Ficly

The Letter Arrives

Joe Smalls was a quiet, well-mannered man in his late 30s, or early 40s, unsure of his exact date of birth due to circumstances well beyond his control. His hair was always neatly trimmed, and his face bare of any unsightly stubble. A pressed shirt, tie and slacks would constitute his attire of choice for any activity that took him outside of the house, including fetching the morning paper; an idiosyncrasy that amused his neighbors to no end.

For the past twelve years, Joe had tried to lead an ordinary, unassuming life. Other than his few quirks and the occasional awkward moment, he had succeeded. His past became a distant memory; a tale once told to him rather than a series of events experienced first hand. Until today…

Joe stood at the mailbox, without motion, for two hours before anyone in the neighborhood became suspicious.

“Joe. Are you ok?” Mrs. Anderson asked, gently touching his shoulder.

When he didn’t move or reply, Mrs. Anderson called the police. She would later come to regret that phone call.

View this story's 8 comments.