disquietude starting to nibble at my mind—what happened to Bluecat? Is he in trouble? Did that Mr. King see through the tricks and realize the true intention behind? Could he have attacked Bluecat? The last thought almost catapulted me out of my seat, earning a solid warning glance from mom, so I collected myself and finished dinner in record speed.

No, Bluecat can't be attacked, I thought as I sneaked out of the backdoor, thinking how thin but how strong and agile he was, never beaten in a street fight. Maybe he was running other errands after seeing the mansion? …but this was too late. I climbed over the fence and landed into the soggy vegetable bed at the back of their house, and seeing that Bluecat's attic window was still unlit, I pulled down the secret rope ladder and climbed up into his room.

A bunch of us used to play more often in the attic when we were younger, and long time had passed since I last landed there through the window. The room hadn't changed much though, the childhood toys and models in abundant disarray across shelves and sketches of house plans and also of Master K plastered the walls. The bowl of fish cookies for the cat was still by the foot of the bed, some of them even appeared broken and corners nibbled off by sharp teeth—maybe rodents? I picked up a loose paper and quickly drew a few symbols, put it in the bowl and weighed it down by cookies. Now all I could do was go home and wait.

***

…the sycamore outside my window shook and sighed loudly, I looked into its shadow and saw a cat, a diamond blue cat, scratching at the trunk of the big tree. I shooed at it and it turned up its eyes, and I shuddered uncontrollably—its eyes had the most woeful yet most resentful look, and its face was almost transparent, with blue veins crawling under the fur, it was almost like…

TAP! TAP!

I suddenly opened my eyes and realized I had dozed off and this tapping sound must be Bluecat! I hopped to the window and there he was in the garden, picking up small stones and aiming for my window. When he saw me he waved and gestured a few words—'I'm OK, talk to you tomorrow!' and I gestured back through the quiet night and was so relieved.

SMR 5

(c'td from the last 'diary entry')

One, two, three... I wasn't sure whether I was counting the no. of drawers caught in that brief glimpse or just counting in order to calm my boiling excitement. On reaching 10, I made up the biggest decision in my life.


Back in the mansion, Raymond King untied the knot to the bundle of mail but was suddenly reminded of the opened telegram. Not for the first time, but certainly one of those rarest moments, Mr. King found himself in a rather amusing gesture - his body bending over the oak table, hands still holding on to the ends of the untied thread and his eyes dead fixed on the red telegram lying cosily beside his sleeve - his whole body was locked in time and space as a pearl of throughts streamed through his busy mind. If I put the telegram back and return the envelop, will Mr. no 6 suspect that I've opened it without his consent? I could well explain the little accident to him in person to clear up any misunderstandings but how do I explain the initial curiosity that prompted me to take his mail in the first place? On top of that, no. 6 hasn't been here for almost a month. If he doesn't check in next week, I'm entitled to dispose all his mails as rightfully stated on the agreement. The logical conclusion could well end the mental struggle, until the printings on the telegram inadvertantly caught him. The letters were fading from the dampness but the word 'cypress' held his gaze in a vise. It was the maiden name of this ancient mansion but was no longer in use ever since he became heir. The current addressees, of course, only knew this place as '1 Moonriver Lane', and never Cypress! God forbids! Sensing an ominous sign coming, Mr. King snatched up the little piece of paper and squinted his eyes, which were now glimming with anxiety. "get out cypress on recieving next mail M. coming, Jade.' Raymond King dropped back in his vine chair, deep in thoughts. He dissembled the short message and chewed them over: 1. Jade, the sender, is relaying an important if not life-and-death signal to no.6 and the source of threat is the mysterious M. 2. There's a new mail coming in and upon recieving it, no. 6 is supposed to 'get out of cypress' as told. The biggest cipher,however, was 'get out cypress'. If 'cypress' was indeed referring to this mansion, could 'get out' literally mean to escape this place and move elsewhere? It wasn't uncommon for strangers to knock on his door and inquire about Miss and Mr. so and so although Mr. King emphasised to his customers that '1 moonriver lane' should be a mailing address and never be mistaken as their actual residence. Suppose Jade the sender, by mistake, assumed Cypress was where no.6 lived, the message would then suggest 'get out of your house.' If not, it could imply 'terminate your deal with the master of cypress.' And who is M? The urgent undertone seemed to tag M with a dangerous nature, a nameless face with a deadly pursuit. In all circumstances, no.6 was an alarming case. If only 'cypress' was a harmless coincidence! If not... Mr. King frowned and his heart tightend. Suddenly he remembered 'the next mail' and sprang from the chair. The newly arrived bundle was soon a mess as he frantically sieved through the letters looking for the small number tag. Six, six, six... to his great disappointment, there was none. As if to distract himself from a million palpitating possibilities that flooded in and broke the dam to his serene life, Mr. King closed his eyes and dived deep in a sea of fading memories. He thought of Catherine, in an extravagantly framed portrait, looking golden and regal. She kissed the child gently in her arm, whispered a lullaby and too quickly disappeared without a trace, leaving the baby alone. The Cypress. Raymond King snapped back to reality, frowned bitterly and knocked his knuckles against the table. He MUST get the next mail.



Chapter 4 No. 6
'There ye go, boy!' my old man tossed me a heavy package of letters. It hit me on the shoulders and I winced. 'Wassup with ye? Ye alrite? Kinda stupid and slow today huh?' he smiled a fatherly smile and gave a bearly pat on the same shoulder which was hit less than five seconds ago. I secretly grimaced but said nothing, in fear he would mock me further on my words which strangely, all sounded like laughing stock to him. If only I could be in a perpetual jolly mood like my old man! In fact, I had been a nervous wreck ever since I made my first move. I dare not tell it to anybody, certainly not THIS man smiling across at me. I'd lose my job instantly for sure.

Yesterday I got my usual share of letters. Instead of dutifully setting out on my bike and delivering them to the right household, I picked out those addressed to Raymond King and carefully examined them. Dear readers, if you still remember that stroke of moment where I made up a very important decision, and here it is! The curtains have just unfolded. I'm like a prankish boy throwing pebbles into an once tranquil pond. I watched the ripples spread far into a mass of dead foliage, disturbed them until now there was a small clearing. What was I looking for? I had no idea, but I was sure there WAS something, in the same way I always knew hamsters hid their nuts in secret alcoves nobody else knew of except me. There I held the letters up to eye level and shuffled them back to back. The numbers were there as expected, 25, 6 and 31. If this was what they would call a turn of fate, I did it with a single stroke. I took out a black ink pen, and with my clammy hands, etched a vertical line beside 6. What a difference would 10 make? If only I knew then!

SMR 4

HOHOHO Strange Mail Room 4! Actually, I am just bored..and feel like writing too, so I take this chance to pick it up. Continue as and when you like to, or if not, I’ll add a few more paragraphs later if I could. =D thoughts?

###

For the rest of the afternoon, Raymond King sat musing at the French window. No one came. The autumn rains are nearing their end, and the first northern winds had duly announced the impending arrival of another winter. Down the length of the garden, the rose beds were a shameful scene of neglect. Wild daffodils had grown in abandon through the past summer, and now they danced that occasional, sad little shivering repertoire in the whimpering wind, sighing their resignation at another summer gone by. The only lively and in fact the single noticeable thing in the garden, was a small patch of chrysanthemums, angrily flaming near the French window. Raymond had been gazing at the ephemeral white and yellow mass for very long now, his thoughts drifting to a woman, Catherine…Catherine K., the single most lovely woman in this world, whose short appearances in his life seemed to both intensify and drown out all things in his life since…it’s been very long now…now…

Just as he was about to direct his thoughts out of the immense complex that was Catherine, the door bell suddenly buzzed in the dead silence. Caught all too surprised, Raymond rushed to his feet, not realizing he was still holding the small letter in his left hand—it had been caught in a crack in the oak armrest, and upon the abrupt pull it was ripped open—a red form fell out—so it was a telegram then, and an urgent one at that! But there was the door to answer first—the bell buzzed a second time, hesitantly, as if the ringer was not sure of the address. Raymond righted his bow tie and brushed a hand over his already impeccable hair, and opened the door—only to find the new post office boy shuffling his feet on the door mat, a little red in the face and whizzed a bit. When did he come through the main gate? “—sir, I pressed the bell at the gate but ain’t no one was answering me, so I’d thought I’d better come in drop the mail at your door, I was wondering—“ “Yes, yes, I am sorry I did not hear the bell ring, I’ll take them here, thank you very much.” Raymond didn’t let the boy have another chance slipping curious peeks past his broad build; he took the moderate bundle of mail and politely but firmly shut the door.

Chapter 3

Diary, 11 November

“I went to the strange mansion again! I was supposed to take the Lake district mail today, but I swore to boss that I had to pick up an important parcel down at Queen’s and hopped on my bike, heart pounding and heading straight to Mansion. I hopped off the bike far from reaching—don’t want to alert the mystery man if I can help it!—and walked up to the house with the mail bundle. I’d be damned—when I arrived at the gate, it was slightly ajar! Someone must have been careless and forgot to lock it. My finger hovered over the bell button for a few seconds, and then, from the corner of my eyes, I saw a broad figure leaning over one of the bigger windows, seems to be lost in those strange yellow flowers. He’s not facing my direction now…if I’d just try this…I dunno how I reasoned with myself, but fifteen seconds later I’ve crossed the desolate garden path and now standing at the front porch, no one seemed to be any wiser..

Now, I could do two things: knock on the door and deliver the mail, before anyone comes back, OR, have a look around first. Since I've got this far…But I was disappointed. The front porch is a spacious structure, still has the suggestions of the grandeur of decoration and lush vines it used to boast, but now it’s just a barren, dusty porch, rundown from disuse and lack of care. The white marble floor has grown an ungracious grey, and the rich crimson carpet has worn a bit threadbare...wait, door mat. There would always be something under a door mat—a key, a letter, a note, anything. Excited by the idea, I swallowed hard to contain my nervousness, and lifted a corner of the carpet, quickly and quietly as I could manage. Nothing, just the same plain marble, a tad whiter than the uncovered part. I lifted the opposite corner—nothing. The third corner and I laid down the heavy fabric laughing at my simplemindedness. The last corner didn’t give up any note either, and I yanked my arm out of frustration. And there and then, I saw a faint corner of an engraving, covered under the center of the big carpet. Damn! I carefully rolled the carpet to one side, not caring if anyone would suddenly open the door on me now. There it was, in classical style, an elegant engraving that read,

The Cypress.

Property of King and Kerr.

1712.

I was totally blown away. I knew this was an old house, but I didn’t expect it to be this old. And King? Isn’t the mystery man also a Mr. King? But he seems more like a caretaker than the owner of the house! Of course Kings abound just like Smiths and Jacksons, but this remains an interesting point to investigate…hmmm…but I couldn’t squat there feeling up the old engravings forever. I gave it a deep last look and rolled back the carpet, shuffling my feet on it to make it even again—and clumsy me, I tripped! Falling forward, my right arm inadvertently pressed on the bell, making a rather shrill sound in the stillness. I hurriedly picked up the mail bundle from the floor and kept smoothing the carpet under my feet. Odd that no one answered the door sooner. I couldn’t hear a thing moving beyond the thick oak door, so I pressed a second time, not sure if I was discovered, but did not wish to run away and look guilty either.

The door opened on me as abruptly as his last appearance; I almost jumped. Stammering a bit I said the words I just made up ten seconds ago, and before I even managed to probe if he knew a Mr Kerr in the neighborhood, he cut me short, obviously perturbed by my less-than-discreet peeks past him, and definitely also something else. Promptly thanked me and without another word, I found myself empty-handed and facing a shut door again.

But the few seconds I got to steal a look was…amazing! Despite the decrepit looks on the outside, I am sure the inside of mansion is as immaculate as it was three centuries ago. Old, oaken furniture, a huge library spanning the walls, old paintings and portraits, oriental carpets—it was something I’d only seen in period dramas—except one thing: the old-world harmony of the place is also disrupted by the cramming of a lot of idiosyncratic, out-of-place boxes. I saw a set of quaint Chinese medicine cabinet-like chest of drawers at the far end of the hall, and right beside it was a bronze set, and then a wooden one and a stainless steel one, each with one to a few drawers or slots, and all with locks. Unless I am very much mistaken, they must be used for mailboxes—you just can’t name another use for them weird little chests of drawers! And they very well explain the tiny numbers on those mail..well, not quite explain it, but now I have an inkling of what they are for…they are indexes.

SMR 3

I darted through the neighbourhood of Moonriver Lane and was greatly relieved when the road sign was far behind me. The mystic aura of the gigantic mansion, however, still lingered on like the endless summer rain. I stopped, composed myself for a second and turned around. Now a silhouette shrouded in a greying mist of dampness, its once looming presence seemed to be overtaken by an unspeakable air of melancholic calmess . Suddenly I heard someone calling out my name. The voice, distant and surreal, unmistakingly whispered a dreamy spell. 'Never answer the devil's call. They eat your heart away.' Grandma's story rushed to my head. As if seized by madness, I frantically pushed down the peddle and never ever looked back.


Chapter 2
The howling wind rudely shook the windows, their serpentine tongues slurping away at man's vulnerability, hissing at every possible hole, or a careless crevice.

'S - I - R - E ...'

The man slotted in the last letter and turned his head towards the sound.

It was just the wind.

He scowled, his stern face now a worrying look of age. He became very sensitive recently. Even the slightest sound, a bird's flapping wings, or a disturbed ripple in the pond, struck his nerves and threatened to echo in the haunted house of dead memories. A sudden chill escaped from the North wall. He tightened his collar and remembered her warm breath around his neck, tickling and damp.

There was no letter for him today.

He glanced at the amber coloured wooden mailbox, the only unnumbered one among a mirage of fanciful collections. He reserved it for himself. The golden warm colour reminded him of certain things, things he once loved. There was the copper-lidded squarish case with Roman number 'VIII' on it, and another funny-shaped box handmade with vine. Who did it belong to? Was it the old man with the trademark slanted mouth? He always had a pipe dangling between his yellowing teeth, which made his face all the more dispicably annoying.

He didn't know their names, just faces he could tag with a number, the mailbox number.

'Bonsoir, Mr. King. How's your day?' No. 17 came last night to retrieve a thick stack of letters which had accumulated for a month and as a result, almost went stale from the damp weather. They greeted politely and exchanged very few words. For them, he was Mr. King, no more a real person than a name spelt out in monotone. K, I, N, G. And them, imaginary numbers with faces he couldn't tell the real from the fake.

He almost forgot when or why he started this strange business. None of them asked and the reason soon hid itself in the coffin, together with other forgotten secrets. With hands stuck in the pocket, he strolled towards the door. The routine mail sorting was over. It was time to leave.

There he hesitated, moved four steps forward, only to retrieve ten steps back which brought him right in front of number 6. It had been months since the owner last cleared out the letters. Mr. King stared at the pile of papers which threatened to burst out of their confinement. Soon he'd have to move it to a bigger mailbox but what was the use? Mr. no. 6 never came. Yet another letter arrived this morning.

Mr. King kept it his golden rule never to invade his customers' privacy. It was clearly stated in the agreement never to open others' letters unless granted with special permission.

Still, this letter intrigued him.

Through the palm-sized translucent envelop, it didn't take too much effort to make out a tiny strip of paper. So it wasn't a written letter but a strip of paper? Probably a telegram or pure mischief. Or what could it be?


ps. I was depending on you for the title. You sure you want 'strange mail room'? It sounds funny to me though.

pps. Just now I went back to your continuation and checked again if the flow was natural, and there was paragraph two! Wasn't there this morning when I looked. Good one though. the postoffice boy of course played an important role. Now I think about it, just scrap that first paragraph I wrote since it clashed. Hope the parallel happenings at King's side wasn't too abrupt. I didn't bring out the dark nature in him though coz I'm not sure how to. There was a bit of shading on his past about a woman. I'll leave it to you to decide her possible role. Add in something if you will, coz the sudden lightening of tone sort of went a bit offtrack with the foreshadowing about his mysterious look and dark clothing.

the strange mail room, continuée par Jady

Amazing. And why does it sound like it's gonna be a half thriller half fantasy flick again? LoL. Ok, no discussion, I'll just continue.

So I was there in the grey, troubled downpour, fingering the stack and unsure what to do next when a deep voice suddenly boomed in my ear, 'boy, I believe those are for me, thank you very much.' I jumped and almost dropped the loosened bundle, and turned, shamefaced, only to be confronted by a stern, expressionless face. It was humid, warm day, and the moment I saw him I couldn't help cold goose bumps bobbing on my back—the man was well-built, and well-dressed in a black three-piece suit, which struck me as too thick for the weather and too formal anyway, his face, even and handsome, didn't betray the smallest hint at his age, but what made my nerves frantic with discomfort, was something I couldn't quite name. It was perhaps all the small yet very noticeable oddities about the man. His unblemished skin, for one, was pale and translucent like milky glass veined with faint lilac lines; his seagreen feline eyes, streaked with dark golden rays, held me steadfast and gave me an uncanny feeling that he could read my mind and was reading it there and then; but his gloved hands, though quick and polite when he reached over for the letters, were somewhat neurotically shaky. I held his gaze for only that couple of seconds, and he withdrew into himself like the setting sun calling back all the rays, suddenly inaccessibly distant, and quicky disappeared beyond the heavy oak doors of the old mansion. I don't know for how long I stood there, staring fixed at the crimson, immaculately maintained mansion, until one moment I suddenly shook awake, as if just escaped a nightmare, and rode my bike away as fast as my leaden limbs could manage.

Back to the post office. I put down the empty canvas bag and collapsed at one corner of the mail sorting room, drenched and still breathless from the strange encounter. Fortunately it was quite deserted in the late afternoon, I heard the postmaster answering a phone call in the next room, and no one else was around to witness my pale-faced aftershock. But I wasn't someone that scares easy and shrinks away in defeat from a mystery. My old man believed all along that I'd become a scientist or something, because I have an unusually strong, innate inquisitiveness in me that never let anything pass by unanswered or unexplained for, that I easily stood out from the simple, unquestioning townsfolk. And there I was on the cobblestone floor, calming down and devising plans to revisit the place and find out more, when a familiar voice halted my thoughts—'how ye doing my boy, you don't look too well. Must be the storm? Helluva heavy one eh, haven't had one like this in years..' 'yeah indeed. I think I'd better take off early and change into some dry clothes, sir, before I catch a cold or something.' I hurriedly cut the old postmaster short, before he lapsed into long reminiscence again. The old man worked here since as far as I could trace my memories back, and probably could be traced to years before I was even born. He's like the grandpa for every kid in town, a wise old man with a memory like an elephant's; almost a walking depository of the whole town's stories. He beamed at me and nodded permission. As I passed him, his wrinkles seemed a bit more gathered than his usual, relaxed self, and I wondered what could possibly be on his mind, troubling him. 'Take good care, son!' his last kind words reverberated in the dense downpour, almost like an admonishment; I waved him goodbye and broke into the pummeling rain.

the strange mail room

A tentative start after 'the bird'. I forgot which object/event made me jump at the idea. Oh yeah, well, anyway. It's about my forever changing address. My winter/fall academic report was mailed back home. I was kinda pissed for a while. I thought they'd mail it to my summer residence but instead they used my home address and as a result, my parents were the first to look at it. Whatever happens to my privacy!!! Then I thought there's so much inconvenience and 'sorrow' for someone forever on the move. It would be nice to have a safe address where you can always go back to retrieve your mails, no worries about the safety or its permanence.

The skeleton
There was a mysterious person who went with the name 'Raymond King' (change the name if you want, I suck at naming). Age? Not sure. Nobody knows. He looked like in his late 20s or early 30s. He lived in a big mansion in which there was the strange mail room. There were 77 pigeon holes each clearly numbered. The incoming letters were all addressed to him, with the same address '1 moonriver lane, queen's circle'. Each morning, Mr. Raymond King would rountinely go to the mailroom, spent a couple of minutes there making sure the letters were correctly sorted out to their right pigeon hole. And every morning he would sit there on the wooden stage, lost in thought, as if waiting for someone. He thinks he's the dream keeper, guarding the mails as if they're tender dreams that would one day escape.

And some day, not sure when because you never know when, some strangers would come and open the pigeon hole with their key, retrieve their mails and go away. Most would smile and say 'hi' if they bump into Mr. King. They exchange v few words.

It was a small business. People who for various reasons were in need of a permanent and secretive mailing address, could request a mailbox through Mr. King. The key was mailed to them so they could come and check their mails anytime they want.

That's the main storyline which doesn't even sound like a story for now. I'm sure you can do sth about it hahaha!


Here're figments of ideas. Let's flesh out the story. Hmm, is first person narration alrite? If not, change it anyway you want.



The Strange Mail Room (title pending...)

It was a rainy Saturday morning.

I quickly brushed off the raindrops on my watch and stared hard. It was too dark. I leaned a bit forward to retrieve some natural light, only to discover half my body was now out of the shed and the raging rain threatened to throw me off my bike.

The watch was fogging up from inside, making the rhythmic movement of the second hand a blurry ghost on patrol. The clockwork would soon rust. I stroked hard at the glass panel, cursing bitterly under my breath why my only luck ran out on the first day of this new job.

'Get the mails and finish the delivery by noon.' The officer said and there I went off in a flash of second, my heart welling up with the excitement of a nine year old boy embarking on his first adventure. Well, there I lied. I would soon be twenty by summer's end. But I was excited nonetheless, until someone poured two buckets of ink into the sky and the storm ensued. It must have been five buckets of ink, or his rage. The rain drops felt hot on the cheek. Maybe it was summer?

About five more minutes to Moonriver Lane, my next destination. I did a head calculation and tapped my foot impatiently at the pavement. Snatching up a handful of letters, I studied the address as I prayed for the rain to cease. It bothered me. Honestly speaking the minute I retrieved those letters from the big deposit box, I had an eccentric feeling hanging at the back of my mind.

To Mr. Raymond King
1 Moonriver Lane
Queen's Circle
154266

Mesmerizd, I flipped to another letter below. It had already been sorted out. I did a quick count with my fingers and there lay 10 letters, with exactly the same address. Wait! I was almost fooled! There below 'King' was carefully subscripted a numerical, almost too small to be discerned. Something screamed at me 'this's no simple case'! I could hardly control my boiling excitement at the new discovery that my hands shook a little. Three letters subscripted '9', and the rest with different numericals ranging from 3 to 67. It couldn't be there were 67 Raymond Kings!

TO BE C'TD (BY JADY)
off judy went...