STAMPS

"STAMPS" Approx. 3100 words. Magical Realism/Speculative Fiction. Rain, sleet, snow or hail... Nothing will stop Cricket from delivering what you mail. A day in the life of the postman of supernatural Haven, Maryland.

I am the postman.

My name is Cricket. I’m in charge of all the mail in Haven, Maryland: Population, 1,431.  It’s not a place you’ll find on any maps, but if you send a letter here, it will make its way to me, and I’ll deliver it.  

Every day I wake up to a fresh stack of mail at the post office, and if I’m lucky, a new roll of stamps. Sometimes a letter arrives damaged. Damaged letters get transcribed. I type up a copy of the letter the best I can and print it out to deliver alongside the original. All packages must be opened and inspected, then re-sealed and delivered. I am not allowed to comment on the contents of any package. That’s standard policy.

Most days, I deliver the mail on foot. There’s never a lot of it, and I only really need to take the mail truck around the holidays, or to carry larger packages. Otherwise, all the mail for the day gets sorted by route and goes into my satchel. I try to have all of this done by nine, that way I can get my deliveries done by four, and still have time to stop for lunch. 

Haven is quiet in the mornings. It’s a place that wants to be quiet, but only truly manages it in the morning, when most people are asleep. The quiet allows me to play a little game in the mornings while I start my deliveries. I like to count the animals I see, and I pretend they’re worth points. Squirrels are one point. Deer are sometimes five points and sometimes ten, depending on how many vestigial legs they have. The dog that calls to me from the vacant lot is fifty points, but I’ve never worked up the nerve to actually look at it. I don’t know what will happen if I acknowledge it. No one else will.

***

By the time I arrive at the town square, I have fifteen points. The streets are mostly deserted, except for a few sleepy shopkeepers start opening their stores. I wave and smile at them, but continue on my way. I have no mail for them today.

I come to a stop in front of the fountain. It’s a beautiful piece, made of polished stone.  Bobbing in the water are several small parcels: soggy cardboard, wrapped in brown paper that is coming off in thick, wet clumps and tied off with twine. The addresses written on most are completely illegible, washed away by the water, but I can still read the one from last week.  

Today, I set another package in the water. The contents rattle around the box as I adjust it, making sure it won’t immediately sink. I don’t know who keeps sending the fountain individual coins like this, but it’s not my place to ask. The fountain can’t respond in any case.

Still, I dawdle like I always do, waiting to see if the fountain will ever open the scattered packages floating in it. Waiting to see if the water will wear away enough cardboard to split one of the packages at the seams. Not today, apparently. The fountain gently bubbles water just the same as it always has, giving no indication that it had either noticed or cared about today’s delivery, or any of the others. Maybe I’m expecting too much. It’s just a fountain. 

***

“They found something awful behind the cottonwood trees,” Ms. Esther says as I place her mail on the porch railing. Two letters today and a postcard from Colorado. “It might still be there - or perhaps someone came and took it away.”

Ms. Esther’s house is near a thick grove of cottonwood trees, which she watches intently from her porch. They rustle in the wind, almost like they’re talking, and Ms. Esther shudders.  “You be careful today, Cricket.” She’s practically snarling at the treeline, showing off her sharp teeth. Her bottle-brush tail flares out behind her as though she’s trying to wave it around like a flag in the hopes that the trees will get the message and surrender.

“I’m always careful, Ms. Esther,” I say, smiling carefully - closed lips, with no teeth showing. I don’t want to get hissed at again for making myself look like a threat.  

Ms. Esther kneads her paws anxiously in front of her, scratching the porch railing with her claws. “...I suppose you are,” she finally agrees, although I can tell she’s still nervous. She’s been a bit overprotective since her kittens grew up and left the nest. I want to offer her some catnip, but I don’t know if that would be horribly offensive or not, so I don’t.  

I stay for another long minute, but I think she’s done talking. It can be hard to tell with her sometimes. I give her a respectful scratch behind the ears, and make my way down the creaky porch steps, back towards the sidewalk. “See you next Tuesday!” I call up to her, and she swats the air with the tip of her tail, as if telling me to get going. I laugh and turn back to my route. 

Despite her warnings, I’m not too worried about whatever was found behind the trees. I hear all sorts of gossip on my route. Most of what I hear is just meant to feed the rumor mill. It’s a small town. There isn’t much else to do.

***

An abandoned movie theater is an odd place to send mail, and an even odder place to live. I have to tiptoe across a single plank of wood behind the ticket stand to get inside, and I try not to look down into the seemingly bottomless hole it allows me to cross.

The concession stand still smells like stale popcorn, even though the popcorn machine has long since rusted over. The counters are covered in dust, and I stop to scrawl my name with a fingertip. I do this every time I cross that hole without falling, a sort of victory ritual. My name is visible three times in the dust. Just to spice things up, I doodle a little cricket next to the most recent version of my name before continuing towards the various theaters. There are five in total, and the letter I have is specifically addressed to theater two.  

“Ms. Esther says something awful was found behind the cottonwood trees,” I say to the empty movie theater, placing a single letter on one of the old, red seats as I enter the room. My voice echoes, and it feels wrong to talk so loud in a theater - even an empty one - but I do it anyway. “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about though. Lots of things are terrible to a cat. Once, I accidentally left Ms. Esther’s package on the doormat instead of the porch railing, and wouldn’t stop talking about bad omens for a week.”  

Two roaches pushed their way out from underneath the seat, wiggling their antennae at me. I don’t have any antenna to wave back, so I wiggle my fingers. I like roaches. I like most bugs, to be honest. I like to think we have a sort of kinship, what with me being named after bugs, and them being actual bugs.  

It’s sort of wonderful to watch the roaches climb up the sides of the theater chair and huddle around the envelope, trying to stuff themselves under the crease to get at the letter inside. It’s very slow going, and clearly very difficult for them, so I lean over and slowly peel a corner open. Just to try to make their lives a little easier.

The roaches scatter when I lean in, but quickly gather up the courage to come back. Roaches are very resilient. They poke around the little hole I made for them, burrowing inside and forcing the envelope open the rest of the way. I can’t help but admire how clever they are as they push the letter out, clambering after the paper.

And then they start to eat it.

***

“You expect too much from those roaches, Cricket,” Madeline says as she refills my ice water, glancing around the diner before sliding into the red, vinyl seat across from me. It’s twelve thirty-five, so I have ten minutes to chat before my lunch break is over.  

“I think I expect just the right amount from them,” I say, picking at the last of the fries scattered across the paper lining the plastic basket my lunch came in. “They’re very smart bugs. They opened a letter today with hardly any help.”

“Yeah, but they ate the letter.”

“Maybe the letter was for eating. I mean, they didn’t eat the envelope.”

“Come on, Crick,” she says, brushing a strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear as she reaches over to steal a fry. I nudge the basket towards her, and she grins at me.  

“They didn’t,” I insist. “It could’ve been like - okay, imagine if the letter was a banana, and the envelope was the peel. You wouldn’t eat a banana peel, right? Just the banana. It makes sense.”

“I guess,” Madeline agrees, humming thoughtfully. “But they should have at least read it first, or waited for you to leave or something. Isn’t it rude to eat a letter in front of the mailman?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, I only deliver the mail. Whatever happens to it after that is up to the recipient. I can’t tell people what to do with their packages.”

“If you could, I’d bet you’d ask the fountain to open all those boxes, huh?”  

“Maybe,” I say, reaching over to pick up my glass of water and tip the last of it down my throat. Delivering mail is thirsty work, and it’s important to stay hydrated.

***

The last delivery of the day is near the cottonwood trees. The grove is small, less than a mile all the way through, and I’m on the opposite side than the one I was on earlier. If I walked straight through, I’d be in Ms. Esther’s yard in about fifteen minutes. I don’t, because I have a job to do.

I open the gate leading to the cozy-looking cottage and knock on the door. A little girl opens it - she can’t be more than eleven - and smiles at me. Her short, dark hair is a mess, and she’s missing one of her front teeth.  

“Hi Cricket!”

“Hello Miss Sophie. I see your tooth finally fell out,” I say with a smile, reaching into my bag to pull out a small stack of letters, all tied together with a bit of twine.  

“It did! I used that tip you told me about - you know, trying some string around my tooth and then tying the other end ‘round the doorknob and slamming it?  It hardly hurt at all!” 

“I’m glad to hear that,” I say, a little relieved. “Did you put your tooth under your pillow for the fairy?”  

“No! It’s my tooth, I want to keep it! I’m thinking about adding it to my latest potion to see what it does, or I might save it for a spell. The page about teeth in my spell book is kind of smudged,” she admits. “But I’m sure it’s good for something.” 

“Well, good luck! I hope whatever you use it for turns out well.” I vividly remember crying whenever I lost a tooth as a child, but Sophia is nothing like me. The loss of a tooth doesn’t bother her at all. Not many things do. It’s kind of amazing, I think, how independent witches are. They grow up so fast, leaving home at just ten years old to learn their trade. There was no way I could’ve cut it as a postman when I was ten. Not even a postman-in-training.  

“Aw, thank you Cricket! You’re always so sweet,” she says, reaching out to give my hand a gentle, friendly squeeze. “Since you’re so nice, I’ll tell you a secret, okay? There’s something strange waiting behind the cottonwood trees.” She leans forward, standing on her toes, and I lean down to meet her. “I think you should go see it.”  

***

There’s nothing especially special about the cottonwood trees today. They are the same as always; tall, and silent, and covered in coarse bark. I walk further into the little grove, looking for anything that might seem out of place. Nothing catches my eye, and I’m a little disappointed when I finally make it to the stump in the center. I sit down, and let my satchel slide to the ground alongside me.  

Nothing. No one’s here. I entertain the thought that this might have been some sort of prank before brushing it aside. The townsfolk wouldn't do that to me, they’re really very kind. I look up and I wait, counting the leaves on the trees, looking between their branches to see if anything might come flying through. Still, nothing happens. It’s a little frustrating. 

But I wait. And I wait. And finally, I feel something crawling up the leg of my pants. I eagerly look down only to see a very ordinary beetle. “You must be lost,” I tell it, disappointed, gently plucking it off the fabric and setting it on a particularly crunchy leaf on the ground. I feel another rustle of movement, this time closer to my thigh, and I sigh, shifting to pull what is undoubtedly another bug off of me.

But it’s a cricket. A field cricket, to be exact. The biggest one I’ve seen in awhile. It’s body is dark and shiny, and the color reminds me of polished wood. Dark antennae wriggle in the general direction of my face as the cricket hops off my palm and settles onto my knee. It’s long back legs are bent, ready to jump again - but it doesn’t. Instead, it unexpectedly straightens up, standing like a person and exposing its soft underbelly to me.

Clutched delicately between its middle set of legs is what appears to be a very small letter. One side of it is entirely taken up by a stamp (the amount on the stamp is both correct and exact, and I can’t help but feel a little touched). The envelope itself is made of what looks to be a flower petal, delicately dried, pressed and folded into place. It has a soothing, gentle fragrance, as though it were freshly picked.

I take the letter, handling it with more care than I have handled anything in my life. What I assume is a tiny address scrawled on top of the stamp, in the left corner.

“I’ll deliver it.  I promise.”  

***

It takes time to figure out who the letter is meant for, and the help of a magnifying glass. The letters are smudged and blocky, bleeding into each other more often than not, and when I finally decipher them, I feel as though my heart might just stutter to a stop.

Postmaster Cricket
643 Finwood Road
Haven, Maryland, 21117-8

I never get mail.  

I open the letter with shaky fingers, desperately trying not to tear the delicate envelope and its contents. I manage to work the tiny flap loose, and a single seed falls into the palm of my hand. It is about half an inch long, a faded red-brown color with a hint of yellow at the tip. The seed is shaped like a teardrop that has been cut in half, with one side completely flat, and a tapered point on one end that I can only assume is where the roots are meant to sprout.

It’s just a seed, but it’s also so much more than that. No one’s ever sent me a letter before. I’m so touched that I’m crying before I realize it, tears sliding down my cheeks.  A few droplets drip off of my face and onto the seed in my hand, which turns a shade darker as it absorbs the water. Suddenly, stringy roots are spilling from the tip of the seed. They’re white and thin, but they’re curling in on each other and condensing into one, thicker root before I have time to react.

“Ah!  No, wait, you can’t do that here!”  

The plant pays me no mind, and I rush down the stairs from my apartment into the post office beneath it, and outside from there. The light from the setting sun only seems to encourage the plant to grow faster. I drop to my knees, shoving my free hand into the dirt and digging a hole for the seed as quickly as I can manage. I have to unwind the root from my hand to drop it, and as soon as I do, I push the dirt I’ve just dug up on top of it.  

For a long moment, there is silence. The world seems to stand still, and the last glimmer of the sun seems to last an eternity before it disappears over the horizon. And there, in the dirt, between my dirt-caked hands is a spot of green. And then another. And then the leaf unfolds as it pushes itself up and out of the ground, two more small leaves following suit. The plant stops growing just as quickly as it started, leaving me with a sprout the size of my forearm. It looks almost as if I’d planted a thin, leafy stick in the dirt. The plant is bowed towards me, the weight of the single, plump apple it had produced dragging it down. 

 As soon as I pluck the apple, the sprout straightens up as though it had never bent to begin with. I polish the apple with the edge of my shirt, admiring the red-yellow sheen.  

Crickets were hardly discerning about their diets, but they certainly loved apples. Another thing we have in common, I think as I bring the apple to my lips to take a big bite. It’s sweet and crisp, and very likely the best apple I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating. If I think too hard about the thought that went into this gift, I just know I’m going to cry again. I brush the dirt from my hands and rub my eyes, resolving to enjoy the rest of my apple.

 A single cricket begins to chirp in the distance.

The End