Monday, 21 February 2011

The Letter

This is a little bit of flash fiction that I wrote last week (I know, late again, bugger off). It's slightly idiosyncratic and very silly, but it was quite fun to write. It's also a true story... kinda

“What's this?” he exclaimed, holding the envelope aloft, “A letter?” 

He squinted at the eloquent hand, trying to decide from whom it was from. He had a fairly good idea in any case; who else sent him letters these days.
His heart rising in his chest, he swiftly tore the top of the envelope, not bothering with the seal, and tearing the stamp slightly. He cursed under his breath before remembering that stamps were so common and lacking in interesting motifs, that no-one collected them anymore. Still, this one was adorned with tartan, wavering slightly in wind that one had to imagine, a silver silhouette of Her Majesty, the Queen perching on the top corner. It was a shame to see such a quaint little thing bear a tear, no matter how insignificant.

The matter at hand was by no means insignificant, however, so he did not allow his attention to be distracted by the stamp for too long. With hands clumsy in anticipation, he tore the card from its envelope. A smile grew on his face as he regarded the minimalistic black elephant adorning the front cover, its trunk upturned and a huge love heart sprouting from it, as though the elephant forged the thing from its own nose. The motif was all the more charming and sweet for its simplicity.
He hand trembled as he opened the cream coloured card, noting the beautifully smooth but good quality texture of the paper as he did, and was confronted with a veritable wall of text. He had approached such walls before, and thought, now, about the card and accompanying piece of paper, still nestled in his top draw. He took them out to re-read them every so often. It was with great joy, and a little trepidation at the size of it, that he settled down to read the megalith.
His smile grew and grew as he scanned the adoring words. The flowing, elegant script was, in itself, a joy to read, and the words were doubly so. They were exactly as simultaneously coy, self-righteous (not at all in the arrogant, self-centred way people associate with the word) and loving as he had come to expect from her. He read and re-read it several times, savouring the words. In his head, he heard her voice speaking the words to him, and he smiled at the memory of her powerful, but tender, well spoken but not pompous voice, which he had grown to love so. 
Propping the card up on his desk, having cleared a space for it in his paper-riddled mess, he smiled and settled down to his computer. He opened his word processor, his hands resting carefully on the keys, as comfortable as with a pen in his hand (if not more), and settled down…
…to write this story.

Yeah, I know, Valentine's Day was last week, but shush, I've had a busy week.

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