"Hate Mail" - Contest #24

"Hate Mail"
(the twenty-fourth ACWclub monthly writing contest)

Assignment:
Write a story or poem using the
following title: "Hate Mail"
2500 words or less.

Deadline:
Midnight (DST),
August 15, 2003

All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent.

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Hate Mail
by lee10@host365.com
(Entry #4)

~Winning Entry~

The man sat in a faded armchair and gazed through the French window, without seeing the overgrown garden beyond. A sudden shaft of sunlight caught him, like an actor centre stage, then it faded and was gone.

The woman dusting the mantelpiece noticed the brief spark of spring as it flashed into the room then diffidently crept away. It drew her attention to her husband and she noticed how the thin patch on top of his head was surrounded by wisps of greying hair, hanging lank over the back of his chair. His hands lay on the pages of a Bible, open and unnoticed in his lap. He was wearing an old, beige cardigan over a shirt with a frayed collar. His corduroy trousers were patched at the knees and were barely fit even for gardening. She was startled that he could have aged so visibly, so quickly, but inside herself, where there might have been sympathy, she found only a void. She was empty, as she had been for six months past, waiting for an ending, for a closure to this strange time.

She turned back to her dusting, picking up photographs and polishing each glass in turn. She rubbed hard at the unfashionable silver frame of the oldest. The bride’s smile was broad but the groom was serious. He never learnt how to let go and enjoy life, she thought. Always too serious. Even on our wedding day he was so self-contained. She replaced the photograph next to the only other black and white one. This was a family group. Herself, her husband, wearing his brand-new dog collar with visible pride, a chubby small boy in a sailor-suit and a pretty girl with her hair in pigtails. The boy was scowling at the camera and on impulse she kissed the photograph, remembering how she used to be able to kiss away his frowns.

A coloured photograph showed the same girl, a few years older, riding a fat pony, her fingers entwined in its shaggy mane. There were other photographs of the girl; graduation day, in which her black gown’s blue trim exactly matched the colour of her shining eyes and of her wedding to a grinning boy whose grey top-hat was just a bit too big. The woman replaced the final photograph back on the mantelpiece, the one that had been taken just eight months’ ago, the one in which her husband, the vicar of All Saints Church, Branchesly, was shaking hands with the Archbishop of Canterbury. The Reverend William Beaumanor looked every inch the haughty, stereotypical pillar of society that his congregation had always known him to be.

But that all changed and very quickly his congregation became unsure what to think as the letters came thick and fast; to the Bishop, local shopkeepers, the police, neighbours and to the vicarage itself. It hadn’t taken long for the shell to crack, leaving a moody, bitter man who sat at the window each day, depressed and without purpose. He had coped well in the month following the receipt of the first of the poison pen letters, the one to the local newspaper. Anger kept him going through the gossip that followed the next dozen or so, an anger so intense that it had spilled from the pulpit in some of the best sermons he’d given during his thirty years in the church. The façade began to crumble and the anger fade however, when the Bishop suggested the vicar should take a "well-earned rest till matters sort themselves out."

"Coffee, William?" the woman suggested. Her husband didn’t answer but he flinched at the sound, loud from the hall, of post dropping through the letterbox, slapping onto the parquet floor. The woman pushed the duster into her apron pocket and left the sitting room, closing the door quietly behind her. She picked up the post.

"Readers’ Digest, water bill, rubbish, rubbish," she murmured, sorting through the envelopes. "Rates, rubbish…" She stopped. She set most of the letters down on the hall table and concentrated on the two remaining envelopes. Both were white, addressed in bold, black, italic lettering; one to,

The Vicar, All Saints Vicarage, Branchesly

the other to herself,

Mrs Molly Beaumanor, All Saints Vicarage

The local police had suggested that she take any more hate mail, unopened, straight to the police station, but her hands trembled and a hot flush of fear mixed with delicious excitement crept up her neck. She felt stifled but the overwhelming curiosity was too much for her and she tore open the letter address to her husband.

DEAR VICAR, it read, I’M GOING TO LET YOUR BISHOP KNOW ALL ABOUT YOUR GOINGS-ON WITH THAT TART AT THE BULLS HEAD AND AS HOW YOU HAVE IT ON WITH HER AFTER EVENSONG.

Molly giggled nervously. This was as bad as the one that had accused the vicar of having his hand in the collecting box. She ripped the second letter open.

MY DEAR, the second letter began, YOU ARE TO GOOD FOR THAT GOOD-FOR-NOTHING TOO-TIMING HUSBAND OF YOURS. WHY DON’T YOU ASK HIM ABOUT THAT WHORE HE’S SEEING, THE ONE AS WORKS BEHIND THE BAR AT THE PUB.

YOURS SINSERLY.

Molly Beaumanor read both letters several times. She felt guilty at the pleasure she was gaining from her role in this hate campaign. When she went to the shops these days, she regularly came home with a warm glow to which she was becoming addicted. She eavesdropped unashamedly in the Post Office queue and delighted in overhearing such whispered comments as;

"What a courageous woman the vicar’s wife is, standing by her husband; when there can’t be smoke without fire, can there?"

The best one had been that day in the butcher’s, and the memory still filled her with gratification. It had been difficult not to smile and agree, but Molly had managed to pretend she hadn’t heard a word when old Mrs.Jones, deaf as a post, had loudly proclaimed to her companion,

"She’s a brick that woman. An absolute saint. Even though the vicar’s an arrogant, bombastic bastard, you’ll never hear her say a word against him."

Molly realised she couldn’t stand in the hall all day long and ran upstairs to hide the letters in a drawer, underneath her stockings and corselets. She went back downstairs a little more sedately to make the coffee but as she reached the bottom step, the telephone rang. Adrenaline flushed through her system and sent her heart racing. She tried to ignore the clamorous summons but couldn’t. The need to know who was on the other end of the line was irresistible. She snatched the hall telephone from its hook.

"Hello," she said, catching her breath before continuing, "Branchesly 1-3-2-1."

"Mrs Beaumanor?" a man’s voice enquired.

"Yes, Detective Inspector Fairfax."

The man laughed. "You recognised my voice?"

"Detective Inspector, we have spoken on the telephone on many occasions over the last few months. Of course I recognise your voice." And your fat, piggy face full of blackheads, she thought, and your habit of scratching your backside when you think no one is looking. "What can I do for you?"

"Ah, no, Mrs Beaumanor. This time, it’s what I can do for you that’s important."

"Please explain, Detective Inspector."

There was a pause while the policeman gathered his thoughts and decided how best to break the good news. Finally he blurted out, "We’ve caught her, the poison pen letter writer!"

After all this time, when she had learnt to live with this shadowy third person in her life, the shock of this disclosure hit Molly Beaumanor like a douche of ice-cold water.

"Hello, Mrs Beaumanor? Are you there?"

"Yes, yes, Detective Inspector." Molly regained her composure. "Tell me all about it."

"We have arrested a Miss Veronica Dunkley. She’s admitted everything."

"I don’t know a Miss Dunkley." Molly was puzzled.

"No, Mrs Beaumanor, but your husband does. Seems he refused to allow her to be married in All Saints Church because her fiancé was divorced. By the time they’d found a vicar who would marry them, the fiancé had made another woman pregnant and married her instead. Dunkley blames Reverend Beaumanor for the whole sorry situation."

"My goodness!" Molly sat down heavily on the bottom step of the stairs, clutching the telephone hard. "That means," she hesitated, "no more hate mail?" Her palm was slippery with sweat.

"That’s quite right, Mrs Beaumanor. It’ll all stop and you and the Reverend can get back to normal."

"But…how did you discover the identity of the culprit?" Molly struggled to make sense of the implications of what the policeman was telling her.

"Ah, that’s where the ‘Branchesly Times’ came in handy," he said. "Do you remember two nights ago when they printed a copy of an envelope addressed to the editor?"

Molly remembered. The envelope had contained, according to that night’s editorial, ‘a scurrilous attack on the Reverend Beaumanor, a beloved member of our community.’

"Seems the ex-fiancé recognised the handwriting on the envelope and shopped

Miss Dunkley. She’d also been sending hate mail to him and the new wife, but it was only when he saw the paper that he put two and two together."

There was a difficult pause. Inspector Fairfax assumed Mrs Beaumanor was overcome with relief and continued, "And how is the vicar?"

"Poorly. Very upset," Molly managed to say.

"Bound to be, It’s been a nasty business. Still, he’ll be delighted with the news, won’t he? Things will improve now we’ve caught the woman."

"No doubt they will, Detective Inspector." The image of a rejuvenated vicar crossed her mind. He would enjoy playing the martyr but he would take great pains nevertheless to let everyone know how much he had suffered.

"Oh, and one more thing, Mrs Beaumanor. We’ll be making a statement tonight, the Branchesly Police, that is, on the local television news. Six o’clock it’s scheduled for. I’m sure neither you nor the Reverend will want to miss it."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector. We won’t miss it."

The policeman hung up. Molly remained seated on the stairs, listening to the telephone’s dial tone. After several minutes she remembered that she had offered to make her husband a cup of coffee.

When Molly returned to the sitting room she placed the mug on a table by her husband’s side. He did not acknowledge the coffee, nor did he ask who had telephoned.

Sulking again, Molly thought. Leaving him to drink the coffee or not, as the mood took him, Molly left the room, closed the door soundlessly and trudged upstairs to her bedroom. She sat on her narrow bed, opened the top drawer of her dressing table and took out a picture of a young man who was smiling straight at the camera. The skyline of San Francisco was clear in the background.

"My sweet boy," she murmured.

The picture had laid on top of a diary, which she took out next. She wiped her eyes almost before tears had time to form, opened the book and read;

‘May 10th, 1982

William and Terence argued again today. It was terrible to hear. William is determined that there is no place in his church for a "queer" as he puts it. "Homosexuality and the Church of England are irreconcilable," he shouted above all our son’s reasoning. He refuses to pay for Terence to attend theological college, something the boy has always longed to do. Why is it so hard for the boy, who only wants to follow in his father’s Christian footsteps?’

‘May 11th, 1982

Terence has gone, left home in the night. He left me a note in the kitchen, where his father would be sure not to find it. "Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll come back one day."

I don’t know where he will end up. I’m so frightened for him. He’s so young, so vulnerable. How dare William deny his son? How dare he cause such misery?’

‘June 20th, 1996

My darling boy will never return home! He died of that awful disease, far away in a land not his own. His friend telephoned last night, asked to speak to me. Refused to speak to Terence’s father.

William called it, "God’s judgement" and refuses to discuss our child any further. But I want to talk about my boy. I want to reminisce about his smile and that dimple that always appeared in his cheek when he was sleeping. He was such a lovely young man.’

‘March 2nd, 2003

It never soured Terence, his father turning against him that is. I, on the other hand, will never forgive William. I have, may God forgive me, enjoyed his recent sufferings. God’s judgement, William’s punishment, is here and now and I rejoice in it.’

Molly Beaumanor closed the diary on the previous day’s entry. Without hesitation she took the poison pen letters from their hiding place and smoothed then open. In her writing bureau she found a writing pad and a pen with a thick, black nib. Carefully, copying the other woman’s handwriting she wrote;

DEAR EDITOR, BRANCHESLY TIMES.

THE POLICE ARE FOOLS. JUST LIKE THE VICAR OF ALLSAINTS. THEY THINK THEY HAVE ARRESTED THE PERSON WHO IS DEDICATED TO TELLING THE TRUTH ABOUT THE THEIVING, FORNIKATING VICAR. THEY ARE WRONG…….

Home

Hate Mail
by Mark Lambert
marknutswriter@aol.com
(Entry #1)

~Runner Up~

Alec Lawson sat in his comfortable apartment, contemplating the phone call he'd received. An old school friend had got in touch and told him about a new Internet site where ex-classmates could post entries. Alec wasn't impressed; he'd moved on so much that he had no desire to contact those people. He was successful now, and was enjoying life with a new girlfriend, so what happened fifteen years ago was of no interest to him. Also, he'd always thought of the Internet as a novelty, and most of those people wouldn't bother getting in touch if it wasn't made so simple for them.

A few things bothered him though. Mentions of old names, especially Rachel Smith and Philip Gerkan. After a few glasses of wine, Alec's curiosity got the better of him.He switched on his PC, and linked to the net. Another glass of wine while I look at this, he thought.

In the browser, he typed in what his old friend had told him:

www.gatesburyhighschool.net

A window on the screen opened, revealing a picture of his old school.

"Great photography," he mumbled.

A list on the front page read:

Students
Classes
Staff
Old Scholars

There it was. 'Old Scholars.' He clicked on it. Another list offered him to click on '1980 starters.' That was him. The screen changed to reveal a list of names, most of whom he had not seen for at least fifteen years. They brought back memories of his time at the school, some good, some bad but always a laugh.

He clicked on 'Rachel Evans (nee Smith)'

A window popped up.

>Hi, Rachel here. What a great site!
>Married to Liam with four kids!
>I remember Lee, Dave,
>Sarah, Rebecca and Vicky. If anyone
>remembers me, please e-mail!

"She hasn't mentioned me!"

Another click on 'Philip Gerkan.'

>Hello. I was known as "Gerky" in my time there.
>I remember those cross-country runs
>and those who pushed me into the puddles!

"Yeah, that was me," said Alec

>Also, the time when Sooty and Pratty took my
>trousers off in assembly! The worst thing ever
>at the time, but I laugh about it now!

"Worst thing ever! What about when I flushed the toilet with your head in it?"

>Now living in Hong Kong with my wife Melissa
>and three kids, as a tax exile!
>Love to hear from 'Sooty', Sarah, Michelle
>and Vanessa.

"Tax-exile? His way of saying that he's making loads of money. So what."

Alec scanned the rest of the entries on the site. Only two entries from people he hardly remembered mentioned him. He sat back, another glass of wine in his hand. His thoughts were contradictory. Why did he look? It's a rubbish novelty anyway, but why didn't Rachel mention me? He wrestled with thoughts of sending an e-mail to some of those people, or whether to just add his own entry on the site. Rubbish. They don't care anyway. The wine made the decision for him.

He walked unsteadily to the computer and typed the address once more into the browser.

www.gatesburyhighschool.net

He found his way back to '1980 starters.'

Make Your Own Entry

He clicked on the link and started typing into the window that appeared.

>Alec Lawson here. Remember me?
>I just wonder how many of you people would
>have bothered to get in touch if it wasn't for
>the SIMPLE EASE AND NOVELTY that is the Internet.
>Fact is, none of you would have bothered without it.

Submit

He clicked.

"So what if they don't like what I've said?"

He switched the PC off, stepped into the bedroom, toppled forward onto his bed and fell into a deep sleep.

******

Saturday:

Alec woke to the buzzing of his alarm clock. He realised he was fully clothed from the night before and heard the early morning teen program screeching coming from the TV set which he'd left on all night. He felt terrible.

A slow shower and two cups of tea later, he sat, trying to remember what he had actually done the night before.

A vague remembrance. He switched the PC on and linked to the Internet.

'You have e-mail,' the soft female voice announced.

"One from Rachel Smith!" He couldn't contain his excitement.

"And one from Gerky."

He clicked on Rachel's e-mail.

>Alec, I do remember you, but why are you being so
>rude after all these years? I take great offence to what
>you have said and I hope that I never hear from you
>again, otherwise I will complain to your Internet
>provider.

He stared at the screen in bewilderment.

He clicked on Gerky's e-mail.

>Whatever you say, Alec. It was a long time ago
>and actually, school was fun for me, whatever happened.
>I'd have thought you'd have grown up by now, rather than
>say those things. Please do not contact me again.

Surely they couldn't be that upset with what he'd posted? But what was that about 'contacting' him?

He clicked on 'sent mail.'

There they were. Two e-mails sent to Rachel and Gerky's addresses.

"I don't remember…"

He clicked on the one sent to Gerky:

>I remember you even if you don't remember me.
>I loved shoving your head down that toilet, you
>idiot. We had fun humiliating you and I'd just love
>the chance to do it all again now.

"What?"

He clicked on the one sent to Rachel:

>I wanted you then, but I reckon I wouldn't want
>you now. I bet you've gone to pot and lost
>your face and figure. I certainly hope so.
>I can only imagine that your husband has to
>think of other women while he's in bed
>with you.

"Surely not. I didn't!"

He knew he'd got drunk and sent the post to the general site, but he couldn't remember sending personal e-mails.

"Why did I bother getting into this?"

He tried to put it all out of his mind and got dressed, ready to meet Susan.

******

Susan ran towards him outside the shopping centre where they had arranged to meet.

"Hi darling, she said. Ooh, you look a bit rough. Late night?"

"Let's do some shopping!" Alec forced a smile.

After an hour visiting mostly clothes shops, Alec carried four bags of Susan's impulse purchases.

"My turn now," said Alec as he spied the electrical store, "I need a DVD player, one of those swanky ones."

After trying out all the knobs and dials on various models, he settled on one. The salesman brought the box to the counter and Alec handed over his bank card.

"Er, we seem to be having a little problem here sir," said the salesman, a little too loudly for Alec's liking.

"What?"

"Your card is cancelled sir," said the salesman.

"No, it can't be, I paid some off yesterday!"

"Sir, I can only go on what the computer says."

"There must be some mistake," said Alec, trying to keep control, "try this one."

The salesman ran it through the machine and his eyebrows raised.

"Sorry sir, this one also."

"What! And, er, can you keep your voice down please," Alec whispered, but almost spat at the salesman.

Susan handed over her own card.

"You can pay me back next week," she said, rubbing Alec's arm comfortingly.

*******

Alec couldn't stop talking about his cancelled cards all the way home,right up until he made the phone call to the bank.

"All of them? This must be fraud!" A few minutes passed before he hung up.

"What happened?" asked Susan, who had cleverly manoeuvred herself into the kitchen while the phone call was made.

"I'm basically a non-person," said Alec, his head in his hands. "I don't know how this could have happened."

"Look, I've just got my bonus at work and I'll keep you in food until this is all sorted out," she smiled, reassuringly.

"And wine?"

"And wine," she laughed.

*******

Monday:

Alec spent much of the day on the phone to his bank, in between trying to sell a bulk consignment of jeans to the best bidder. Lunch came and went in a flurry of phone calls and nibbles at a sandwich eaten at his desk.

Alec's phone rang. It was a call from his manager, asking him to come to his office.

Alec walked in confidently. "Hi Mike, what's up?"

Mike Hitchens, the area manager, sat stone-faced. Across the desk to his left sat a smartly dressed woman, with a notepad on her lap. Alec sensed a frosty atmosphere.

"Sit down Alec," said Mike.

"Alec, do you know anything about this?" Mike handed a sheet of paper to him.

Alec read the words, a slow look of astonishment coming over his face.

"I didn't send this!"

"Where have you been today?" Mike asked.

"At my desk, all day. I even had my lunch delivered there."

"This was sent midday today," said Mike, "there's been a complaint."

"I certainly didn't write or send that!"

"Alec," Mike put his hands on the desk, "e-mail such as this has to be investigated. The violent and sexual terms used towards the young lady in the e-mail are, of course against company policy."

"But I don't even know her!"

"Alec, I've had to consult Human Resources on this," he nodded towards the woman sitting at the desk, "and there will be an investigation. Until that is completed, I'm going to have to suspend you until further notice." He waved Alec's protestations aside. "An investigation Alec. If you didn't send this, the investigation will show that. Please, I have to do this."

Alec walked home wondering what was happening to him.

*******

Alec picked up the phone and dialled Susan's number. Faced with voice mail,he left a message, "Susan, can you come round. I need to see you." To somehowmake sure, he also sent her an e-mail. He slumped back in his favourite chair and closed his eyes. The PC screen suddenly lit up. A black background with big white letters appeared on the monitor. It read:

"SIMPLE NOVELTY AM I?"

Alec became aware of the glow from the screen. He opened his eyes and approached the PC. He hit a few keys to try to get the PC back to normal, but with no effect. As he wondered where the words on the screen had come from, a whispered voice came from the PC speakers:

"A simple novelty am I?"

Alec tapped the keys, but the screen didn't clear. The voice from the speakers gradually got louder, repeating the phrase over and over again. The words raised to a screeching scream. Alec pulled the plug. The TV screen flickered into life. A black background with big red capital letters read:

"SO YOU THINK I'M SIMPLE?"

Spoken words from the TV speakers grew from a whisper to a scream

"Simple, am I?"

The TV screen changed to read:

"ENJOYING YOUR LIFE?"

Alec pulled the TV plug.

"Do you think you are rid of me?" The voice came from the bedroom.

Alec rushed into the room. The radio alarm was switched on, not displayinga time, but in flashing red:

"I AM HERE NOW."

Again, Alec pulled the plug. He sat, rubbing his head. What on Earth is going on, he thought.

'ding dong!'

Alec opened his apartment door.

"Hi Alec," said Susan, "I came round as soon as I could; I did try to phone, but it was out of order."

He immediately tried the phone. He lifted the receiver and listened.

"I'm still here," the voice whispered.

"What's wrong Alec?"

"Listen to this," he handed the phone to her.

"It's a dial tone. What is wrong!"

Alec plugged the PC in to the wall socket. It booted. He switched the TV back on.

"Look at this," he said.

The PC booted normally and sat, waiting instructions. On the TV, the newsreader related the stories of the day.

"What is it?"

Alec slumped down into his seat.

"Oh, I don't know. I must have been dreaming or something. Everything is going wrong Susan. I've been suspended from work."

"Why? What for?"

"They think I sent a derogatory e-mail to someone and I didn't."

Alec rubbed his forehead with one hand and drummed his fingers on his leg with the other.

"Calm down," said Susan. "I'll make some tea."

He wondered just what was happening to him as his eyes settled on the PC screen. In big red letters, the screen read:

"I'M EVERYWHERE IN YOUR HOUSE."

He sat bolt upright. Suddenly, the lights flickered, coupled with a scream from the kitchen.

"Susan…"

Alec rushed into the kitchen to find Susan lying on the floor, a black burn on herleft hand, her eyes closed. A scorch mark showed on the wall above the kettle plug.He felt for a pulse. Nothing.

"Shit!" He ran to the phone and punched 999 and brought the receiver to his ear.

"I'm everywhere," the voice whispered to him.

The lights flickered again as Alec punched the phone block to try to get a connection.

"Come on you bastard!" shouted Alec, trying to get a response.

The lights flickered like a strobe, throwing shadows on and off throughout the apartment. The figure standing in the kitchen doorway behind him was illuminated and then in shadow, in sequence. Illuminated, shadow, illuminated, shadow. She moved forward into the room, clutching kitchen knives in both hands. Alec turned to see Susan moving towards him.

"Susan, thank God you're ok…"

She stopped.

"I told you I was everywhere," she whispered.

Alec stared in disbelief. "Susan, what are you saying?"

She walked forward, "I am not simple. I am not a novelty."

"Who are you!" shouted Alec, desperately.

The PC and TV screens lit up again in unison. Big black letters on a white background, "I AM NOT A NOVELTY."

Susan rushed at Alec, knives held high. She stabbed downwards at him, catching his leg. Alec fell backwards.

"Susan!"

She was relentless, saying nothing. The only sound was from the TV and PC speakers, "I AM NOT A NOVELTY."

Susan thrashed with the knives, while Alec defended himself as much as he could. Suddenly, she paused, giving him the chance to push her backwards, one knife falling from her grip. Alec took his chance and pinned her down.

"Susan, listen to me. It's not you. It's something in the Internet! It's got into you through the electricity!"

Susan's eyes opened wide.

"You idiot, can't you see she's already dead?"

The words were spat from Susan's mouth. She shrugged off his grip and swung the remaining knife, catching his arm. Alec grabbed the knife which had fallen and plunged it into her chest.

"I'm not a novelty, I'm not a novelty," she shouted as Alec used the knife again and again and again, until no more words came.

He slumped backwards, shocked by what he had done. New words appeared on the PC screen, reading:

"WELL DONE - GOODBYE"

Home

Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.

Hate Mail by Mark Lambert marknutswriter@aol.com	#1 of 16 Runner-up
2492 words
Alec Lawson sat in his comfortable apartment, contemplating the phone call he'd received. An old school friend had got in touch and told him about a new Internet site where ex-classmates could post entries. Alec wasn't impressed; he'd moved on so much that he had no desire to contact those people. He was successful now, and was enjoying life with a new girlfriend, so what happened fifteen years ago was of no interest to him. Also, he'd always thought of the Internet as a novelty, and most of those people wouldn't bother getting in touch if it wasn't made so simple for them. A few things bothered him though. Mentions of old names, especially Rachel Smith and Philip Gerkan. After a few glasses of wine, Alec's curiosity got the better of him.He switched on his PC, and linked to the net. Another glass of wine while I look at this, he thought. In the browser, he typed in what his old friend had told him: www.gatesburyhighschool.net A window on the screen opened, revealing a picture of his old school. "Great photography," he mumbled. A list on the front page read: Students Classes Staff Old Scholars There it was. 'Old Scholars.' He clicked on it. Another list offered him to click on '1980 starters.' That was him. The screen changed to reveal a list of names, most of whom he had not seen for at least fifteen years. They brought back memories of his time at the school, some good, some bad but always a laugh. He clicked on 'Rachel Evans (nee Smith)' A window popped up. >Hi, Rachel here. What a great site! >Married to Liam with four kids! >I remember Lee, Dave, >Sarah, Rebecca and Vicky. If anyone >remembers me, please e-mail! "She hasn't mentioned me!" Another click on 'Philip Gerkan.' >Hello. I was known as "Gerky" in my time there. >I remember those cross-country runs >and those who pushed me into the puddles! "Yeah, that was me," said Alec >Also, the time when Sooty and Pratty took my >trousers off in assembly! The worst thing ever >at the time, but I laugh about it now! "Worst thing ever! What about when I flushed the toilet with your head in it?" >Now living in Hong Kong with my wife Melissa >and three kids, as a tax exile! >Love to hear from 'Sooty', Sarah, Michelle >and Vanessa. "Tax-exile? His way of saying that he's making loads of money. So what." Alec scanned the rest of the entries on the site. Only two entries from people he hardly remembered mentioned him. He sat back, another glass of wine in his hand. His thoughts were contradictory. Why did he look? It's a rubbish novelty anyway, but why didn't Rachel mention me? He wrestled with thoughts of sending an e-mail to some of those people, or whether to just add his own entry on the site. Rubbish. They don't care anyway. The wine made the decision for him. He walked unsteadily to the computer and typed the address once more into the browser. www.gatesburyhighschool.net He found his way back to '1980 starters.' Make Your Own Entry He clicked on the link and started typing into the window that appeared. >Alec Lawson here. Remember me? >I just wonder how many of you people would >have bothered to get in touch if it wasn't for >the SIMPLE EASE AND NOVELTY that is the Internet. >Fact is, none of you would have bothered without it. Submit He clicked. "So what if they don't like what I've said?" He switched the PC off, stepped into the bedroom, toppled forward onto his bed and fell into a deep sleep. **** Saturday: Alec woke to the buzzing of his alarm clock. He realised he was fully clothed from the night before and heard the early morning teen program screeching coming from the TV set which he'd left on all night. He felt terrible. A slow shower and two cups of tea later, he sat, trying to remember what he had actually done the night before. A vague remembrance. He switched the PC on and linked to the Internet. 'You have e-mail,' the soft female voice announced. "One from Rachel Smith!" He couldn't contain his excitement. "And one from Gerky." He clicked on Rachel's e-mail. >Alec, I do remember you, but why are you being so >rude after all these years? I take great offence to what >you have said and I hope that I never hear from you >again, otherwise I will complain to your Internet >provider. He stared at the screen in bewilderment. He clicked on Gerky's e-mail. >Whatever you say, Alec. It was a long time ago >and actually, school was fun for me, whatever happened. >I'd have thought you'd have grown up by now, rather than >say those things. Please do not contact me again. Surely they couldn't be that upset with what he'd posted? But what was that about 'contacting' him? He clicked on 'sent mail.' There they were. Two e-mails sent to Rachel and Gerky's addresses. "I don't remember…" He clicked on the one sent to Gerky: >I remember you even if you don't remember me. >I loved shoving your head down that toilet, you >idiot. We had fun humiliating you and I'd just love >the chance to do it all again now. "What?" He clicked on the one sent to Rachel: >I wanted you then, but I reckon I wouldn't want >you now. I bet you've gone to pot and lost >your face and figure. I certainly hope so. >I can only imagine that your husband has to >think of other women while he's in bed >with you. "Surely not. I didn't!" He knew he'd got drunk and sent the post to the general site, but he couldn't remember sending personal e-mails. "Why did I bother getting into this?" He tried to put it all out of his mind and got dressed, ready to meet Susan. ** Susan ran towards him outside the shopping centre where they had arranged to meet. "Hi darling, she said. Ooh, you look a bit rough. Late night?" "Let's do some shopping!" Alec forced a smile. After an hour visiting mostly clothes shops, Alec carried four bags of Susan's impulse purchases. "My turn now," said Alec as he spied the electrical store, "I need a DVD player, one of those swanky ones." After trying out all the knobs and dials on various models, he settled on one. The salesman brought the box to the counter and Alec handed over his bank card. "Er, we seem to be having a little problem here sir," said the salesman, a little too loudly for Alec's liking. "What?" "Your card is cancelled sir," said the salesman. "No, it can't be, I paid some off yesterday!" "Sir, I can only go on what the computer says." "There must be some mistake," said Alec, trying to keep control, "try this one." The salesman ran it through the machine and his eyebrows raised. "Sorry sir, this one also." "What! And, er, can you keep your voice down please," Alec whispered, but almost spat at the salesman. Susan handed over her own card. "You can pay me back next week," she said, rubbing Alec's arm comfortingly. *** Alec couldn't stop talking about his cancelled cards all the way home,right up until he made the phone call to the bank. "All of them? This must be fraud!" A few minutes passed before he hung up. "What happened?" asked Susan, who had cleverly manoeuvred herself into the kitchen while the phone call was made. "I'm basically a non-person," said Alec, his head in his hands. "I don't know how this could have happened." "Look, I've just got my bonus at work and I'll keep you in food until this is all sorted out," she smiled, reassuringly. "And wine?" "And wine," she laughed. *** Monday: Alec spent much of the day on the phone to his bank, in between trying to sell a bulk consignment of jeans to the best bidder. Lunch came and went in a flurry of phone calls and nibbles at a sandwich eaten at his desk. Alec's phone rang. It was a call from his manager, asking him to come to his office. Alec walked in confidently. "Hi Mike, what's up?" Mike Hitchens, the area manager, sat stone-faced. Across the desk to his left sat a smartly dressed woman, with a notepad on her lap. Alec sensed a frosty atmosphere. "Sit down Alec," said Mike. "Alec, do you know anything about this?" Mike handed a sheet of paper to him. Alec read the words, a slow look of astonishment coming over his face. "I didn't send this!" "Where have you been today?" Mike asked. "At my desk, all day. I even had my lunch delivered there." "This was sent midday today," said Mike, "there's been a complaint." "I certainly didn't write or send that!" "Alec," Mike put his hands on the desk, "e-mail such as this has to be investigated. The violent and sexual terms used towards the young lady in the e-mail are, of course against company policy." "But I don't even know her!" "Alec, I've had to consult Human Resources on this," he nodded towards the woman sitting at the desk, "and there will be an investigation. Until that is completed, I'm going to have to suspend you until further notice." He waved Alec's protestations aside. "An investigation Alec. If you didn't send this, the investigation will show that. Please, I have to do this." Alec walked home wondering what was happening to him. ***** Alec picked up the phone and dialled Susan's number. Faced with voice mail,he left a message, "Susan, can you come round. I need to see you." To somehowmake sure, he also sent her an e-mail. He slumped back in his favourite chair and closed his eyes. The PC screen suddenly lit up. A black background with big white letters appeared on the monitor. It read: "SIMPLE NOVELTY AM I?" Alec became aware of the glow from the screen. He opened his eyes and approached the PC. He hit a few keys to try to get the PC back to normal, but with no effect. As he wondered where the words on the screen had come from, a whispered voice came from the PC speakers: "A simple novelty am I?" Alec tapped the keys, but the screen didn't clear. The voice from the speakers gradually got louder, repeating the phrase over and over again. The words raised to a screeching scream. Alec pulled the plug. The TV screen flickered into life. A black background with big red capital letters read: "SO YOU THINK I'M SIMPLE?" Spoken words from the TV speakers grew from a whisper to a scream "Simple, am I?" The TV screen changed to read: "ENJOYING YOUR LIFE?" Alec pulled the TV plug. "Do you think you are rid of me?" The voice came from the bedroom. Alec rushed into the room. The radio alarm was switched on, not displayinga time, but in flashing red: "I AM HERE NOW." Again, Alec pulled the plug. He sat, rubbing his head. What on Earth is going on, he thought. 'ding dong!' Alec opened his apartment door. "Hi Alec," said Susan, "I came round as soon as I could; I did try to phone, but it was out of order." He immediately tried the phone. He lifted the receiver and listened. "I'm still here," the voice whispered. "What's wrong Alec?" "Listen to this," he handed the phone to her. "It's a dial tone. What is wrong!" Alec plugged the PC in to the wall socket. It booted. He switched the TV back on. "Look at this," he said. The PC booted normally and sat, waiting instructions. On the TV, the newsreader related the stories of the day. "What is it?" Alec slumped down into his seat. "Oh, I don't know. I must have been dreaming or something. Everything is going wrong Susan. I've been suspended from work." "Why? What for?" "They think I sent a derogatory e-mail to someone and I didn't." Alec rubbed his forehead with one hand and drummed his fingers on his leg with the other. "Calm down," said Susan. "I'll make some tea." He wondered just what was happening to him as his eyes settled on the PC screen. In big red letters, the screen read: "I'M EVERYWHERE IN YOUR HOUSE." He sat bolt upright. Suddenly, the lights flickered, coupled with a scream from the kitchen. "Susan…" Alec rushed into the kitchen to find Susan lying on the floor, a black burn on herleft hand, her eyes closed. A scorch mark showed on the wall above the kettle plug.He felt for a pulse. Nothing. "Shit!" He ran to the phone and punched 999 and brought the receiver to his ear. "I'm everywhere," the voice whispered to him. The lights flickered again as Alec punched the phone block to try to get a connection. "Come on you bastard!" shouted Alec, trying to get a response. The lights flickered like a strobe, throwing shadows on and off throughout the apartment. The figure standing in the kitchen doorway behind him was illuminated and then in shadow, in sequence. Illuminated, shadow, illuminated, shadow. She moved forward into the room, clutching kitchen knives in both hands. Alec turned to see Susan moving towards him. "Susan, thank God you're ok…" She stopped. "I told you I was everywhere," she whispered. Alec stared in disbelief. "Susan, what are you saying?" She walked forward, "I am not simple. I am not a novelty." "Who are you!" shouted Alec, desperately. The PC and TV screens lit up again in unison. Big black letters on a white background, "I AM NOT A NOVELTY." Susan rushed at Alec, knives held high. She stabbed downwards at him, catching his leg. Alec fell backwards. "Susan!" She was relentless, saying nothing. The only sound was from the TV and PC speakers, "I AM NOT A NOVELTY." Susan thrashed with the knives, while Alec defended himself as much as he could. Suddenly, she paused, giving him the chance to push her backwards, one knife falling from her grip. Alec took his chance and pinned her down. "Susan, listen to me. It's not you. It's something in the Internet! It's got into you through the electricity!" Susan's eyes opened wide. "You idiot, can't you see she's already dead?" The words were spat from Susan's mouth. She shrugged off his grip and swung the remaining knife, catching his arm. Alec grabbed the knife which had fallen and plunged it into her chest. "I'm not a novelty, I'm not a novelty," she shouted as Alec used the knife again and again and again, until no more words came. He slumped backwards, shocked by what he had done. New words appeared on the PC screen, reading: "WELL DONE - GOODBYE"

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Hate Mail by Shobhan Bantwal ShoBantwal@aol.com	#2 of 16
2285 words
My hands don’t shake in irate alarm any more. No tears blind my vision. I’m beyond all that now. It’s been three months since the letters started to arrive. They come at about the rate of three each week. Now I read them with roughly the same amount of passion as I would my monthly bills. By the yellow glow of the table-lamp I scan the letters, one after another, as if they were no more than the pages of a book-an absorbing but not terribly exciting book. They started to arrive on September 13, 2001, two days after the World Trade Center towers crumbled like a child’s sandcastles-twenty-eight hours after the world watched the drama unfold in utter horror-and prayed and cried and cursed and hollered. The first letter our family received began like this: You disgusting brown pigs have no business being in this country. This is our hallowed ground. Get out of here. If you’re not out of here in seventy-two hours you’ll find yourself cut in tiny pieces and fed to the lions in the Bronx Zoo… There was a lot more venom spewed over the page, all of it written in the same vein-bitter animosity, rage, abhorrence, hate-searing, stomach-turning, blood-curdling hate. Another letter said: Eye for an eye… We will torture you and butcher you like you did our brothers and sisters on nine-eleven. You will pay for the sins of your cohorts… We will be watching you. You will never know what hit you… The fact was I was just as livid and filled with revulsion as these letter-writers at what had been done to my fellow Americans in the nine-eleven disaster. I had wept until my eyes had swollen to twice their size. I could understand every one of the sentiments in those letters, but what I couldn’t comprehend was: why pick on us? I had called the police and cried, "But we’re Indians; we’re Hindus; we have nothing to do with this. We love this country. This is our adored home." The police officers had nodded and given me a poker-faced reply, "Most people don’t know the differences between the nationalities, ma’am." The officers’ eyes had silently indicated to me that they felt the same way as the others did. Indians, Pakistanis, Arabs, Malays-what was the difference? We were all damned foreigners who were here to ruin this beautiful country. We were the enemy. I had prayed and asked God why a tragedy of this magnitude had happened to so many innocent human beings. Why couldn’t He, in His infinite wisdom, protect the two stately towers and all the beautiful people in them? And why were my family and I being blamed for it in the bargain? No amount of praying and weeping had helped. The anonymous letters had continued to pour in. They still do. Since that day there has been a constant barrage of not just mail but phone calls and e-mails threatening my family. Some of them have been frightening enough to disturb even the intrepid police, enough to prompt them to put a tracer on our telephone. I’m amazed at my husband, Krishna’s ability to stand tall and face the fire. He has shown incredible bravery in the face of what would have brought a veteran soldier to his knees. His faith in the goodness of the American people is unshakable. "This is only temporary. It’s no more than anger and frustration working its way out of people’s systems," he tells me. I have seriously considered going back to India where my husband and I had emigrated from nearly twenty-five years ago. But Krishna shakes his head, saying no. "This is our home, Jaya," he declares. "No one is going to oust us from here. We have done nothing wrong. We are law-abiding, tax-paying American citizens. We’ll face this together." So I have stayed and gone to work and tried to live my life like nothing unusual has touched our lives. But pretending is one thing; facing reality is another. We are dark-skinned people even if India has had nothing to do with the horrific events that occurred to shake the very foundations of America. We are forced to look over our shoulder now, lie awake at nights, caution our children, install an expensive home alarm system that we can’t afford, check the car each day before we turn on the ignition, and pray as if each hour is our last. Thank God our two daughters are grown and living on their own in other cities. At least Krishna and I don’t have to watch over small and helpless children. But life for us has never been the same since that fateful day. I look at the unadorned Christmas tree in the corner with a wistful sigh. I didn’t want a tree this year, nor presents, nor a holiday dinner, and not even the usual good cheer. But our children have convinced me that life should be celebrated, especially now, when its fragility has been made so evident to those of us who still live. I have agreed to a simple tree and no presents. I’m still mourning for the sweet and innocent souls that perished in the twin towers. No Thanksgiving and no Christmas for the victims’ loved ones this year, I reflect. How are their families holding up under such grief? Will they ever get over the loss? Who will buy presents for the children who lost a parent in the inferno? What will happen to all the businesses that lost everything? My heart aches from the never-ending questions that plague my mind. Forcing my attention back to the present, I neatly stack the mail and clip the sheets together. The stack goes into my folder labeled "December 2001." At the end of each week I arrange the letters by date and file them in their respective folder. All nice and neat. Even under these tense and trying circumstances the need to stay organized is strong within me. In fact, I think I’ve become more obsessive about remaining methodical. It’s my way of coping with heartbreak as well as stark fear-my way of preserving some control over my life. When the task of filing the letters is completed it feels like I’ve just driven one more nail into my own coffin, or should I say thrown one more log of wood over my funeral pyre, since we Hindus cremate our dead. "Jaya, why do you insist on keeping that crap, honey?" Krishna walks into the room and arches a questioning eyebrow at me. He’s dressed in his blue and gray striped pajamas. I shrug and return the folder to the file cabinet. "To remind myself that life is not always rosy." Krishna comes closer and puts his large hands on my shoulders. His hands feel warm and firm. "Let it go, Jaya. Just let it go, will you? Toss that stuff into the trash and forget about it. These are angry people with a deep need to blame someone or something. They’ll forget about it by this time next year." "They might, but I won’t," I reply. I take a deep breath and finish the last sip of my spiced tea. The dark gritty spice mixture is sitting on the bottom of the mug. I love the scent of those spices: cinnamon, clove, cardamom, ginger and black pepper. There’s something comforting about that homey smell of spices. I glance up at Krishna. "I want to remember what it was like in 2001. I want my children to know it and some day my grandchildren, too." "Why would you want our grandchildren to see something so cruel?" "Why? Because it’s a part of our history as Indian-Americans. They should know that we have struggled and faced adversity, even death threats. Look at how the Jewish people keep the Holocaust alive by making their children aware of it. Every Jewish child knows about the Holocaust." "Why emphasize the negative when there are so many positives?" asks Krishna with a scowl. "I want them to learn that life is frail and one can’t take it for granted." "You’re not satisfied with driving yourself crazy, now you want your future grandchildren to go nuts with you. Is that it?" Krishna shakes his head in frustration and starts to walk out of the room. "It’s nearly eleven o’clock. At least try to get some sleep, okay?" he says over his shoulder. I can tell he’s upset. He seldom gets riled so he must be particularly vexed about my actions. "I’ll be there in a minute, dear" I reply. Then I watch his broad shoulders and his thick pajama-clad legs disappear around the corner. He’s on his way to bed. He knows he can’t convince me to face life’s tribulations like he does-"change what you can and let the rest go." I envy him his laid-back attitude. I wish I could be half as relaxed as he seems to be. He’s a good man-the love of my life. Every time he admonishes me about my grim outlook on life I know he does it because he worries about me, worries about the state of my mental and physical health. I rise from the chair with a weary yawn and head for the bathroom. I turn on the light and pick up my toothbrush. As my eyes fall on my image in the mirror I stare for a moment then frown. Any changes in my appearance since the last three months? I shake my head. None that I can detect. My middle-aged face with its well-earned lines and spots, its widow’s peak at the top of the forehead, its sharp nose and its dark shadows around the eyes, looks exactly the same. And yet, I’m not the same person that I was three months ago, or even one month ago-at least it seems that way. I wonder how one can go from being a popular and well-liked person to someone people detest. Quite a metamorphosis that. Literally overnight, too. What’s happened to my friendly neighbors and coworkers? In fact, where are my acquaintances and colleagues? From the way they’ve disappeared it appears as if I’ve contracted a dreaded disease all of sudden. I might as well rename myself "Typhoid Mary." Only typhoid fever would be much more benign compared to the disease I’m suffering from. It hurts to even think of my disease. It’s actually our disease. Krishna has it worse than I do because he’s a man-a dark-skinned man. Only it affects me more profoundly because I’m a an emotional and high-strung woman. With my Type A personality every little problem turns into a major catastrophe. Despite the security system guarding the house I feel vulnerable. Before heading for the bedroom I check all the doors and windows once again. I pull all the curtains and blinds shut. I make sure the little red light on the security system is on, assuring me it’s on the alert. But I still feel unsafe and exposed. Eyes are watching me everywhere I go. Sharp ears pick up everything I say. I’ve come to dislike my brown skin, my dark eyes and my petite body. They all scream "ASIAN"-enough to earn me those distrustful looks and the distasteful snorts. And the letters. When I get to the bedroom I find Krishna already fast asleep. His notorious snoring is rhythmic and loud. In the shadowy dimness of the nightlight I find my way to the bed and slide under the covers, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to disturb my slumbering husband. After an hour of tossing I’m still awake, listening for sounds outside the house and seeing images of the most ghastly possibilities. I realize I need some help in sleeping and reach for the drawer of the bedside table, looking for the bottle of my prescription sleeping pills. My fingers rummage around the drawer but the familiar vial is not to be found. I slowly sit up and grab the penlight on the table. When I turn it on and shine it inside the drawer I manage to find my pills in a corner, buried under a couple of pieces of paper. I recognize one of them as an old letter from my sister. The other looks newer and crisper. Out of curiosity I open that one and shine the light on it. My blood freezes. Smack in the middle of the page is a photograph of Krishna, cutout from a larger photo, most likely an office group photo. He’s wearing a suit and tie. He’s smiling in the picture. He looks happy and carefree, like he has not a concern in the world. But I have eyes only for the other thing on the page, the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen-a picture of a gun pasted next to Krishna’s face, pointed directly at his temple. Just above it is the word ‘BANG’ printed in bright red letters. A death threat! This time it’s graphic-bold, clear and direct. Dear God, when did this come in? Why don’t I know about it? Is it one of Krishna’s coworkers who’s threatening to kill him? Why hasn’t my husband told me about it? How can he sleep like a baby with this thing sitting in the drawer by our bed? My hands begin to shake. The piece of paper flies out my hand and falls to the floor. Krishna is snoring away with abandon. I pick up the paper, put it back in the drawer and close my eyes on a sigh. Another piece of hate mail to add to my collection: ‘The Diary of Jaya Vellore.’

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Hate Mail by lee10@host365.com	#4 of 16 Winner
2214 words
The man sat in a faded armchair and gazed through the French window, without seeing the overgrown garden beyond. A sudden shaft of sunlight caught him, like an actor centre stage, then it faded and was gone. The woman dusting the mantelpiece noticed the brief spark of spring as it flashed into the room then diffidently crept away. It drew her attention to her husband and she noticed how the thin patch on top of his head was surrounded by wisps of greying hair, hanging lank over the back of his chair. His hands lay on the pages of a Bible, open and unnoticed in his lap. He was wearing an old, beige cardigan over a shirt with a frayed collar. His corduroy trousers were patched at the knees and were barely fit even for gardening. She was startled that he could have aged so visibly, so quickly, but inside herself, where there might have been sympathy, she found only a void. She was empty, as she had been for six months past, waiting for an ending, for a closure to this strange time. She turned back to her dusting, picking up photographs and polishing each glass in turn. She rubbed hard at the unfashionable silver frame of the oldest. The bride’s smile was broad but the groom was serious. He never learnt how to let go and enjoy life, she thought. Always too serious. Even on our wedding day he was so self-contained. She replaced the photograph next to the only other black and white one. This was a family group. Herself, her husband, wearing his brand-new dog collar with visible pride, a chubby small boy in a sailor-suit and a pretty girl with her hair in pigtails. The boy was scowling at the camera and on impulse she kissed the photograph, remembering how she used to be able to kiss away his frowns. A coloured photograph showed the same girl, a few years older, riding a fat pony, her fingers entwined in its shaggy mane. There were other photographs of the girl; graduation day, in which her black gown’s blue trim exactly matched the colour of her shining eyes and of her wedding to a grinning boy whose grey top-hat was just a bit too big. The woman replaced the final photograph back on the mantelpiece, the one that had been taken just eight months’ ago, the one in which her husband, the vicar of All Saints Church, Branchesly, was shaking hands with the Archbishop of Canterbury. The Reverend William Beaumanor looked every inch the haughty, stereotypical pillar of society that his congregation had always known him to be. But that all changed and very quickly his congregation became unsure what to think as the letters came thick and fast; to the Bishop, local shopkeepers, the police, neighbours and to the vicarage itself. It hadn’t taken long for the shell to crack, leaving a moody, bitter man who sat at the window each day, depressed and without purpose. He had coped well in the month following the receipt of the first of the poison pen letters, the one to the local newspaper. Anger kept him going through the gossip that followed the next dozen or so, an anger so intense that it had spilled from the pulpit in some of the best sermons he’d given during his thirty years in the church. The façade began to crumble and the anger fade however, when the Bishop suggested the vicar should take a "well-earned rest till matters sort themselves out." "Coffee, William?" the woman suggested. Her husband didn’t answer but he flinched at the sound, loud from the hall, of post dropping through the letterbox, slapping onto the parquet floor. The woman pushed the duster into her apron pocket and left the sitting room, closing the door quietly behind her. She picked up the post. "Readers’ Digest, water bill, rubbish, rubbish," she murmured, sorting through the envelopes. "Rates, rubbish…" She stopped. She set most of the letters down on the hall table and concentrated on the two remaining envelopes. Both were white, addressed in bold, black, italic lettering; one to, The Vicar, All Saints Vicarage, Branchesly the other to herself, Mrs Molly Beaumanor, All Saints Vicarage The local police had suggested that she take any more hate mail, unopened, straight to the police station, but her hands trembled and a hot flush of fear mixed with delicious excitement crept up her neck. She felt stifled but the overwhelming curiosity was too much for her and she tore open the letter address to her husband. DEAR VICAR, it read, I’M GOING TO LET YOUR BISHOP KNOW ALL ABOUT YOUR GOINGS-ON WITH THAT TART AT THE BULLS HEAD AND AS HOW YOU HAVE IT ON WITH HER AFTER EVENSONG. Molly giggled nervously. This was as bad as the one that had accused the vicar of having his hand in the collecting box. She ripped the second letter open. MY DEAR, the second letter began, YOU ARE TO GOOD FOR THAT GOOD-FOR-NOTHING TOO-TIMING HUSBAND OF YOURS. WHY DON’T YOU ASK HIM ABOUT THAT WHORE HE’S SEEING, THE ONE AS WORKS BEHIND THE BAR AT THE PUB. YOURS SINSERLY. Molly Beaumanor read both letters several times. She felt guilty at the pleasure she was gaining from her role in this hate campaign. When she went to the shops these days, she regularly came home with a warm glow to which she was becoming addicted. She eavesdropped unashamedly in the Post Office queue and delighted in overhearing such whispered comments as; "What a courageous woman the vicar’s wife is, standing by her husband; when there can’t be smoke without fire, can there?" The best one had been that day in the butcher’s, and the memory still filled her with gratification. It had been difficult not to smile and agree, but Molly had managed to pretend she hadn’t heard a word when old Mrs.Jones, deaf as a post, had loudly proclaimed to her companion, "She’s a brick that woman. An absolute saint. Even though the vicar’s an arrogant, bombastic bastard, you’ll never hear her say a word against him." Molly realised she couldn’t stand in the hall all day long and ran upstairs to hide the letters in a drawer, underneath her stockings and corselets. She went back downstairs a little more sedately to make the coffee but as she reached the bottom step, the telephone rang. Adrenaline flushed through her system and sent her heart racing. She tried to ignore the clamorous summons but couldn’t. The need to know who was on the other end of the line was irresistible. She snatched the hall telephone from its hook. "Hello," she said, catching her breath before continuing, "Branchesly 1-3-2-1." "Mrs Beaumanor?" a man’s voice enquired. "Yes, Detective Inspector Fairfax." The man laughed. "You recognised my voice?" "Detective Inspector, we have spoken on the telephone on many occasions over the last few months. Of course I recognise your voice." And your fat, piggy face full of blackheads, she thought, and your habit of scratching your backside when you think no one is looking. "What can I do for you?" "Ah, no, Mrs Beaumanor. This time, it’s what I can do for you that’s important." "Please explain, Detective Inspector." There was a pause while the policeman gathered his thoughts and decided how best to break the good news. Finally he blurted out, "We’ve caught her, the poison pen letter writer!" After all this time, when she had learnt to live with this shadowy third person in her life, the shock of this disclosure hit Molly Beaumanor like a douche of ice-cold water. "Hello, Mrs Beaumanor? Are you there?" "Yes, yes, Detective Inspector." Molly regained her composure. "Tell me all about it." "We have arrested a Miss Veronica Dunkley. She’s admitted everything." "I don’t know a Miss Dunkley." Molly was puzzled. "No, Mrs Beaumanor, but your husband does. Seems he refused to allow her to be married in All Saints Church because her fiancé was divorced. By the time they’d found a vicar who would marry them, the fiancé had made another woman pregnant and married her instead. Dunkley blames Reverend Beaumanor for the whole sorry situation." "My goodness!" Molly sat down heavily on the bottom step of the stairs, clutching the telephone hard. "That means," she hesitated, "no more hate mail?" Her palm was slippery with sweat. "That’s quite right, Mrs Beaumanor. It’ll all stop and you and the Reverend can get back to normal." "But…how did you discover the identity of the culprit?" Molly struggled to make sense of the implications of what the policeman was telling her. "Ah, that’s where the ‘Branchesly Times’ came in handy," he said. "Do you remember two nights ago when they printed a copy of an envelope addressed to the editor?" Molly remembered. The envelope had contained, according to that night’s editorial, ‘a scurrilous attack on the Reverend Beaumanor, a beloved member of our community.’ "Seems the ex-fiancé recognised the handwriting on the envelope and shopped Miss Dunkley. She’d also been sending hate mail to him and the new wife, but it was only when he saw the paper that he put two and two together." There was a difficult pause. Inspector Fairfax assumed Mrs Beaumanor was overcome with relief and continued, "And how is the vicar?" "Poorly. Very upset," Molly managed to say. "Bound to be, It’s been a nasty business. Still, he’ll be delighted with the news, won’t he? Things will improve now we’ve caught the woman." "No doubt they will, Detective Inspector." The image of a rejuvenated vicar crossed her mind. He would enjoy playing the martyr but he would take great pains nevertheless to let everyone know how much he had suffered. "Oh, and one more thing, Mrs Beaumanor. We’ll be making a statement tonight, the Branchesly Police, that is, on the local television news. Six o’clock it’s scheduled for. I’m sure neither you nor the Reverend will want to miss it." "Thank you, Detective Inspector. We won’t miss it." The policeman hung up. Molly remained seated on the stairs, listening to the telephone’s dial tone. After several minutes she remembered that she had offered to make her husband a cup of coffee. When Molly returned to the sitting room she placed the mug on a table by her husband’s side. He did not acknowledge the coffee, nor did he ask who had telephoned. Sulking again, Molly thought. Leaving him to drink the coffee or not, as the mood took him, Molly left the room, closed the door soundlessly and trudged upstairs to her bedroom. She sat on her narrow bed, opened the top drawer of her dressing table and took out a picture of a young man who was smiling straight at the camera. The skyline of San Francisco was clear in the background. "My sweet boy," she murmured. The picture had laid on top of a diary, which she took out next. She wiped her eyes almost before tears had time to form, opened the book and read; ‘May 10th, 1982 William and Terence argued again today. It was terrible to hear. William is determined that there is no place in his church for a "queer" as he puts it. "Homosexuality and the Church of England are irreconcilable," he shouted above all our son’s reasoning. He refuses to pay for Terence to attend theological college, something the boy has always longed to do. Why is it so hard for the boy, who only wants to follow in his father’s Christian footsteps?’ ‘May 11th, 1982 Terence has gone, left home in the night. He left me a note in the kitchen, where his father would be sure not to find it. "Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll come back one day." I don’t know where he will end up. I’m so frightened for him. He’s so young, so vulnerable. How dare William deny his son? How dare he cause such misery?’ ‘June 20th, 1996 My darling boy will never return home! He died of that awful disease, far away in a land not his own. His friend telephoned last night, asked to speak to me. Refused to speak to Terence’s father. William called it, "God’s judgement" and refuses to discuss our child any further. But I want to talk about my boy. I want to reminisce about his smile and that dimple that always appeared in his cheek when he was sleeping. He was such a lovely young man.’ ‘March 2nd, 2003 It never soured Terence, his father turning against him that is. I, on the other hand, will never forgive William. I have, may God forgive me, enjoyed his recent sufferings. God’s judgement, William’s punishment, is here and now and I rejoice in it.’ Molly Beaumanor closed the diary on the previous day’s entry. Without hesitation she took the poison pen letters from their hiding place and smoothed then open. In her writing bureau she found a writing pad and a pen with a thick, black nib. Carefully, copying the other woman’s handwriting she wrote; DEAR EDITOR, BRANCHESLY TIMES. THE POLICE ARE FOOLS. JUST LIKE THE VICAR OF ALLSAINTS. THEY THINK THEY HAVE ARRESTED THE PERSON WHO IS DEDICATED TO TELLING THE TRUTH ABOUT THE THEIVING, FORNIKATING VICAR. THEY ARE WRONG…….

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Hate Mail by Jennifer Malatesta nekrosys@yahoo.com	#5 of 16
2125 words
Doris would find them in her apartment mailbox, innocently sandwiched between bills, her monthly check, and letters from her caseworker. They called out to her with urgent headlines. "You cannot live without this!" "Limited time offer!" "Prices have never been lower!" Most people dismissed these flyers as junk mail, but she knew better. It was one of the main ways They invaded her environment. A hospitable woman might leer at her on the front of a glossy grocery store circular, pretending to be displaying the wide array of high-quality foodstuffs the market offered. A chubby, cherubic child might grin innocently over a crimson bouquet, set next to coupons for family portraits. Or an elderly man might beam with newfound mobility, racing across text in his shiny powered scooter. But Doris knew They sent these gaudy, jumbled pages to her house so these facsimiles could spy on her. They were everywhere, and could follow her every movement and read her every thought. They had a vast arsenal of information gathering techniques and devices, many of which seemed perfectly innocuous to the uninformed. For this reason, she didn't have a TV. Just like detectives can watch suspects through a two-way mirror, They could watch people through the screens. They could connect to a brain's neural network through telephone wiring, so she had no phone. She never used credit cards or checks or frequent shopper cards because They monitored everyone by tracking their numbers on The System. Instead, she paid for everything with cash, but she was convinced They could track that too. Still, she had to check her mail so she could manage her bills. It was a requirement set by her caseworker to keep living independently. Her caseworker was undoubtedly under Their influence too, but any freedom she did have from Them was contingent on her compliance with the welfare system's rules. Because of this she was daily exposed to Their messages via her apartment's mail drop. One day she decided to spy more closely on the mailman. She had caught glimpses of him a few times before, methodically filing the incoming mail into each person's bronze mail cubicle. As she crouched in the shadows by the stairwell railing, she watched him fumble with the master key and swing open the big metal plate, containing all the individual mailbox doors, to reveal rows of identical mail slots. Digging through his navy, canvas bag, he pulled out stacks of rubber-banded envelopes and magazines. He was a big ruddy fellow with a mop of graying hair and a hint of a crinkled smile. He hummed as he worked. She didn't understand how They convinced such a jovial man to work for Them. Doris had a certain way of disposing of this hate mail. She would fold these advertisements up into tiny squares, and burn them one by one in the dusty, blue ashtray she used solely for this purpose. The papers always emitted a tart, chemical smell as she reduced them to ash. This was the odor of the Their mind-numbing drugs infused into each page. To rid her house of the stench, she would flush any remains down the toilet and run her kitchen exhaust for exactly 23 minutes. She would do anything within her power to prevent Them from gaining one foothold of intrusion. But at the same time, these tawdry flyers fascinated her. The word choice, the positioning of the graphics, and even the type of paper They used meant something. She would sometimes spend several mesmerized hours, examining the propaganda, measuring angles and font heights. Colors and clarity of text varied widely for a significant, yet illusive, reason. Sometimes entire paragraphs were devoted to lavish descriptions of products, but more often, items were identified with only a single boldface word and a price. One day her careful study would be rewarded and she would decipher their hidden messages. Only then could she hope to stop Them from infiltrating her life. She knew it was dangerous living in an apartment, surrounded by so many people that could be working for Them. But she did take precautions. She wadded aluminum foil into balls, which she placed on every windowsill and by every door post. This foil deflected and scrambled her brainwaves so that They could not monitor her thoughts. Empty picture frames adorned her walls to confuse Them. A thin layer of sand to capture footprints was spread carefully on the floors of all her closets, so she could tell at a glance if one of Them had been spying on her. And she very rarely associated with her neighbors. She was sure her elderly neighbor next door was involved. She wore glasses. They could monitor everything she squinted at through her tortoiseshell frames. This inherent distrust of the people around her was so ingrained in her psyche, that she actually surprised herself when she first decided to talk to the girl across the hall. She had just moved in, without the usual fanfare and parade of assorted household goods announcing her arrival. In fact, Doris had not even known the apartment across the hall was being rented again until she saw the girl unlocking the door that afternoon. She was wearing a baggy black shirt and an airy, flowing flowered skirt. Her hair was tied loosely back in a makeshift ponytail, and her face had the healthy glow of being freshly scrubbed. In her hand was a recycled paper bag from the health food store Doris frequented. This was probably the sole detail that caught her attention. Doris was very conscious of what she consumed. She knew They used food additives to gain access to a person's thoughts. She bought and ate only 100% guaranteed organic foods that were grown without pesticides. For this reason, she also never took the little pink pills her doctor at the clinic, which her caseworker insisted she see, prescribed. She would pick up her medicine every month on the fifth, show the pharmacist her red, white and blue Medicare card, and flush the bottle's contents down the toilet at home. "Do you shop there too?" Doris pointed urgently to the purple logo on the brown sack. The volume of her sudden question startled them both. The girl looked up from the key she had just inserted into her deadbolt, and then looked down at her groceries. She paled, but offered a hesitant smile. "Oh, yea… I don't really like the big supermarkets. You can never tell what they put on the produce to make it look fresh." "Yes, Them…" Doris cleared her throat. She watched the girl turn her key in the lock, making the assortment of attached key chains jingle against one another. In one sweeping, frantic movement, the doorknob was turned and the heavy door was shoved open with her hip. The girl seemed nervous and in a great rush to escape to the safety of her apartment. Doris caught a glimpse of the sparsely furnished living room behind her. There was not a TV in sight. No stereo graced a dominating entertainment center. In fact, there was no entertainment center at all. The barren walls, and the presence of the environmentally friendly shopping bag in the girl's clenched fist, triggered a sweeping wave of understanding and relief in Doris. A sudden urge almost overwhelmed her to reassure the girl, to let her know definitively that she was not one of Them. She wanted to tell her in a flurry of words that she would not betray her, that she felt Their evil presence everywhere too, and that, in fact, she had been waiting the whole 42 years of her life to find another soul that understood this reality. She wanted to tell her all this, but before she could speak, the door across the hall was firmly shut. If anyone could understand her distress, it was Doris. But she shrugged her shoulders and turned away, not wanting to panic the poor girl further. Her next door neighbor, one of Their underlings, was standing in her doorway, attracted by the sudden burst of voices in the hallway. She glared hard at Doris through her spectacles. Doris pushed past her to the mailbox. Let them watch her! It was the third of the month and she needed to cash her support check, which would find nestled there between Their filth. She took a quick breath before opening the thin, metal door, separating her from Their latest dispatch. Immediately she recognized the beige envelope containing her check. Reaching in, she pulled it out along with the sagging, wrinkled papers They had sent her. She hurried back to her apartment, the whole contents of her mail slot clutched tightly under her arm. Mentally she was already pulling out the sacred ashtray and flicking a sanitizing match. This latest batch of garbage would be disposed of immediately. Rushing into her kitchen, she put the government envelope safely inside her awaiting pocketbook and sat down next to her small dining table. She would be off the bank as soon as she had taken care of this unholy mess. Slowly she flipped through the smudged newspapers in front of her, separating them into individual sheets for easier burning. Several graphics were striking, and held her attention for long spells, despite her resolve to quickly destroy them. Each page presented a new clue she must carefully consider. They all meant something. It was vitally important but beyond her reach. The pieces of the puzzle were always there in front of her, but she could never fit them completely together. Then she stopped. A sliver of ice sliced through Doris' veins. It was her, the new neighbor across the hall, staring out at her from one of the black-and-white ads. Some of the gears in her brain clicked hesitantly together as she tried to decide what this meant. Then everything snapped into unforgiving focus. They could not settle for simply infiltrating her home with their correspondence. Now They had one of Them move into the unit across the hall to spy on her every move! And she had almost fallen under Their spell! With a burst of raw anger, she thrust her chair back with a clatter and snatched up one of the advertisements. Now that she had uncovered Their plot, she would demand some explanations. She stormed across the hall and pounded on the girl's thick wooden apartment door. The girl answered the door groggily, apparently having been woken from an impromptu nap on her ratty couch. Her hair was even more tousled and several more strands of it had escaped from her ponytail. "What he is the meaning of this?" Doris demanded, frantically waving the newsprint in front of her face like a banner. Her eyes were those of a cornered animal. She furtively glanced up the hallway, evidently looking for one of Them to tell her the best way to respond. After a moment of unanswered silence she offered, "Umm… It looks like an ad for Delmar's Hardware." "I know what it looks like, but what does it mean?" Doris was furious. Her heart raced, prodded by this girl's feigned innocence. She squeezed her fingers of her free hand together behind her back so she would not strike her. "I guess… I guess that they're having a sale on Sunday," she stammered the apprehensively, her words hanging in the air like a question mark. Exasperated, Doris snapped, "I can read! But only you – only They – know what this really says!" Then, almost pleading, she added, "I need you to help me. You need to explain it so They will stop harassing me. Once I know, They'll leave me alone." The hollow hush, left behind in the wake of Doris' explosive screech, was as empty as the girl's expression. Both the women turned towards the metallic sound of a clicking latch behind Doris. The next door neighbor with the eyeglasses was poised on her threshold with a cordless phone in hand. She peered directly at the girl, "Jenn, do you need some help?" Her intonation was too calm and unsettled Doris. The girl replied, "No, Ethel, I think we are finishing up here…" She gave a perfunctory nod in Doris' direction and closed her door, snapping the deadbolt tight and sliding the chain lock into place. Doris never saw the girl again. A thin, old man with thick plastic hearing aides replaced her shortly thereafter. Her breathing slowed as she burned the girl's image in the ashtray after their confrontation. The thin paper stained with the pale photograph, darkened, curled up and disintegrated. She imagined at that moment that this simple act was eradicating the girl from existence. Perhaps it worked.

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Hate Mail by eaayers@hotmail.com	#6 of 16
1711 words
FROM: JEFFREY PACE, ASST MGR SENT: Wednesday, 14 July 2003 8:15 AM TO: ALL; MARGE REDMUN, PRODUCT DESIGN SUBJ: LAST NIGHT Marge, I will pick up my belongings from your place next Tuesday night, you disgusting bitch! I know this should work out well since you are always home waiting for George! How I ever was convinced that Tuesday was your night to visit your grandmother at the nursing home is just unimaginable! I’M SURE YOU CAN REALIZE WHAT I WAS TREATED TO WHEN I SAW MOVEMENT IN YOUR WINDOW LAST NIGHT! To think I was going to your house to leave a bouquet and card for you to find. My GOD, I was a gullible idiot! If Tuesday is too late, you may feel free to bring them here to work and we can exchange items during lunchtime. You’ll never realize just how close I was to making the biggest mistake of my life! What a fool I would have been, had I gone ahead and asked for your hand at next month’s company picnic! I’m just glad I heard you and George through your apartment window. I must really be unsatisfying in bed. I never heard you yelling my name when we made love! Maybe it’s better I found out now. I was able to put my name in for that new manager slot in St Louis. And I was going to let that opportunity go by so I could be with you! Could it be that George is George Roberts from Research & Development? I know you’ve had lunch once or twice, but always on the pretext of discussing new projects. Maybe he was getting the office "nooner’s" I kept asking for, but was denied. I don’t know if I can talk to you without blowing a gasket, so just keep away for a while. As a matter of fact, why don’t I just have you mail my stuff. Just thinking about last night is making me ready to go postal. I still can’t believe you did that to me! J ____________________________________________________ FROM MARGE REDMUN, PRODUCT DESIGN SENT: Wednesday, 14 July 2003 8:29 AM TO: ALL; JEFFREY PACE, ASST MGR SUBJ: RE: LAST NIGHT Jeffrey, First, stop shouting. You know how all caps give me a headache. Next, it was not me you heard in the apartment. You are right; I don’t visit my grandmother on Tuesdays. She’s dead. But I do clear out of my apartment as a favor for someone else that uses it for a meeting point with his lover. I don’t want to go into details on the email about who and why this is going on, but I swear to you, Sweetheart, that I don’t have anyone else. I would gladly say "Yes!" to any question you thought of asking at the picnic, and can’t wait to see you so I can explain all this in person. I’m sad that you sent me this hate mail, and I hope you’ll give me a chance to explain. I don’t have, nor do I desire, anyone else in my life. Please, retract your application for St Louis! I don’t think I can live with you half a country away! The deadline is noon and the applications are being faxed at that time! I know it wasn’t fair to keep things from you, but once you hear why, I think you’ll understand. We’ve been together for two years now, and I am sure that you won’t let this misunderstanding tear apart what we have. Love always, M ____________________________________________ FROM: JEFFREY PACE, ASST MGR SENT: Wednesday, 14 July 2003 8:32 AM TO: ALL; MARGE REDMUN, PRODUCT DESIGN RE: RE: SUBJ: LAST NIGHT Marge, If you think you can convince me that there is a real reason someone would lend out his or her apartment for a sex-palace, you must really think I’m a genuine rube! Just because I came to California from Wyoming doesn’t mean I’m a backwards country boy! I’d like to save what we had. But you know I got hurt terribly before, and you know how much of that first year I spent getting over her. I must have really drained you to make you find someone else to fill in the emptiness. I suppose I deserved this, that it’s my fault. Maybe I’m just not supposed to be happy. Anyway, I’m not buying what you’re selling, no matter how many times you send me the same reply. My name stays in contention for St Louis, and I’ll start picking up where I was when you and I met…in the singles bars and newspaper ads. J _____________________________________________ FROM MARGE REDMUN, PRODUCT DESIGN SENT: Wednesday, 14 July 2003 8:40 AM TO: ALL; JEFFREY PACE, ASST MGR SUBJ: RE: RE: RE: LAST NIGHT Jeff, I didn’t send you any reply more than once. But I noticed that yours is in my box twice as well. I wonder what kind of glitch that is. Since you don’t believe me let me just be blunt and hope that this isn’t read by anyone else…. You are right that it was George Roberts. He’s had a relationship with someone else we both know for some time. They really love each other and want to spend their lives together. The problem is that his lover is married to a rather high-ranking muckety-muck in this very company. Her pre-nup keeps her out of any property and cash should she cheat on him. She’s not the type to care about money for herself, but he’s supporting her two kid brothers while they attend college. Until they graduate, she’s stuck with him. But on her little brother’s graduation day, she’s going to tell him and start the paperwork. They use my place because George lives just across the street from his lover’s estate and that makes it too dangerous for them. When we moved in together/got married, I was going to sublet my condo to George until he was able to marry Diane. Please, don’t be mad. Let’s cool off and talk about this tonight. ‘We can work out anything with a level head and civil tongue.’ You told me that! Marge _______________________________________________ FROM: DANIEL PHILLIPS, VP MKTG SENT: Wednesday 14 July, 2003 8:55 AM TO: MARGE REDMUN, PRODUCT DESIGN; JEFFERY PACE, ASST MGR SUBJ: RE: RE: RE: RE: LAST NIGHT Ms. Redmun and Mr. Pace: It would appear that Mr. Pace, in his anger, inadvertently hit the SEND ALL prior to browsing for your addy. That was his fault for not putting you in his personal address book. The reason you each received the message twice is because once was to you and the second was as part of the ALL mail group. Ms. Redmun, thank you for informing me of just who my wife was seeing. That will make the divorce much easier. Needless to say, both yourself and Mr. Roberts will not be wishing to stay employed with this firm. As for you Mr. Pace, I have accepted and approved your request for transfer. I am sure that, though you might finally decide to give Ms. Redmun the trust she is due as someone who’s been with you these past two years, you seem incapable of keeping your emotions in check, and I’m sure that baggage you’re carrying has your relationship well on it’s way into the toilet. Ms Redmun, while I am angry with you for assisting my wife’s adultery, I believe you were being a caring friend to both Mr. Roberts and your soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend. I can’t understand what drove you to let the affair take place in your home, but I do hope that you land on your feet after this is over. D Phillips _____________________________________________ FROM: DANIEL PHILLIPS, VP MKTG SENT: Wednesday 14 July, 2003 8:57 AM TO: ALL SUBJ: RE: RE: RE: LAST NIGHT We’ve all been enjoying a bit of office drama with the latest string of emails this morning. As a result of the emails, there will be one transfer, and probably two resignations before the day is over. As for the rest of the company, I have two directives: 1) Do not allow me to hear one discussion of these email threads anywhere in the building; and, 2) Learn from Mr. Pace’s mistake and always, repeat ALWAYS, double check your emails for correct format, correct (business only) content, and correct addressing. D Phillips ________________________________________________ FROM MARGE REDMUN, PRODUCT DESIGN SENT: Wednesday, 14 July 2003 9:29 AM TO: DANIEL PHILLIPS VP MKTG; JEFFREY PACE, ASST MGR SUBJ: Mr. Phillips emails Mr. Phillips, If you intend to send Jeff to St Louis, then I would ask that, instead of a resignation, you allow me to transfer there as well. I still love Jeff, and know we have a good thing. He has hurt you, others and me with his tirade about last night, but I know he’s a good man. Jeff, I know these emails confirm my explanation. I know we have had hard times because of your "baggage," as Mr. Phillips put it, and we probably will again. I don’t believe I can be without you. Maybe it’s because I know you need me. Maybe, I just need to be needed. I don’t know. I just know I want to be with you, no matter what. If I can get over this embarrassing situation and still love you, don’t you think you could still want me? I’d ask that Jeff answer first. If he doesn’t want me, I’ll resign before the fax goes to St Louis. M Redmun _______________________________________________ FROM DANIEL PHILLIPS VP MKTG SENT: Thursday, 15 July 2003 10:45 AM TO: ALL After a long discussion in my office yesterday morning, a final result of yesterday’s email drama needs to be published for the entire staff to see: This is to invite you all to the training auditorium on Friday, July 30th at 2:00 PM where we will celebrate the joining of two of our employees in marriage: Jeffrey Pace, Manager, St Louis Division and Marge Redmun, Director, Midwest Area Development, St Louis Division will then depart for St Louis to establish our newest regional offices. Refreshments will be served after the service and a reception is planned in the Cafeteria. D Phillips

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Hate Mail by Mike Reid carolina_moon2366@hotmail.com	#7 of 16
2443 words
Black puffs of smoke exploded into the open sky which made the unarmed transport shake into a violent spasm. Inside its hollow shell, the frightened crew scattered for shelter as shards of blistering razor-sharp metal pierced the thin metal fuselage; one chiseling its way into the pilot’s neck. With blood splattering the side window as his lifeless body slumped forward, the plane and everyone on board were sent spiraling to an instant death. * "Captain Hunter? Captain Maxwell Hunter?" a portly young man in a black dress uniform asked as his twin stood beside him. "Yes, I am Captain Hunter. Can I help you boys?" "My name is Lieutenant Jones and this is Lieutenant Hynes. We are from the War Department." Glances of unwelcome acknowledgement displayed between the three of them. "I am afraid I have some bad news for you. Please, it would be best if you sat down." Max took a seat on a nearby chair inside the Officers Lounge. He looked up at the two baby faced men with a raised brow and asked, "What’s going on Lieutenant?" "There is no easy way to say this but the truth of the matter is that your brother, Major Gary Hunter, was killed last night en route to Fenton Airfield. He was shot down by German artillery dug in on the French side of the Channel." the Lieutenant showed no emotion. The Captain’s eyes widen…"What?! That’s impossible. His ship was unarmed and clearly marked as a Red Cross transport. The Germans should have known he was harmless." "Yes Captain, that is true to the rules of war but when you’re backed up against a wall and the only way out is any means possible, I guess anything goes at this point." Max’s nostrils flared. "You guess Lieutenant? My brother is dead and you are guessing?" "No sir, it is just a figure of speech" the lieutenant’s eyes dart to the ground for a second with a look of remorse across his face. "The details are sketchy at this point sir. But we do have confirmation from a nearby farmer who reported a C-47 crashing into his cornfield and setting everything within two acres ablaze. The crash killed some his livestock as well." "Those bastards…Damn ‘em all to hell… every last one of them. They don’t care about who dies, do they?" Getting up from the chair, Max stands with his back to the two men. "Now, if you don’t mind, I would like some time for myself." "Yes sir Captain, we understand. On behalf of Lieutenant Hynes, me, and the entire War Department, we are truly sorry for your loss. "Thank you Lieutenants" Good day." * Shocked from the news, Max took a long reflective walk. Along the way, his senses revealed the perfumed aroma of the wild flowers and the manure smelling grass from the pasture; his eyes fixated on the cows in the distance. Disturbing thoughts drifted back and forth in his mind; from his brother to the mission before him. He felt torn from his sense of duty to his country, and reacting on revenge. Is this justifiable he thought? Should I continue to fight without prejudice against an enemy who has no remorse for any living thing? Shall I break the rules of war and make my own as this god-forsaken war drones on? The pilot’s mind ached with too many questions without answers. He became reserved with his emotions. * Captain Hunter and Lieutenant Saul "Scratch" Abrams sat curious but relaxed in the back row waiting for the Colonel to brief them of the upcoming mission. They watched as the smoky briefing tent filled up with the 475th Bomb Group. Rows and rows of crewmen all talking amongst themselves had but with one theme in common; tomorrow was surely going to be a milk run. "So Captain, you ever going to tell me what you did back in the states?" Scratch asks. "I really don’t think it matters, does it Lieutenant?" "Sure it does Captain, I’ve got fifty bucks ridin’ on this." "Riding on what Scratch?" Scratch catches his thoughtless yammering and runs his hand through the thinning hair on his head. He quickly tries to change the subject. "I bet tomorrow’s goin’ to be a real smoothie ay Captain?" Max noticed the smoke mirrored in Saul’s eyes as his buddy gave him a nudge on the shoulder. "You think so huh? I got a feeling that tomorrow is going to be a tough one. But I hope you are right. I hate it when I am." "Yea? But your so-called sixth sense has gotten us back on the ground without much of a scratch. It’s a good thing, but today, I hope you are wrong …." Saul says while he scratched his arm. Colonel Graves walked into the room and proceeded up to the front of the room and stopped at the oversized map board. The group became silent as the Colonel flipped over the white sheet that covered today’s mission. Written in big black letters on top of the map was; Berlin. Everyone but the Colonel groaned. Slapping the long wood pointer onto the map, the Colonel began the briefing. "Alright Gentleman, this is the dope. Today’s mission came straight from Ike. Target: Berlin." After discussing and pointing out key targets of interest he continues… "The German Army is all but dead and it is up to us to put the nail in the coffin. This mission is not going to be easy but that’s why we were hand-picked. You guys are the best and the eyes of the world are looking to you to help end this war. The mission start time is 0600. I want all of you to get a good night sleep. You are dismissed." "Milk run huh?" Max asks his seat neighbor with a rhetoric tone. Scratch gave a look of surprise over at Max and shrugged his shoulders while he scratched his arm. "Don’t know what to say Captain; we have been in the air for 3 months straight. I thought for sure we were due for an easy one this time since we’re so close to leave." Tipping his officers cap forward, Max whispers, "Damn it." Saul joined the men back to the barracks as Max took the long way back. * The hulking bomber affectionately named "Mail Call" sat idle in the hardstand as the ground crew diligently prepared her for the upcoming mission. Max became visible to the Technical Sergeant who was filling the gas tanks. As Max approached closer he received a salute. "Carry on Sergeant." Max said and retaliated to the salute. "Hey…, why aren’t you getting some sleep Cap’n?" "Can’t, got a lot on my mind." Max slides his hand over the fuselage and gave it a slight tap which sent a reverberating sound of flesh against metal into the air. "You supposed to be smoking that cigar while you pump gas Sergeant?" "Aw c’mon Cap’n, it ain’t lit. It’s just a force of habit…" Max continued to inspect the aircraft with a cautious eye. "Well, she’s just about ready for the big dance Cap’n. A few more pre-flights and she’s all yours." "What’s with this oil around the exhaust?" Max asks? "The oil? Jesus Cap’n, you know better than anyone that once in the air, all the squeaks and leaks shut up and seal up once in the air…Are you all right today sir?" "Yea, I’m fine…Just a little edgy. Thanks Sarge, I always did trust you with my girl. I guess there isn’t much I can do for her on the ground so maybe I will catch up on that sleep you mentioned… I’ll see ya later." "You bet …Oh, hey…, Cap’n,… the boys and me were wonderin." "Yea? What is it? What did I do back in the states?" Kicking an imaginary stone and staring at the ground, the sergeant replied, "Err, well, ya." ."What is this, the ‘Thousand Dollar Question’ around here?" "Err, not really, maybe fifty bucks or a little more…" "Anyway, good luck tomorrow and bring ‘em all home safe." Taking his hat off and swiping his forehead with his arm, Max started to walk back to the barracks and under his breath he whispered…"Thanks… for some reason; I think I am going to need it." * 0600 hours; Operation Lion’s Den was underway. Reddish-orange streaks colored the heavens from the rising sun as the tight formations of bombers filled the peaceful sky. Puffy clouds floated by at almost a snail pace creating a passive mood throughout the crews. 10 to each ship, 100 ships in all; A thousand men heading into harms way. * Saul was busy calibrating the Norden bomb site when Max came down the small crawl space to greet him. "Hey Captain, whatcha doin down here? You are supposed to be leading the bombers and it is up to you, to get me over the target. This whole operation is depending on you." Max looked perplexed. "Scratch, I have a favor to ask you." "Sure pal, what is it?" With hesitation, Max says, "I want to drop the bombs once we reach our target." For a brief moment, Saul stared back confused, and then he asks, "What? Are you insane? As soon as the bombs are dropped, you need to take over control of the plane again. I mean, once you get me over the target and give me control, all I do is just guide her in. I can’t fly the damn thing." "Don’t worry about it Saul, I’ll have Harry take over once the bombs are away." "Lieutenant Marks? Now I know you’ve flipped. As soon as we get back on the ground, he will flap his gums to the Colonel and you my friend are in for a court martial." "Not a chance. I caught Harry sneaking over to the Nurses Ward. He practically begged me to keep my mouth shut. He owes me a favor…." "Yea? Well you owe me big time Max." "You got it my friend. Beers on me once we are on the ground." "Beers?" Saul laughs… "No Captain, you are going to help me win 100 bucks by telling me what you did back in the states. It doesn’t matter what you did, the bet is won by the person who actually gets you to tell them." Max mulled over the idea, agreed and then headed back up the crawl space and into the cockpit. The flight over seemed like an eternity to Max with nothing really to do but stare out into the open sky and fly the plane. Memories of home and his brother flooded his mind as he gripped the wheel. A call came over the ships internal intercom from the navigator which said that they are approaching the target and coordinates spewed out of the tiny speaker. Max turned the bomber accordingly. Special Delivery from the heavens….he thought….menacingly, he laughed. "Pilot to bombardier…static, ship steady…coordinates exact… static, prepare to take control….over… static," "Bombardier to pilot, roger…. static, ready to receive control….over… static," "Roger, bombardier…you know have control… static," "Roger… static, Umm…, bombardier to pilot?…over… static," "I seem to be having a little trouble with the controls…She isn’t responding…. static." "Roger….I will come down to help….over…. static." The Captain left the controls to Lieutenant Marks without any retaliatory remarks. He headed down the small crawl space into the already cramped bombardier’s compartment when out of nowhere; explosions like thunder rocked the ship. Let the games begin he thought to him self. Max lost his footing and slammed his head against the hydraulic pipes that lined the walls. Blood began to trickle from the gash into his left eye which made his sight blurry. Still, he continued downward. The Germans sent up everything they had. Flak was everywhere. Two bombers in the rear of the pack were smashed sending the crews out into the deadly sky. Max made his way into the bomb bay and glanced at the bombs with glorious eyes. He took out a piece of chalk and began inscribing words on a couple of them while Saul snuck up behind him. Saul cried out while scratching his head. "Captain, what are you doing? Max turns around and Saul notices the blood. Are you OK?" "Sure, it’s just a scratch" "What’s going on? I guided her in as close as I could get…That flak is beating the shit out of us up here and we don’t have much time." "Oh, just preparing a couple of care packages I wanted to deliver for my brother." "Huh?" Saul asks. "Never mind, just let me do this alright? Max demanded. "OK Captain, lets get this done." The two of them head back up to the bombardiers compartment. With a careful eye, Captain Hunter lined up the Norden Bombsight to exact coordinates as specified from the navigator. Saul on his hands and knees looked out the fiberglass front window to watch the landscape below. Nothing but smoke could be seen. The Germans had covered the whole city with a smoke screen which would make any type of delivery impossible, but today Captain Maxwell Hunter avenged his brother’s death with precision, courage and a little extra postage. The rest of the bombers returned safely to the airbase and the crews were elated to be back on the ground. Max popped out of the tiny little hole in the side of the plane and began to walk towards the debriefing tent. Saul caught up with him and put his arm around the Captains shoulders. "Looks like we made another one for the record books ay Captain?" "You bet Lieutenant. It is sure good to be on the ground in one piece." "Hey Captain, what was all that writing on the bombs… "‘Hate Mail’… ‘Return to Sender’, what did that mean?" "Back in the states, I was the Post Master General for a small Massachusetts town. I thought I had seen and delivered it all but never in my life would I dream of sending hate mail. Believe me, it was the best piece of mail I ever delivered. By the way Lieutenant, I suppose you want me to pay up huh?" "Well, to tell you the truth Captain, we all kind of knew what you did back in the states. We just wanted to hear it from you. So, I guess we are even huh?" "How would you like a beer Lieutenant?" "Now I like the sound of that." "I bet you do…I bet you do…." The two laugh off into the setting sun…

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Hate Mail by GPain97046@aol.com	#8 of 16
884 words
"You hate me," Sally said. "Why would I hate you? We’re friends," Vanessa replied. "After what you did, you’ve got to be kidding." "What are you talking about?" "You’ve been sending me hate mail for a year," Sally said. She wiped the sweat from her pale face. "Hate mail! Why would I do that?" "To pay me back for losing Jake." She lit a cigarette. "You lost a son too and then a husband two months later. I’d never send you hate mail," Vanessa said. "I’ll never get over losing Sammy. It seems like yesterday not two years ago." "Don’t you miss Sam?" "Oh, sure. Where’s Steven?" Sally asked. "We divorced about a year ago from the strain of the accident." "Are you in town for good." She lit another cigarette. "I’m not sure. I was devastated to here about Sam’s fall from the canyon," Vanessa said. "He committed suicide." "He what?" "He committed suicide and left me a note confessing he cut the brakes on my car the night of the accident. Poor man never thought Sammy and Jake would use my car that night. But Sammy did because his car wouldn’t start and the boys wanted to go to the roadhouse." "Why didn’t you report it as a suicide?"