Fic post: Mailbox
I wrote some Homicide fanfic and wanted to share it.
Title: Mailbox
Author: Nyias
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: The Movie, A Model Citizen, Law and Disorder, End Game, Night of the Dead Living
Category: Vignette
Archive: My LJ, fanfiction.net. I have no idea where else this could go, but I’m open to suggestions.
Disclaimer: Homicide: Life on the Street and all related characters, plots, and whatnot are property of Tom Fontana, Barry Levinson, Baltimore Pictures, and NBC. No infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this story.
Thanks to ciroccoj for the great beta. Feedback is always welcome.
Mailbox
He wrote letters that he never posted.
Simple messages, usually; inelegant, precise, and functional. He kept them in chronological order, in a stack underneath his bed.
Dear Emma,
It doesn’t matter how many crazy people I meet, you’re still terrifying. What was I thinking?
He’d long ago grown accustomed to writing everything down; scribbling details on paper was necessary in his profession to organize everything that passed through his mind.
And in the autumns his garden wilted, but until then he grew plain green things that never bloomed in a square four-foot box.
Dear Munch,
I hope that New York is not as grotesque as the news makes it out to be. Frank said that New York was too big and too robust and too glamorous, but not that it was too grotesque. Only the papers say that. I hope the journalists are wrong.
Dear Meldrick,
The paperwork on the bar went through. I guess you won’t be able to buy that Lamborghini quite yet.
And in the winter it rained and snowed, and one day Tim tumbled down twelve stairs. The guards didn’t believe him when he said he’d slipped, so they took his shoelaces away.
Dear Mary,
I hope you are doing well. It’s amazing that Olivia is halfway through first grade already. When I was her age, even five minutes seemed like an eternity. School years always seemed to last forever. Time speeds up so much as you get older.
Give Frank Junior and Olivia a hug from me. All my love,
Tim
He couldn’t risk Frank reading letters like this, because a hug from Tim would somehow mean that Tim was a good person, and Frank wouldn’t let such good people come near his children.
The food here is really good, mom, he’d write; not as good as yours but so much better than the slop they serve in hospitals. There’s potato soup and cous cous and grilled cheese sandwiches, as though she cared about the menu.
And in the springtime he knew the sunlight was coming back, but the fluorescents tricked him into believing it was always day.
Dear Jim,
Do you remember the first time you ever dunked a basketball? You jumped off the pavement and it was like you were flying. I hope that Shannon will be all right. There’s not much I can do for you right now but I’m keeping you all in my thoughts. Does M.S. run in families?
Then he selfishly worried about his nieces and nephews, who weren’t technically his nieces and nephews. He’d never let them call him uncle, anyway.
Dear Frank,
I feel like I don’t know anything. I don’t think of myself as a failure, because I never knew what I was looking for. That’s why I can’t find it. But I’m worried that you might be punishing yourself for something I’ve done, and I want you to quit it. It’s not worth it. You probably know that already, but I just wanted to reiterate.
And in the summers everything was awful, with too much heat and anger and memories of other hot days, when he’d stripped to his boxers with Kay and Meldrick and been soaked by his dead lieutenant and a fire hose. But that had been September, and September wasn’t true summer-not childhood joys of days off school and empty lots and back alleys and front lawns.
Some letters he couldn’t send, even if he’d had envelopes and stamps.
Gordon Pratt,
Frank said that you were a bad guy because you shot at four good guys. You never killed anybody, but you’re dead and I’m not. Does that seem right to you?
And of course,
Dear Adena,
I miss the sky.
Title: Mailbox
Author: Nyias
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: The Movie, A Model Citizen, Law and Disorder, End Game, Night of the Dead Living
Category: Vignette
Archive: My LJ, fanfiction.net. I have no idea where else this could go, but I’m open to suggestions.
Disclaimer: Homicide: Life on the Street and all related characters, plots, and whatnot are property of Tom Fontana, Barry Levinson, Baltimore Pictures, and NBC. No infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this story.
Thanks to ciroccoj for the great beta. Feedback is always welcome.
Mailbox
He wrote letters that he never posted.
Simple messages, usually; inelegant, precise, and functional. He kept them in chronological order, in a stack underneath his bed.
Dear Emma,
It doesn’t matter how many crazy people I meet, you’re still terrifying. What was I thinking?
He’d long ago grown accustomed to writing everything down; scribbling details on paper was necessary in his profession to organize everything that passed through his mind.
And in the autumns his garden wilted, but until then he grew plain green things that never bloomed in a square four-foot box.
Dear Munch,
I hope that New York is not as grotesque as the news makes it out to be. Frank said that New York was too big and too robust and too glamorous, but not that it was too grotesque. Only the papers say that. I hope the journalists are wrong.
Dear Meldrick,
The paperwork on the bar went through. I guess you won’t be able to buy that Lamborghini quite yet.
And in the winter it rained and snowed, and one day Tim tumbled down twelve stairs. The guards didn’t believe him when he said he’d slipped, so they took his shoelaces away.
Dear Mary,
I hope you are doing well. It’s amazing that Olivia is halfway through first grade already. When I was her age, even five minutes seemed like an eternity. School years always seemed to last forever. Time speeds up so much as you get older.
Give Frank Junior and Olivia a hug from me. All my love,
Tim
He couldn’t risk Frank reading letters like this, because a hug from Tim would somehow mean that Tim was a good person, and Frank wouldn’t let such good people come near his children.
The food here is really good, mom, he’d write; not as good as yours but so much better than the slop they serve in hospitals. There’s potato soup and cous cous and grilled cheese sandwiches, as though she cared about the menu.
And in the springtime he knew the sunlight was coming back, but the fluorescents tricked him into believing it was always day.
Dear Jim,
Do you remember the first time you ever dunked a basketball? You jumped off the pavement and it was like you were flying. I hope that Shannon will be all right. There’s not much I can do for you right now but I’m keeping you all in my thoughts. Does M.S. run in families?
Then he selfishly worried about his nieces and nephews, who weren’t technically his nieces and nephews. He’d never let them call him uncle, anyway.
Dear Frank,
I feel like I don’t know anything. I don’t think of myself as a failure, because I never knew what I was looking for. That’s why I can’t find it. But I’m worried that you might be punishing yourself for something I’ve done, and I want you to quit it. It’s not worth it. You probably know that already, but I just wanted to reiterate.
And in the summers everything was awful, with too much heat and anger and memories of other hot days, when he’d stripped to his boxers with Kay and Meldrick and been soaked by his dead lieutenant and a fire hose. But that had been September, and September wasn’t true summer-not childhood joys of days off school and empty lots and back alleys and front lawns.
Some letters he couldn’t send, even if he’d had envelopes and stamps.
Gordon Pratt,
Frank said that you were a bad guy because you shot at four good guys. You never killed anybody, but you’re dead and I’m not. Does that seem right to you?
And of course,
Dear Adena,
I miss the sky.