This month’s theme:
The Mail Must Go Through
President Trump is now trying to steal the election by hobbling the United States Postal Service. His big donor Louis DeJoy, now the disastrous postmaster general, has eliminated overtime, ordered undelivered mail to back up in sorting facilities, removed blue mail drop boxes, and disassembled automatic sorting machines across the country — sometimes putting them in storage, other times in dumpsters. With more Democrats voting by mail than Republicans, Trump knows that this is a way to prevent votes for Joe Biden from being counted in time — and thus votes for senators and representatives as well.

This is abhorrent on so many levels, not the least of which is that the postal service is A LOT MORE than just a delivery service for election ballots. People rely on the USPS to send bill payments, receive checks, get necessary medications, and to have many other needs delivered. Trump and DeJoy keep talking about the monetary losses the USPS has long suffered, but they overlook that it is the Postal SERVICE. It’s not a business. How much money did the military make last yet? Homeland Security? The FBI? None, because, like the USPS, they are services for the American people.

So here are a few stories with the theme of the responsibility of delivering the mail. The characters in these stories behave more responsibly than Trump or DeJoy, and they learn lessons that those people clearly never will.

“Package for Jane”
Science fiction
By David M. Fitzpatrick

It had been eight months since Jane had left Kaley behind on Earth, and with every passing day she regretted it.

“This is a great opportunity,” Jane had explained. “We’ll be preparing the planet Cumulus 5 for colonization. It’s what I’ve worked for all my life. But it’s five years away from you, Kaley.”

“I know,” Kaley had said, “but I just wish we didn’t have to be apart for five years. We’ll make it, but it will be so hard.”

Kaley had a career of her own, of course, and a terraforming project a quarter of the way across the galaxy had no use for a starship-engine designer. Kaley was one of few who had the highest qualifications in the design of starship engines, which worked on extradimensional principles: They allowed dimensional shifting to move vessels into extradimensional spaces in order to cross vast distances much faster than anything could in normal space.

“They need me on the design team, or I’d go with you,” Kaley said.

So Kaley would be busy on her own five-year project as she saw the development of the newest design of starship engines.

“You’re a pretty big deal in starship-engine design,” Jane admitted. “So you do your thing and I’ll do mine for the next five years. We can survive this. Our love is strong enough.”

She wasn’t sure she believed her own words. The women spent many days crying and holding each other, but they came to terms with the fact that they had to accept the separation for a while.

“It will make us stronger,” Jane said, but in her heart she was terrified. Would Kaley wait for her? Would their love wane? Would the woman she loved so much find someone else?

Eight months… it was painful every day, but they saw each other through regular videos. It was much too far for real-time communication, so Jane would reply to Kaley’s latest vid and wait eagerly every day for her lover’s response.

But finally Jane couldn’t hold back anymore. She was recording a video, in the middle of a rambling description of the day’s events of working on the orbital atmospheric converters, when she reached her tipping point. Right in the middle of an enthusiastic explanation of carbon dioxide splitting into carbon and oxygen on a planet-wide basis, she broke down into tears.

“I can’t do it anymore,” she cried. “I need to be with you. I don’t care about terraforming Cumulus 5 anymore. I don’t even care about my career. I’d rather be with you now, even if no one ever hires me again. The next supply ship will be here in five weeks, and I’m coming home.”

Kaley’s response came the next day. She was level-headed and careful, but she outlined why it was important that Jane hang on and stick to their plan. They bounced vids back and forth for a week, but Jane’s resolve only grew.

“No more arguing,” she finally said. “I’m leaving in a month. I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

A week before the supply ship was to arrive, Jane received a surprising vid from Kaley.

“I know you’re set on this, my love,” she said, “and I understand. But before you board that supply ship and leave, I’ve sent you a special package on that ship. It cost a small fortune to send, so promise me you’ll open it before you leave Cumulus 5.”

A package! One could certainly send things around the galaxy; it was cheaper than a passenger ticket, but not by much.

Jane promised that she would, but she spent the day before the ship arrived packing up her quarters. Her heart beat faster when the intercom announced that the ship was approaching, and when it docked she was smothered in hugs from the crew of her space station, wishing her well.

She had to wait until the ship unloaded its cargo, but eventually the space station’s quartermaster arrived with the package. It was small, barely a decimeter on a side. She set it on the table, flipped open the access port, and touched the sensor. It read her DNA and authorized her as the recipient.

“Place this package on the floor with two meters of clearance on all sides,” the computer’s voice said.

Jane was enthralled. What was this about? But she did as directed, placing the box on the floor in the center of the room and stepping back.

“Unpackaging,” said the computer, and the box lit up with a silvery glow that seemed otherworldly.

The box unfolded. Then it unfolded again. It was a dimensional box, concealing something big. Of course — Kaley was one of the best dimensional scientists in the galaxy, so this was exactly how she’d send a creative and totally romantic gift. Jane held her breath in eager anticipation, watching as sides folded down and tops folded out, with every iteration resulting in a larger box. She couldn’t wait to see what was inside, but nothing would stop her from heading back to Earth. She needed to be with her true love.

She watched as it kept unfolding until it was a two-meter cube. The silvery glow finally faded as the unfold stopped, and then the front side opened as dual doors. Jane sucked in her breath.

“Hello, love,” said Kaley, smiling as she stepped out of the cube.

“Kaley!” Jane cried, and she collided with the love of her life. “What are you doing here?”

“A dimensional box is the only way to travel,” Kaley said as they hugged. “And I had a slow-time field activated. I’ve only been in there for about five minutes, when a full day passed outside.”

She pulled away and gripped Jane’s shoulders. “You can’t give up your career,” she told Jane. “Nor can I give up mine. But you know I’m a pretty big deal in dimensional mechanics and starship-engine design, so I’ve made arrangements with the bosses. They’re going to give me ten days off every six months so I can visit you, provided I put in some extra time along the way. It isn’t much, but it will keep us both happy and sane — and together, at least a little.”

Jane’s heart swelled. It would be a rough four-plus years, but it was suddenly going to be a lot more bearable.

“Mailboy”
Mainstream
By David M. Fitzpatrick

“They’ve delivered this to the wrong house, Jimmy,” Jimmy’s mother said, pointing to the small package on the kitchen table as she checked the roast in the oven. It was from a prescriptions website, he saw, and the address was for Annalisa Dorian at 22 Crane Street in his town.

“We’re 22 Crane Street,” Jimmy said. He was twelve.

“Yes — Mrs. Dorian is at 22 CLANE Street,” his mother said. “They got the address wrong. I’ve already called her. She needs this medication, but I can’t go because I have dinner cooking. So ride your bike over there right now.”

He huffed in frustration. “I’m supposed to go play baseball with the guys!”

“You can do it on the way back.”

“Why can’t Mrs. Dorian come get her stuff?”

“She doesn’t drive.”

“Well, that isn’t MY problem!”

His mother glared at him. “Young man, you need to think of others. This poor old woman needs her medication, so you get on your bike and go over there immediately. All that matters is this task. Do I make myself clear?”

Jimmy sighed, grabbed the package and his bike helmet, and stomped out. Stupid chores! He got his helmet secured and stuffed the package in his pocket. He took off on the long ride to the other side of town. He had to ride by the ballfield, and he was tempted to play first and visit Annalisa Dorian later, but his mother would probably ground him for a year if she found out. He ignored the ballgame that was already underway and rode past, annoyed.

It seemed like everything slowed him down. A dog chased him. A car cut him off and almost hit him. Children playing in the street got in his way. Someone was blocking the sidewalk with furniture being moved into an apartment. He wheeled his bike left and right, around obstacles, people, cars, boxes, and other bicycles. Every stretch of every street seemed to have something to slow him down and make sure he’d be even later to the ballgame. Every slowdown annoyed him more, and every time he met one he almost convinced himself to turn around. He could visit Mrs. Dorian’s house after school the next day, or anytime on Saturday!

When he happened upon a construction zone, that did it. He had a solid excuse to turn around… only he knew his mother wouldn’t buy it. Frustrated beyond words, he hung a right and added several extra blocks — and at least another ten minutes — to his ride just to get around the construction zone.

It seemed like forever before he arrived at 22 Clane Street. He dumped his bike on the lawn and went up the steps to ring the doorbell.

“Come in,” he heard a weak voice.

He opened the door and entered, and he froze.

The woman was as old as his grandmother, and she was sitting on her living-room floor, holding herself up on shaky arms.

“Help,” she whispered, her face as white as a sheet. “My medicine…”

He rushed forward, digging the package out. She took it with trembling hands, ripped it open, and popped the cap off. She dug out a tiny pill and shoved it under her tongue. She sat on the floor, eyes closed.

“I’m going to call 911,” he said, and ran for her phone.

It was a flurry of activity when the ambulance and police cruiser arrived. Paramedics tended to Mrs. Dorian, and soon they had her sitting on the sofa. She looked much better; there was color in her face, and a smile paired with her twinkling eyes.

“You’re lucky you got that nitro tablet,” a paramedic told her.

“Thank this young man,” Mrs. Dorian said, gesturing to Jimmy. “The prescription-drug company got the street name wrong. They were delivered to his house, and he rode his bike all the way from the east side just to bring it to me. I bet there’s something else you’d rather be doing this afternoon, young man — am I right?”

Jimmy realized how lucky he was to have run the errand he’d been tasked with, and to have not stopped at the ballfield or turned back. He smiled at her, shaking his head.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “Not at all.”

“The Letter”
Apocalypse
By David M. Fitzpatrick

The world ended with a virus. It spread fast and killed in days. Inside of three months, it had wiped out nearly everyone on the planet. There were a precious few who had some natural immunity, but by the time the scientists figured it out, it was too late.

Based on the numbers Joe had last heard before the television broadcasts ended, he was probably one of only fifty thousand people in the world who had survived — the one in 140,000 who had a mysterious immunity. He’d watched everyone he knew drop like flies — his parents and his siblings, and all his friends, even as Joe’s wife Alanna grew quickly sick.

“Promise me that you’ll move on and be happy,” she said during her last minutes. “And promise me that you’ll keep Mary safe, and raise her well, and always let her know that her mother loves her.”

“I promise,” Joe said through the tears, and he held her hand until her weak grip finally ended and her chest fell for the final time.

Then he left their house, passing by the dead body of their six-year-old daughter Mary, who had died on the couch that morning. It was a lie of omission; Alanna didn’t need more misery on her deathbed. She needed hope and contentment.

He didn’t know where he was going. But he only got a few blocks away — without seeing another living soul — when he spied the dead woman on the lawn. He knew her, barely — Esmerelda White, he recalled, a widow who worked a few hours a week at a secondhand shop in the neighborhood. She was face down on the overgrown grass, and from the smell she’d been dead a while. But he could see something clutched in her hand. He moved toward her, leaned down, and plucked it from her dead fingers. He backed away from the rancid corpse to the sidewalk and looked at it.

It was a letter. She had been going to the mailbox. There was a fresh stamp on it, and it was addressed to Kylie White in Belfast, Maine. That was clear on the other side of the country from California, but in that instant he was overcome with the desire to go there, to deliver the woman’s dying letter. It was a mission, perhaps — a reason to keep going. He didn’t have any other reason.

It was ridiculous, of course. The chance that Kylie Baker, whoever she was, was still alive was slim. But what else did he have to do? He had to get away from his home. The memories were too painful.

He set out for Maine. He had his choice of cars, for they littered the world by the millions. He’d jump in one, drive until the gas ran out, and find another. Dead people had keys in their pockets, or had died with the keys in the ignition, or he’d find one in a driveway and ransack the house to find them.

The roads were mostly clear, and the drive to the East Coast took a week. He raided stores when he needed food and drink. Over thousands of miles, he had several encounters with people. One was a hitchhiker who carried an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder; Joe drove past quickly. Another was a woman at the side of the road, hacking and coughing up blood; she’d survived this long, but she had the virus, and her hours were numbered. Somewhere in Utah, a group of a half-dozen survivors attacked his car with baseball bats. He fled before they got to him. He ran into several other violent gangs of survivors along the way, and he learned to stay away from cities.

He’d grown up within minutes of the shore, so he was used to seeing the Pacific Ocean, but he’d never seen the Atlantic. He saw it first when he drove through the ruins of Boston. He’d expected survivors there, but none accosted him.

Joe took Interstate 95 north to Maine and, using a Maine map found in an abandoned state rest area, got off in Augusta and took Route 3 to Belfast and the Maine coast. As with the rest of the country, there were occasionally cars dead in the road, but for the most part it was a clear ride. He didn’t have a street map of Belfast, so he spent an hour driving hopelessly in circles before he found a tourist shop and broke in to secure one.

His destination was an apartment building overlooking Penobscot Bay, and as with everywhere there was no sign of life. In that moment Joe was overcome with the realization that he’d probably driven across the whole country, during an apocalypse, for nothing. But, as he had repeatedly told himself, what else had he to do?

Anyway, it was his responsibility. He’d found the letter in the dead woman’s hand and voluntarily taken possession of it; by doing so, he’d assumed the duty to deliver it — even if the chances of Kylie Baker having survived the plague were literally about 140,000 to one against.

If there were no one there to deliver the letter to, his reason for forcing himself to continue existing every day would be over. He’d die looking at the Atlantic, he decided. It would be a great way to finally surrender.

He found the unit, which had BAKER on the mailbox, and knocked. No response. He knocked again, and did so repeatedly for a bit. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but he finally gave up with a sigh. He’d come to deliver the letter, and he’d do it, even if there was no one there to receive it. Leaving it in the mailbox somehow it didn’t seem right. He envisioned Kylie in her apartment, dead on the floor, and he’d put that letter in her hand and leave, and find that Atlantic view for the last night of his life.

The door was locked, so he backed up and kicked it, just beneath the knob, and it crashed open. Joe stepped into the apartment, which was dark with drawn curtains, and his eyes tried to adjust. Before he could, something moved.

“Stay back!” she screamed. “I have a gun!”

He blinked and focused. She stood across the living room, standing behind the sofa by the dining nook, fear on her face. She indeed held a gun, but he could see what it was.

“That’s a BB gun,” he said.

She looked flustered. “I’m a good shot. I’ll take your eye out. Please, go away!”

The girl was terrified. Of course; she was young and pretty and alone in an apocalypse filled with violent survivors who took what they wanted.

He held up the envelope. “My name’s Joe,” he said. “I have a letter for you. Esmerelda White meant to mail it. So… I brought it to you. You’re Kylie Baker, right?”

The girl blinked in surprise, and she slowly lowered the BB gun. “Grammie White was sending me a letter?”

“Yes. She died on her front lawn and I found her. It was in her hand. I think she was on her way to the mailbox — when there was, maybe, still a mail service.”

“And you… brought it here? From California?”

He nodded and shrugged. “I didn’t have anything else to do. And Mrs. White clearly wanted to say things to you in her last minutes of life. It had to mean a lot to her. I thought it might mean a lot to you.”

She came around the sofa, setting the BB gun down on a side table. “My parents came here to visit me just as the plague broke out. They died, like everyone. This is the only thing left from that life.”

He held the envelope out and she took it, tore it carefully open. It was several pages, and he watched as her eyes darted back and forth as she read, line after line, and he saw them well up with tears. At the end, she cried again, and she went to him and hugged him.

“Thank you, Joe,” she said. “I was ready to give up… literally, today. When you knocked, I was about to take a drink, and… and...”

Beyond, on the dining-room table, he saw a gallon jug of spring water. On the table were several medicine bottles; she’d poured their contents into a frightening pile of pills. He realized what she had been planning — the same kind of thing he’d planned on doing.

He hugged her back. “Don’t give up. There aren’t enough of us to spare anymore.”

“Almost There”
Western
By David M. Fitzpatrick

His horse had thundered like the wind for so long, but it had finally collapsed, right at a four-corners crossing on the desolate prairie, and under a dead tree. The horse was still alive, but barely. Thaddeus Burke put it out of its misery there under the dead tree, then hoisted the two big saddlebags on his shoulders and struck off on foot. He was close.

He felt as if he were carrying the dead horse, and he found new appreciation for the work the horses did carrying people around. He went as fast as he could, almost a jog, and with every step the saddlebags felt heavier.

It was an hour in the roasting heat before he saw the buildings of the town ahead. It seemed so close, but it was another hour before he was there. He was dizzy, and his vision was closing in with blackness at his periphery. Sweat slicked his whole body; he wasn’t sure how he had any moisture left to sweat out. He staggered into town and it was a young man with a badge who saw him first. The deputy hurried to him.

“Good Lord!” he cried. “What are you carrying out here on such a hot day?”

“Horse died,” Thad wheezed. “Need to get to the stables…”

The deputy tried to take the saddlebags off his shoulders, but Thad refused. At this point, he needed to finish his trek. He did let the deputy hold his arm as he wobbled down the dusty street and to the stables. His relief rider was outside waiting for him, his fresh mount saddled up. “His horse died,” the deputy explained.

“How far have you been carrying these saddlebags?” the man cried as he hauled them off Thad’s shoulders.

“Back by… four corners,” he managed as he sat heavily down on a bench outside the building. “Dead tree.”

“That’s eleven miles away, man!” the deputy exclaimed. “Why the hell did you do it, man?”

“It’s a responsibility,” he said as another employee rushed outside with a jug of water for him. “So many people paid us good money to get those letters to San Francisco… they trust that we’ll do it.”

“Write this one down, gents,” said Thad’s relief rider as Thad took a welcome drink from the jug. “A long time from now, people will know how seriously Uncle Sam and the Pony Express took their responsibility for delivering the mail.”

“Just a Little Bag”
Fantasy
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Jelzar was given one task: Deliver a tiny leather bag to a stone tower on the other side of the valley.

“You’re our fastest runner,” the king himself told his messenger in the tent overlooking the battle that was about to happen below. Jelzar could see the tens of thousands of men and horses squaring off far down in that valley.

The king handed him the small leather sack with the drawstring, and it felt like it contained a handful of dirt. It couldn’t be that, of course, but right away Jelzar mentally questioned the king’s sanity. Such a big risk for such a small thing?

“At any moment, the enemy will attack,” the king continued. “We are hopelessly outnumbered. We will fall to the enemy if you can’t get this to the wizard’s tower. The kingdom will be lost, and all of our people will be enslaved by that evil empire.”

“Of course, sire,” Jelzar said, picking his words carefully, “but wouldn’t a messenger pigeon be faster?”

“The enemy has shot every bird we’ve sent out of the sky, son. The wizard sent us this message by bird — one of dozens, in hopes that one would get through, and only this one did. This bag is the only one of its kind, so we cannot risk it. You must go, and quickly!”

Jelzar didn’t question his king. He took off running. He had to take a long, roundabout route to bypass the two armies in the valley, and that was a half-day’s run. He ran through brush and woods, pacing himself, stopping only briefly from time to time to catch his breath, drink some water, or eat jerky and dried fruit. He baked as the sun rose higher throughout the day; all the while, he could see the tower, high atop the hill on the far side of the valley. If the enemy knew that the king’s wizard was there, they’d surely take the tower down.

When he’d stop, he’d check to make sure the leather bag in his pocket was intact; indeed, he kept feeling the side of his pants regularly as he ran, just to make sure it was still there. Each time, it just felt like a bag of dirt to him. He wanted to look inside and see exactly what it was, but somehow he resisted. It wasn’t his place. He just needed to do as he was ordered, however silly it seemed.

He met up with an enemy scouting party once, and he hid in the bushes until they were long gone. Then he was off again, now beginning to head uphill. Hours passed, and the tower was out of sight by then as he climbed the steep slope. He was almost to the top when he stopped to inspect the small leather sack again. What felt like a mere bag of dirt but was something that a wizard could use to defeat an entire enemy army?

Jelzar couldn’t resist any longer, so he loosened the string and looked inside.

It was, in fact, dirt. Just a handful of dirt. Mostly soil, with little bits of clay and tiny pebbles here and there, and stray tanglings of tiny grass roots here and there.

“Are you joking?” he cried aloud in the sloping forest.

The king WAS insane. The wizard might be, too. The kingdom’s survival — the lives of all the king’s subjects — hinged on a bag of dirt? And Jelzar had been ordered to risk his life for the bag of dirt? It was crazy. He’d been tasked with this; he wouldn’t disobey his king, and he was almost there anyway, but he was annoyed that he’d been used for such a ridiculous job. He sealed the bag up and set out for the long, difficult climb up the hill.

The sun was getting low when the stone tower appeared over a rise, and he found a burst of energy and sprinted for it. The tower stood eighty feet above him, with a base twenty feet wide. He pounded on the heavy wooden door.

“Hello!” came a call from above. “Come in, boy, and hurry!”

He threw the door open and mounted the spiral stairs that followed the tower’s stone wall, up through two levels until he reached the top. The circular room was a mage’s workshop, with broad windows looking out over the valley. The wizard, in his robes, stood at a table.

“Well, hurry, boy — bring me the bag!” he urged, and Jelzar did.

“It’s just dirt,” Jelzar said as the wizard opened the bag and carefully poured its contents into a glass beaker. “I’m mystified that I’ve run all day long to get this to you, risking my life — for a bag of dirt!”

The wizard eyed him with a raised brow and a smile. “Not just dirt, boy — dirt from the grave of Nalrom, one of the greatest sorcerers who ever lived, mixed with ashes from the magical shroud that he enchanted to let him sleep for a hundred years. Watch!”

He began pouring various colorful, bubbling liquids from beakers into the one with the dirt, muttering arcane incantations as he did. Soon the thing flashed light and puffed smoke, and the wizard snatched it up and rushed to the window. He raised his hands — beaker in one, magic wand in the other — and recited his spell. When he was finished, the beaker exploded in his hand in a rainbow of magical energy; it channeled into his body, then down his outstretched arm and out of the wand, and a great wave of light washed over the valley below.

When he was done, he turned back, a satisfied smile on his face.

“It is done,” he said.

“What happened?” Jelzar cried.

“I have put the enemy army to sleep,” he replied. “They’ll sleep for days — more than enough time for us to capture them all, and prevent the destruction of the entire kingdom. And we owe it all to you, boy!”

Jelzar staggered back in shock. He had dismissed the bag of dirt as silly, and questioned the king’s sanity and the entire point of his arduous journey.

“I’ll never question what I’m tasked with delivering again,” he said.

David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Maine, USA. His many short stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies around the world. He writes for a newspaper, writes fiction, edits anthologies, and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.