Write A Letter Right Now To Mr. Wright

A retrospective by Eloise Beech

     Fall is banging its church bells again, ringing in the ruins of society.  The seas are rolling a peachy green, and the mindset of every day living is falling further and further into the lurch that is a violent end-game deathgrip.  Case in point: my postman does not have a university degree.

     Now you say wait a minute.  Hold on.  Are you attacking the fine institutions that churn out sadistic grave robbing cannibals at least twice a year?  Are you daring to be pretentious enough to say, look, college costs too much money to be of any use:  it is an elitist den-shoppe.  It is a baker's dozen of pure Calvanist machismo hopped up on almighty scratch to itch the grindstone with employee garnish.  Are you actually denigrating those campuses?

     I have this to say:  I am doing exactly that.  Are you going to do something about it?  Are you upset that I said it?  Are you really going to pursue this line of the balls-ass blatant? 

     Whoever didn't say I didn't have a right to believe as I choose to believe?  Does freedom of speech burn one way, to beckon the way of the tree of life, and never turns the cheek or passes the conch to the represented people?  Am I not a citizen?  Do you actually claim that I am no citizen?  Not read a constitution much?

    It is the Autumn time for all people!  Leaves are going to be in the yard, you can bag them or you can mulch them.  Frankly, if you bag them you are a war criminal and deserve to work the lava mines of Alpha Centuri 87.  You unconscionable harbinger!  Mulch goes back to dirt, a bag of leaves stays in a landfill until the sun burns out.  That will be too late then. 

     My mailman is a soviet sympathizer.  It is the way he lifts the flag on the box, like it is his right to do it, like he belongs to it, like a proliteriat, it belongs to him as part of an intrinsic contract, like there is no other way on the entire earth to do it any differently.  The flag is Bolshevik red.  Every single day.  Every day I watch him and he does that same exact thing.  When it is up he puts it down, when it is down he puts it up.  Like an odd form of clockwork.  Except on The Sunday.  On The Sunday, he is always conveniently absent.  I know why that is but I can never tell or they will be here to get me.

     They came to get me before.  This would not be the first time.  Hahahaha, that you think it was the first time.  Not even close.  It happens so often.  They come.  To get me.  There is no other way to explain it.

    I see their van, their truck, their police cruiser, or their ambulance.  It is never a passenger car.  There are always redundant locks everywhere on the day it arrives.  The men wear white coats sometimes.  But sometimes they are dressed in everyday clothes, like bottlenecks with a groping stance and a bilking smile.  Oftentimes they are also from another world.  I have pity on them.  Tremendous pity.  I often weep the entire evening away thinking of their poor miserable lives.  But I can never intimate it to them because if I do they will lock me away in Lavaland on Apha Centuri 87 again.

     I escaped using a very keen method - I willed myself away. You can do this.  If you are ever in prison or being held by any brute that is mean and vicious, will yourself from their presence.  It works every time.  Use your willpower for something useful for a change. I just close my eyes and wake up somewhere else all the time.  You can do this too but you are probably too much of a wimp to assert any such powers (no offense taken).  I feel even sorrier for you than I did for my captors. 

     For this to be happening in the Fall season frankly is the worst problem.  I see that now.  If this were spring or even winter, I feel it would have been better timing.  Anything but Fall.  Late Summer is, to me, 1000% a better timing juncture for this entire episode, but I cannot control the seasons.  I have full power to make it rain, sleet, or snow, anytime at any place, on any mail carrier, but sadly I was never given power over earth seasons. 

    The fun is often had by people who are no fun to be around.  I've noticed that happening too many times to count of late.  As the cold creeps in, one front at a time, I venture to pause and just say, "wait a minute". Something sinister is taking place and I haven't a single clue what it is.  It wakes me in the middle of the night with a start.  It grabs the very doilies that litter the carpet like carnival rubbish.  It is a travesty.  Why are they there?

    I remember now.  I've been out for a few days and just regained a vein of lucid mindset.  The doilies were thrown there by the aliens.  That I am certain of.  It is a level of certainty that transcends human folly.

This is just what they want!  I am going to draft a new letter.  This time, they will be receptive and do as I wish - stop apprehending me with the help of the Stalinist postmaster general.