Weekly Challenge #796 – Letter



The Letter

The letter was waiting for me on the kitchen table.

I collapsed, bleary-eyed and hungover into the nearest chair, fumbling for the envelope, then hesitated.

My name, written in her precise hand, with that distinctive, thick underline, was more of a statement than a mere word. An accusation, oozing venom and anger.

The letter fell from my fingers, but it was my senses that were numb and unfeeling.

Like countless others preceding it, this letter would remain unread, and I would move on.

Time for another relationship, another failed attempt…

And, eventually, another letter left on my kitchen table. cc


What’s the color of a letter? Is an A a whispered amber? Is a B a bitter lemon? He didn’t know.
But he kept writing those letters, his stories told in the tones of the chosen color.
The woman at the stand would smile benevolently and nod.
One day, “I have mail for you!” the envelope marked C! Cosmic latte, he said and they chuckled.
She already had many more letters ready and she hoped he’d skip the D, too many dark and deep colors in that one.
He never figured out it was her and she continued to smile.


Deep Mem

I do not like needles. I remember my first experience with the damage
done. It’s 1950s and the Gov has got this great idea. Round up all the kid
in a school gym. A spot, usually on the upper arm, is scraped by a lancet,
so that the outer layers of the epidermis are removed; the spot is then
rubbed with an ivory point, quill or tube, carrying the virus. A slight
and usually unimportant illness follows, and the arm is sore for a time, a
characteristic scar remaining. At the time I wonder why everyone was


Well I cleared my 2nd billion dollars today. Oh thous sweet sweet
bitcoins. Got in on the start. Road it up and down. Got nerves of steel.
So what am I going to do will out that moo-la? Thought about it for some
time and final came up with a way to guarantee my place in history. I
purchase a letter. I don’t mean a page of writing. I bought a letter. I
now am the proud own of the letter “Q”. It mine. Want to uses it? It won’t
cost much. A mere 5 cents apiece will do.


I’ve always wanted to send a ransom letter. Not a boring email, or anonymous typed sheet of paper, but one of those exciting ones, composed from cut-out newsprint, and a bloody thumb print for a signature.

It would accompany a small cardboard box, containing a carefully gauze wrapped severed ring finger.

I’d have it all delivered by courier direct to the chief of police; timed to land on their desk along with their morning coffee and sugar-glazed donut.

You may think that’s clichéd, and maybe it is.

But you can’t deny, it’s the proper way to do things.


October 3rd. That is the day I die. All heart and brain function will be stopped for an hour.

I am expected to fully recover, but in case I don’t I’ve prepared.

I wrote letters to people and confessed my secrets and sins to them. All the scams, lies, and infidelities have been laid bare.

Of course, if I survive, no one is supposed to read the letters. I’ll collect them and save them for another day.

If I die a few days later, I have also written a letter to the police. It is a list of possible suspects.


Professor Challenger’s final work baffles every reader, but few now dispute that the carved ornamentation of ancient Ahua is a script, though its letters be hardly carved twice the same way. Alas, those furthering its decipherment reliably go mad, babbling that the world is written in Ahuan, as did that Professor at his end.

Mr. Babbage has lately employed his Analytical Engines to speed the computations. He now claims that the madmen are right: this world is but a vast Engine, and each soul merely the settings of a myriad gear-wheels.

Surely he has succumbed to the Ahuan madness himself!


Billbert took out his phone and snapped a picture of the old house.
His father cleared his throat. “What are you doing, Son?”
“Oh,” he mumbled. “I forgot. I was going to send a picture of the new house to Linoliamanda. I guess I can’t do that, right?”
Both of his parents nodded sadly.
Even though she wouldn’t recognize his new phone number, he couldn’t text her or send her an email. He couldn’t even get out a piece of paper and write Linoliamanda a letter without sending potential leads to the super villain underground.
Eureka was Billbert’s teenage hell.


Her Appointed Rounds

Heart racing, legs pumping, feet pounding, Kayla’s body wants to quit, but she wills herself to keep going. There’s no cover in the streets and her uniform and pack aren’t designed for urban camouflage, so there’s no way to hide; she can only keep moving forward. Her mission is clear: the documents she carries cannot fall into anyone’s hands but the designated recipients’. She clocks a hostile to her right. She avoids tipping off that she spotted him. Her Grumman LLV is 20 yards away; once inside, the dog can’t get her. Only one neighborhood left on her mail route.


There is only one letter in the Bismay Alphabet.
It is the letter Grunt.
It’s pronounced with a grunt.
And drawn with a dash.
Or a dot. Or a splotch.
Just some savage smacking something with something else, really.
Or beating it. Or smashing it.
Sometimes, it’s one Bismay beating the hell out of another.
Hell, they don’t call themselves Bismay.
They just grunt at each other.
Beat their chests.
Beat each other.
That sort of thing.
When they grunted at us, we ran.
Because we didn’t want them beating us, too.
Stay the hell away from that fucking place.

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