Mailbox
One black mail box, twelve inches deep by
five inches wide. Large enough to hold any
letter or package to ever arrive. It hangs
tilted to one side, the nails holding it to its
post straining under the weight that years of
loneliness put upon it. Slowly its mouth opens
and shuts in the wind, creaking out its cries for
company. The flag long rusted off so the mail truck
simply drives by, kicking dust into its face again and
again. Finally it gives up and releases its cling to
the past, crashing to the rocks below with
such a clatter, but no one heard a sound.
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