Hand Delivered

Flash Fiction | 3 Minute Read

Feb 08, 2024

This story was written in response to a new writing challenge I posted in the Stop Writing Alone community and on the Stop Writing Alone Instagram account. I am calling the challenge #fictioninfeb. This is a story based on the prompt for the day.

This story is a 3 minute read.

Hand Delivered

The forecasted rain had just begun to fall when, as I looked down toward the mechanisms of my umbrella, I saw a postcard lying on the sidewalk. I opened the umbrella over my head and over the postcard with a fwoomp. I crouched to lift up the slightly pockmarked card, gently wiping it on the side of my bag. I wished to free it of the tiny bits of sidewalk debris without pressing the first drizzles of rainfall into its soluble flesh.

The postcard had a photograph of a sunny, brick laid street with a cast iron cafe table and chair in the forefront and colorful awnings hanging over other cafes and storefronts as the street curved downward out of sight. There was no mention of the place this photograph was taken, but the grassy hills in the background helped paint a landscape I was completely unfamiliar with. I flipped the postcard over like a voyeur, unable to stop myself from reading the message not intended for me. The letters were so carefully crafted I felt as if this postcard must’ve sat on an easel while the artist brushed each one on with the same care Michangelo reserved for his masterpieces. It read,

My Darling,

Let nothing stand in your way, come find me where we sit so long we let the tea cool and the sun set all in the name of time spent together.

I am waiting for you.

Forever Yours,

I felt, at once, I must not rest until this message was delivered appropriately, by hand. It held the promise of everything I had ever longed for – another soul to spend my time with – and if I still could not grasp it for myself, I would not stand in the way of someone else receiving this key to their joy. The address, just as carefully etched as the message, had no addressee, but was on a street I was familiar with, and was close by.

The rain began to fall a bit more fiercely, raindrops bouncing off the ground as they fell, splashing on the tops of my shoes and the cuffs of my pantsuit, but I moved forward. Work was done for the day, my empty apartment no more longed for me as I did for it, and, if I ever wished to lay claim to the fact that I was a romantic, it was imperative I see this mission through. I walked by the door to my apartment building, continuing on two more blocks before turning. That was when the clouds increased in their ferocity, blocking out the sun’s final attempts to hang onto the day. It was dark when I arrived at the building the postcard was addressed to. I walked up to the door to make sure I was reading its number correctly.

There was no mailbox or mail slot. I stood, staring at the large gray building with a black wooden door, befuddled. I couldn’t remember ever noticing the building before, but wondered if it looked different in the sunlight. Under the cloud filled sky, drenched with the torrents of rain, it appeared Medieval, as if influenced by castles from far away lands, as if this large black door would open downward and forward to help visitors cross from present day into its interior other-realm. But all of that was only how it seemed, and perceptions are often askew under the guise of weird weather, so I steadied myself before the odd place, thinking of the next step in my mission to deliver a happily ever after to some stranger within.

The rain beat a rhythm on my umbrella like a metronome unhinged. I wanted to be done with the deed and back home to my routine, but I could not leave this card out in the rain to be disintegrated in the elements. I knocked, feeling as though the sound echoed behind the door into an unseen, cavernous foyer. I knocked again, but harder. The door opened under my force.

“Hello?” I said, taking a step through the opening, cascading my umbrella behind me as I did so. I turned slightly to close it, careful to keep the postcard under my arm where still falling raindrops and splashes from the umbrella’s close would not reach it. “Excuse me? Is anyone here? Hello?”

I stepped fully in, hoping to find a small table or counter to set the postcard down upon before I slipped back out the door, but the darkness of the storm outside had swallowed the interior whole. There was a light up ahead, coming from beneath another door, so I walked forward, tentatively, repeating, “Hello?” I knocked on the wall. “Your door was open, I have a postcard for you…”

I knocked on the door with the light seeping beneath. It felt warm. I wondered if I had reached the home’s kitchen. “I’m so sorry,” I said loudly. “I don’t mean to intrude.” I pushed the door open. “Hel–”

I dropped the umbrella to the floor.

I no longer needed it.

In front of me the sun was high in the sky, the brick laid street and the rolling grassy hills beyond were all bone dry. I stepped in, walking toward a cast iron cafe table with a steaming pot of tea on top and two chairs beside it. One chair was occupied, the other one left empty for me.

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The inspiration

a list of the 29 word prompts in the #fictioninfeb @stopwritingalone writing challenge

If you are interested in the challenge that inspired this micro fiction, you can read the post I shared with the Stop Writing Alone community about it: