Mail Call - A Story

[DrDebug]

A month ago GoddessOfGuiness had her weird word of the day. And the word was "caliginous". I looked the word up and arrived at a poem written by somebody on deathrow and I decide to write him a letter. ( http://www.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=show_topic&forum=105&topic_id=3064269 )

I received a letter back and he asked to publish the following story. This story is written by a friend of him, Steve Mobley, who was also on deathrow. Even though the victim's family went to Board of Parole to speak on his behalf, because they didn't want him to be executed, the sentence was carried out and he executed on March 1st 2005. He wrote the following story.

Mail Call

A bottle, washing upon the shore.

I rush to it. Discover a note inside: "We miss you. We love you. Tell us what you need. What is it that you want." Colors. Send leaves from trees of Autumn's gold, Petals of red from Springs Flowers, and blades of Summer's tall, green grass from home. I build ships, a fleet of ships to ferry word of my wants, and set them to sail. I wait, and while waiting, the seasons change.

A bottle, washing upon the shore.

I run to it. Retrieve the note inside: "Apologies for the delay. Been busy. (Doesn't elaborate.) Miss and love you. Let us know what we can do."
Books. Send books with pictures - colored pictures of trees, of flowers in bloom and blades of grass. I build a ship to ferry word of my wants, and set it to sail. I wait, and while waiting, new seasons come, ten go ... then come and go again.

A bottle, washing upon the shore.

I trot to it. Fumble to free the note inside: "Been a wild time on this end. (Details, please!...) Hope you're well. Think of you often. Do you need anything? Let us know what you want."
Images, Paint pictures with words. Tell me how the moonlight slips through the trees, settling on the flowers and grass like ash from a distant fire. I build a boat, scrawl my wants into its side, and set it to sail. I wait, and while waiting, the seasons lose distinction... blurring.

A bottle, washing upon the shore.

I stumble to it. Am too tired to shake the note free.

Luckily, I know what it says.
Hope. Give me hope. Draw me pictures of the trees and flowers and grass. Crayon them like a carnival - colored guarantee: "Sun will rise or your money back" (minus the fine print, thank you.) I build a raft, and set it to sail. I wait and while waiting, my world turns bleak and gray and begins to rust, peeling, decaying, deteriorating.

A bottle, washing upon the shore.

I crawl to it. Weak. Disoriented. How dare you inquire of my wants, my needs. I reach for the bottle, cursing it. I toss it back into the sea.

- Steve Mobley

In case anybody is interested, I've received a whole stack of his poetry as well. (Cross posted at the Poetry Group with original images)