[Fanfic] Red Postbox
Today it is raining.
The bustling of the city has never bothered him. He can choose to ignore the people around him. Or if he wants to pay attention, he can pay attention.
Iceland’s black umbrella is slick with water, droplets running off the sides as he makes his way across the street.
His shoes are old and water is seeping into his socks, but he cares not.
Yesterday, it also rained.
The wind picks up and he scowls. It’s too early in the morning to deal with this kind of weather. He hasn’t even had his second cup of morning coffee yet.
All he wants to do is go back to his apartment and fall asleep for another few hours, but he knows that it won’t happen. He pauses, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a crumpled letter.
He slips the letter into the red postbox.
Tomorrow, it will rain again.
*
He sits at the bar, writing slowly, as the band takes a break to tune their instruments.
“The weather is warmer since I last wrote to you. I bought a book today. Read the first chapter. It’s about a young girl and the ocean. I think that you’d like it.”
The harsh clicks and strums of strings refresh his senses. The cellist starts to use his bow and fills the room with deep, hollow sound. It feels empty.
“I can send it to you after I’m done reading it. Along with those candies you asked for.”
Iceland taps his pen against the page. He writes another sentence, but proceeds to rapidly scribble it out after deeming it unimportant.
He pays for his drink, tucks his half-written letter away, and lets the cello speak his heart for him.
*
He lies in bed. The banging of pots and pans outside the Alþingi gives him a headache.
At noon sharp, he checks to see if he’s gotten mail. He doesn’t have any.
He writes another letter and sends it later that day anyway.
*
“Sometimes I wonder if we’re alone in this world,” he scribbles in black ink.
“If you believe that you are alone, you will always be alone,” is his reply, arriving a week later. “And in that case, it’s your own fault.”
*
Puffins and gulls squawk overhead as he makes is way down to the docks to watch the ships board. He tries to sketch them in his notebook, but they move too fast, so he gives up.
He was never good at drawing anyway.
He writes. “’The white caps of the ocean forms a border with the black sand of the beach.’ Doesn’t that sound like the beginning of a poem?”
“You should write the rest of it.”
“I don’t write that sort of thing. You do it.”
“Maybe I will. You’ve sounded lonely recently. Do you want me to come visit you?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
Iceland ignores the comment, discontinuing their conversation, and fills in its place a paragraph describing how the rain clouds looked on Tuesday before the storm.
*
“Don’t forget to be yourself. “
“What do you mean by that?”
“Exactly what it is supposed to mean. You have to live, kid.”
“I am living (And I am a child no longer).”
“Are you sure? How do you know you’re not living a lie?”
Nobody knows for sure, but that’s not the point.
*
“I’m excited to see you again during the holidays. It has been a while.”
“I suppose. I’m glad that I get to see you again as well. We need to talk. About nothing in particular.”
“We talk all the time.”
“Letters, phone calls, and packages are not the same as talking in person.”
Iceland considers this.
“I guess you’re right.”
*
The wind howls outside, sending a chilling sensation through his bones. He turns on the television. Not to watch, but just to have noise in his otherwise silent home.
He’s finished the book he started two months earlier. It’s wrapped in a package, taped shut, next to his shoes at the door. He’ll mail it tomorrow, along with a three-page message he’s typed on the computer. He couldn’t find the pen he wanted to use.
In the corner next to his desk is a pile of letters that he’s never sent and never intends to send.
He keeps them anyway.
*
“I liked the book as a whole, but some of the chapters were rather dull. Yesterday I ran into Sweden. He told me to tell you hello. I bought ingredients to bake cookies. I’ll send you a tin when I make them later this week. How is the weather?”
“I figured you’d say that,” Iceland replies in part of his letter, “I know you too well. The weather is fine. Again, I know you too well. You always talk about the weather when you don’t have anything interesting to say. Tell Sweden I said hello back. Send me a book of yours too, I need something new to read.”
“You don’t like my kind of books, I know you too well, too. But yet you still ask for them, again and again. Are you waiting for a surprise or something to hit you in the face? It’s not going to happen. Enjoy your cookies and new book, regardless. Be careful-it is old and some of the pages fall out if you hold it at certain angles.”
“I’m not waiting for anything. I just figure that one day you’ll send me something I like.”
“That’s idiotic. Instead of waiting, go find your own book. Or write one.”
“Harsh. But you know I can’t write those sorts of things. Rather, I don’t want to.”
“Or maybe you’re too scared.”
“I’m not scared. What’s there to be afraid of?”
“Everything.”
“You’re the one being idiotic now.”
“Think about it. Consider it. Sometimes fools can be wise.”
*
Life is absurd.
That’s a fact, not a whimsical thought.
Nothing has meaning unless you give it meaning. Man finds his own worth.
Iceland knows this. But knowing and believing are two different things.
He has a new sealed envelope, written with a new pen on new paper. But nothing has changed.
He slips the letter into the red postbox.
--------
I purposefully concealed the identity of the person Iceland sends the letters to. I figure I'd let the reader choose for themselves. I don't even know who I think it is, I didn't write them with a set character in mind. I'm somewhat curious as to who people think it is, though.
The bustling of the city has never bothered him. He can choose to ignore the people around him. Or if he wants to pay attention, he can pay attention.
Iceland’s black umbrella is slick with water, droplets running off the sides as he makes his way across the street.
His shoes are old and water is seeping into his socks, but he cares not.
Yesterday, it also rained.
The wind picks up and he scowls. It’s too early in the morning to deal with this kind of weather. He hasn’t even had his second cup of morning coffee yet.
All he wants to do is go back to his apartment and fall asleep for another few hours, but he knows that it won’t happen. He pauses, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a crumpled letter.
He slips the letter into the red postbox.
Tomorrow, it will rain again.
*
He sits at the bar, writing slowly, as the band takes a break to tune their instruments.
“The weather is warmer since I last wrote to you. I bought a book today. Read the first chapter. It’s about a young girl and the ocean. I think that you’d like it.”
The harsh clicks and strums of strings refresh his senses. The cellist starts to use his bow and fills the room with deep, hollow sound. It feels empty.
“I can send it to you after I’m done reading it. Along with those candies you asked for.”
Iceland taps his pen against the page. He writes another sentence, but proceeds to rapidly scribble it out after deeming it unimportant.
He pays for his drink, tucks his half-written letter away, and lets the cello speak his heart for him.
*
He lies in bed. The banging of pots and pans outside the Alþingi gives him a headache.
At noon sharp, he checks to see if he’s gotten mail. He doesn’t have any.
He writes another letter and sends it later that day anyway.
*
“Sometimes I wonder if we’re alone in this world,” he scribbles in black ink.
“If you believe that you are alone, you will always be alone,” is his reply, arriving a week later. “And in that case, it’s your own fault.”
*
Puffins and gulls squawk overhead as he makes is way down to the docks to watch the ships board. He tries to sketch them in his notebook, but they move too fast, so he gives up.
He was never good at drawing anyway.
He writes. “’The white caps of the ocean forms a border with the black sand of the beach.’ Doesn’t that sound like the beginning of a poem?”
“You should write the rest of it.”
“I don’t write that sort of thing. You do it.”
“Maybe I will. You’ve sounded lonely recently. Do you want me to come visit you?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
Iceland ignores the comment, discontinuing their conversation, and fills in its place a paragraph describing how the rain clouds looked on Tuesday before the storm.
*
“Don’t forget to be yourself. “
“What do you mean by that?”
“Exactly what it is supposed to mean. You have to live, kid.”
“I am living (And I am a child no longer).”
“Are you sure? How do you know you’re not living a lie?”
Nobody knows for sure, but that’s not the point.
*
“I’m excited to see you again during the holidays. It has been a while.”
“I suppose. I’m glad that I get to see you again as well. We need to talk. About nothing in particular.”
“We talk all the time.”
“Letters, phone calls, and packages are not the same as talking in person.”
Iceland considers this.
“I guess you’re right.”
*
The wind howls outside, sending a chilling sensation through his bones. He turns on the television. Not to watch, but just to have noise in his otherwise silent home.
He’s finished the book he started two months earlier. It’s wrapped in a package, taped shut, next to his shoes at the door. He’ll mail it tomorrow, along with a three-page message he’s typed on the computer. He couldn’t find the pen he wanted to use.
In the corner next to his desk is a pile of letters that he’s never sent and never intends to send.
He keeps them anyway.
*
“I liked the book as a whole, but some of the chapters were rather dull. Yesterday I ran into Sweden. He told me to tell you hello. I bought ingredients to bake cookies. I’ll send you a tin when I make them later this week. How is the weather?”
“I figured you’d say that,” Iceland replies in part of his letter, “I know you too well. The weather is fine. Again, I know you too well. You always talk about the weather when you don’t have anything interesting to say. Tell Sweden I said hello back. Send me a book of yours too, I need something new to read.”
“You don’t like my kind of books, I know you too well, too. But yet you still ask for them, again and again. Are you waiting for a surprise or something to hit you in the face? It’s not going to happen. Enjoy your cookies and new book, regardless. Be careful-it is old and some of the pages fall out if you hold it at certain angles.”
“I’m not waiting for anything. I just figure that one day you’ll send me something I like.”
“That’s idiotic. Instead of waiting, go find your own book. Or write one.”
“Harsh. But you know I can’t write those sorts of things. Rather, I don’t want to.”
“Or maybe you’re too scared.”
“I’m not scared. What’s there to be afraid of?”
“Everything.”
“You’re the one being idiotic now.”
“Think about it. Consider it. Sometimes fools can be wise.”
*
Life is absurd.
That’s a fact, not a whimsical thought.
Nothing has meaning unless you give it meaning. Man finds his own worth.
Iceland knows this. But knowing and believing are two different things.
He has a new sealed envelope, written with a new pen on new paper. But nothing has changed.
He slips the letter into the red postbox.
--------
I purposefully concealed the identity of the person Iceland sends the letters to. I figure I'd let the reader choose for themselves. I don't even know who I think it is, I didn't write them with a set character in mind. I'm somewhat curious as to who people think it is, though.