Liz’s Saric Story: Deadletter
Here is a short story from a friend of mine, about a Mailman & His Beloved Aging Ferret. This story was so beautiful, it made me tear, remembering the antics of my beloved deceased ferret Ricky, who also was a mail thief (thankfully only my own!) I have been hearing stories about this ferret for many years, & have even added her as a character in the children’s novel I’m working on writing. Said the ferret was a character! Slightly psychotic & alcoholic (despite their best efforts), & to this day is kind of a beloved pet to us all. Her stories are legendary & hilarious. I always thought she would have gotten along well with my beloved ferret Ricky.
I hope you enjoy this story. It’s rare I come across a piece that tugs at me to the point I want to feature it above my own writing. But people should see it! It may need a little tweaking in certain areas, but is pretty dang amazing! Please be kind as she hasn’t shares a lot of her writing yet. She posted this in my Writer’s Workshop group, & I asked her if I could share it on my blog. All credits go to her, not me.
And if you have a short story or are an artist of any kind, I would love some more submitted stories to share. I want to do a whole series on indie artists of all genres. Writing, painting, sculpture, graphic arts, filmmaking, performance art, street art, stained glass, tattooing… Whatev your thang is! Share your story with me. All credits will go to the artist of course & it may be a way to get your work out there to new audiences (& boost your sales without having to pay for advertising). And since my blog is a HodgePodge of all things unique & weird but true (with a dash of comedy & pop culture), and I know so many of you have projects you are passionate about. So why not let the world see your talent & learn something new?! And I mean hey, I manage the career of a rapping parrot, so I we all have our thang. Lol. I am open to all sorts of new artistic ideas! I want to feature whatever it is you do!
*TO SUBMIT STORIES OR HAVE YOUR ART FEATURED: Send me an inbox or Twitter message (or message thru any of my numerous groups) to discuss. I have no criteria other than I prefer to feature self-funded independent projects, or groundbreaking new things, or that have an amazing real life story behind how you got started.
by: Elizabeth M. A. Richardson
Box 100 : Comcast bill, Bank of America monthly statement, Verizon bill, Electric bill, Geico bill, Water bill, three separate Credit Card bills, political junkmail, coupon-filled junkmail, just regular junkmail.
He asked himself why Box 100 didn’t go paperless, they had more bills than most still coming in the old-fashioned way. That thought ended quickly when the lump in the inner pocket of his jacket moved. A minuscule stirring that caused him to pause, hold breath, wonder if she would wake. She didn’t, but he was frozen a full five minutes waiting to feel another locomotion.
Boxes 101-106 : Junkmail of every breed, nothing more.
Another tiny shifting inside his jacket immobilized him again. He dared put a questing finger slightly into the threshold of the pocket. His fingerskin touched nothing but fabric. This time he was a statue for more than ten minutes as he slid the finger deeper into the pocket ever-so-slowly. A humid sensation of warmth grew stronger the further he reached.
He reached until he felt the wiry fur, until he felt the dried and thin skin. Now the warmth receded, and there was a terrible chill under his touch. Panic pushed him. He shoved his entire hand into the pocket’s nesting space, wrapped his grasp around the still body, hauled it forth as gently as he could manage. He cradled her in both hands then, terrified.
Little black eyes opened, though they were dull and glazed he breathed relief.
“Saric, sweetheart”, his loving croon broke the unbelievable quiet of the empty place.
Her mask had frayed, leaving her less bandit and more burn-victim. The tiny body was patchy with missing hairs, the once-epic yawn was weak, just a flick of tongue. Then she shook her head vigorously and somehow her eyes brightened to the rich ebony they once had been.
The little ferret flew from his hold, scrambled up his arm to stand on his shoulder pressing a frozen nose into his ear. He squirmed and reached, but she evaded with longlost speed. He bent as her claws caught in his collar. Suddenly she was on his other shoulder and the coldnose torment was repeated to his second ear.
He turned his face and stared into hers. The look was fueling her visage again. The “I’m about to be a pile of trouble” look. A look he had seen no sight of in months as she languished into her ninth year of life.
She took a flying leap from his shoulder into the mailbag and burrowed into the paperpile within. He knelt and set the bag gently on the floor and reveled in the sounds of thrashing from within. He winced at the sounds of shredding paper that followed, but his grimace turned grin.
“You’re committing a Federal Offense in there, sweetheart, tampering with the mail”
The smile that cracked his lips was the first since last week’s vet visit, the first since he had heard “Old age”,“Nothing we can do for her, really”, “She could go at any time”
An emerald green envelope rose from the mailbag, firmly held by ferretfangs. He reached for it, reached for her, but with the renewed speed that he had become so sadly unaccustomed to, she managed to scamper a few feet out of reach. The dance began, with the little sable ferret using the green envelope as if she were a flamenco dancer with an emerald fan. Step and swirl, spin and spin. Saric the Evilbeastie rides again.
He just watched, as always, love and amusement at equal power within his heart. He stood by unmoving as the dance ended and she proceeded to worry at the envelope with teeth and paws. The glue of the flap gave way, and she tore into the piece of mail as if it were an enemy. Fierce little nips, frantic scratching, a few vocalizations. The white paper within was revealed, the letter itself dragged from its’ emerald shield, the green protector was discarded, forgotten. The insides are the most delicate parts and also the most delicious.
In the space of mere minutes she had littered the floor with scraps of white paper. Then she flattened to the floor and was still, was silent. But the look and the brilliance never left her eyes. He moved slowly closer, she didn’t flee.
He put his own belly to the floor and inch-squirmed until they could touch noses. She allowed it. So close to the destruction he could reach both the envelope and the ferret, but this was an oft-played game. His hand collected the envelope first, flipped it, held it at a level where he could read it over her back. All the while they kept their noses connected.
He saw a man’s name and return address, the addressee was Box 107, a lady who always seemed to have the most hand-written letters. Box 107 got small packages from stores with morbid names. Box 107 got some very odd postcards, indeed, always with graphics inspired by the macabre.
All he cared for at the moment was the renewal of his dearest Saric, and Box 107 could just fuckoff, the job could fuckoff, the Federal Offense be damned! Now he slowly reached for his beloved pet, she slithered backwards with equal sloth. She made him go to his full reach, and it was an eternity before his hand spanned her and she let him to collect her.
They were both in the vet’s office an hour later, waiting to be fit into the schedule. Saric was restless, had worked herself into a tizzy in her carrier as she had done for most of the younger years of her life. Her antics and noises seemed massively powerful despite her frail body. He soothed her with words and fingerpetted the whiskers the little ferret pressed through the mesh. She had always hated the carrier with a violent passion.
Eventually she fell asleep, the seeming-dead sleep of all ferrets. Even splayed boneless and tongue-out on her blanket with her eyes firmly closed she seemed lively. It was then that he noticed the scrap of torn paper clinging to his shirt. A piece of the letter that Saric had violated. He had a powerful surge of curiosity, he HAD to read it. He had to read it now. He felt the furious demanding Saric acted out when she wanted to get into a place she wasn’t allowed.
“My sweet, mein Schatz, my lovely lady,
Things have changed, I have changed, I wish you would return to me. I always loved you best….”
That was the only part left legible, though the terrible handwriting made it a bit of a puzzle. The salutation phrase reminded him of something. Though the connection was just out of mental reach he knew that whatever it was, it was something grand, something from an epic romance of historic times. The letter had been someone trying to recapture their own historic grandeur.
The receptionist called his name before he could ponder further.
From the Guinness Book of World Records 2018
World’s Oldest Ferret : Saric owned by Chris Scarlet 11 years. Still living.
© 2016, Elizabeth Richardson
@kkthanks @charlesgame @ferret @ferretgrl @missheroinerawr @ferretlovesscarhead @ferretsof @ferretzforever
dededos
origamiaround
janainaart
turnnoffyourmind
dailybridgerton
kaledo-art
prguitarman
romaincrisis
