The Envelope by Liz Potter, white americano

It’s not as if you were close growing up.

Mum will be disappointed though if you don’t attend with all the other relatives.   You’ve explained that you’d agreed to go with a friend to an art exhibition in Germany and it might be that weekend.    Mum thinks family comes first though.

Frankly you just don’t want to go to the wedding.   So you’ve written to turn down the gilt-edged invitation, and all you have to do now is post it.

You can smell the freshly-laid tarmac as soon as you open the front door.  You’d forgotten about the roadworks: you’ll have to go the long way round.   Maybe you should post it tomorrow?        You’ve put your coat on now.   Except there aren’t any gloves…

Just go and do it.

The contractors’ fencing is still up, cold and hard when you brush against it.   You can hear the traffic on the main road, the beat of car music systems overloud in the night air.   There’s going to be a disco according to your cousin.   She wrote a note on the back of the invitation saying she hoped I’d be able to come.   

Are you ever going to get to the postbox?   As well the tarmacing, there now seem to be some excavations along the pavement.   The barriers here have lights warning of the yawning chasms below.

It was a handwritten note, in posh biro, and looked sincere…

Your foot catches on a tree root, and you pitch forward, grabbing at the barrier.   The envelope falls out of your hand and spirals down into the void.

So now you’re back at square one.

About the author

Keen writer since primary school days, and still waiting for that breakthrough.

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)