#ldletters

[nahwilco-blog]

to wilco, from olive received: august 1, 2017

out of all the fucked up jokes in the world, the ones that really weren’t jokes were easily the worst.

he’d been getting in late from the bar (or early, really, depending on which way you looked at it - half past four in the morning could really go either way), when his neighbor, nancy, (he had no fucking idea what her name was, she looked like a nancy) handed him a stack of mail from where she was heading out for her job in downtown savannah.  

the woman known henceforth as nancy had to leave stupid early, so she often ran into him when he was coming and she was going.  this was one of those instances, and he had more than a sneaking suspicion that the obnoxious stack of catalogues and junk mail in her arms was for him.

“you know,” nancy said in that teasing voice of hers, playing into some “bit” that they didn’t actually have, “it normally helps if you actually get the mail occasionally.”

“i’ll remember that,” he said, shooting her a smile (all right, let’s be real, it was a flirty one) and accepting the stack of mail from her hands.  “you took all the good shit out, i’m guessing?”

“all the free gift cards are mine,” she teased, chuckling happily and patting him on the shoulder.  “you better go in there and get some sleep, young man.  you’re going to run yourself dry.”

he knew that he wasn’t going to be falling asleep for another few hours, but she didn’t need to know that.  they weren’t those kind of neighbors, because wilco navarro was not that kind of neighbor.

waving his hand in a farewell, he watched as she left before heading up the stairs to the fourth floor and trying to wrestle with his keys and handle the stupid stack of shit in his arms at the same time.

he wasn’t successful, for the record, because as soon as he opened the door, the papers were falling everywhere, sliding across his floor in a mess that he knew he wouldn’t look at until the morning.  it was all trash anyway.

wilco didn’t remember the last time he’d actually gotten mail.  he could not remember the last time he’d checked the mail and actually received anything that was junk or bills that he really didn’t care to fuck with.  he knew that this giant stack of shit wasn’t going to be any different.

but then…

…then he saw that handwriting.

he saw the loopy name wilco staring back at him on an envelope staring up at him, and it was exactly the one set of handwriting that made his stomach drop.

he didn’t want to open it.  he wasn’t going to open it.  it was a joke.  it was some stupid, fucked up joke.  it wasn’t olive’s handwriting.  he’d seen those bullshit crime scene shows, he knew people could replicate handwriting.

it was too late for this shit, or too early for this shit — whatever the case, this wasn’t shit for him to deal with.

he picked it up anyway, ripping the envelope so hard he nearly ripped the letter, letters, in half.

un.  fucking.  believable.

he couldn’t even process what was staring back at him.  leave it to olive graff of all people in the goddamn world to act like this was all some great adventure, to be writing some fucking letter to the one guy who was the reason she was buried six feet underground in the first place.

she called him “the fun one,” because that was how stupid wilco was.  wilco used to actually consider himself fun.  wilco used to actually like himself.  isn’t that an abstract concept?

he thought back to the night he’d actually ‘fessed up to being afraid of the uncles in casper the friendly ghost, how they’d reminded him of his dad’s shitty brothers, and how olive had teased him around everyone but had nudged him and made sure he was okay afterwards.

that was who olive was.  he hated that she had to be referred to in past tense.

he hated that she’d written him a fucking letter.

he hated that he’d killed her.

he wished he’d killed himself instead.

swallowing hard, he found himself crumpling up the paper because wilco navarro was never one to do anything gently.

he left them on his coffee table next to empty bottles he still hadn’t picked up.  right now, he didn’t need to worry about that.  right now, he had other shit to focus on.

he opened his side drawer and he grabbed his little metal box, emptying out its contents on his table.  he positioned the mirror, perfectly sifted out two perfectly parallel white lines and he leaned in.

and that was that.

[peterbeach-blog]

to peter, from olive received: august 1, 2017

“Well that’s nice.” Says his dad. For the first time, Peter could sense something was off.

“Yeah...” There was a slight pause. Peter took a drag. “So, uh, what did you want to talk about?”

His father clears his throat, “Well, son, this is a bit hard for me to say to you. I’m really confused about this myself, actually. But, uh, two letters came to the house today, addressed to you...”

It was a day like any other for Peter Beach. He woke up to the sound of his alarm blasting through the bedroom that he shared with one of his bandmates. Both of the men groaned loudly and covered their faces with their pillows, but this was useless, since it did nothing to block out the sound. He managed to roll out of his bed and feel blindly around on the floor in search of the ringing phone. Luck was on his side and he found it inside one of his shoes. Huh. He wondered how it ended up there? 

                     ------ He glanced to the left and saw the nearly empty bottle of Svedka Vodka. Ahh. That was how. 

He pushed himself to his feet and tossed his now silent phone onto his bed and then padded off into the hallway. It was a bit too early for any of his other roommates to be awake, which was a godsend since they only had two bathrooms to share between the five of them. It made for some very stressful mornings. He was privileged today, though, as he stepped into the shower. It took him fifteen minutes before he was satisfied with the state of his hygiene. 

After that, the day really began. He got breakfast at the diner across from his house. After that, he took the bus to downtown Austin and walked two blocks to Waterloo Records, the store that he worked at. The day was as boring as any other. He organized discs and tapes and vinyls, discussed music with his coworkers, listened to albums he’d never heard before, and sometimes managed to find time to clean. Eight hours later, he was stepping back out into the waning sunlight. It was time for the fun to begin. 

He boarded the bus that would take him back to his apartment. Things were a lot louder at this time of the day than they were at the beginning. Things were in full swing at his apartment. Two of his roommates, Everett and Kevin, were passing a blunt back and forth on the couch. The other two guys (David and Daniel) were his bandmates, and they were currently goofing around on their guitars, filling the apartment with a silly and happy tune. Peter wasted no time in joining the fun. He reached for the blunt and took a hit, found his own guitar to join in the jam, and basked in the easy going nature that his life had taken. 

It wasn’t until his phone buzzed, that everything changed. It was a text.

Papa: son, you think you could give me a call? it’s important.

This, alone, did not draw any fear or suspicion from Peter. Instead, he merely felt curious. He excused himself from the room and stepped out onto their back porch, a cigarette now hanging between his lips. He hit the call button on the phone and then brought to his ear. He balanced it precariously between his ear and his shoulder as he tried to light his smoke. It took a few good flicks of the lighter, but he managed to get the first drag right when his father’s voice sounded from his ear. 

“Hey, Pete, what are you up to?”

“Oh, same old same old, y’know. Just a regular night with the guys.” He takes another drag from his cigarette. 

“Well that’s nice.” Says his dad. For the first time, Peter could sense something was off. 

“Yeah...” There was a slight pause, “So, uh, what did you want to talk about?”

His father clears his throat, “Well, son, this is a bit hard for me to say to you. I’m really confused about this myself, actually. But, uh, two letters came to the house today, addressed to you...” He trailed off.

Peter took another drag of his cigarette, “Really?” He asked curiously, wanting to know what kind of letter he could have received to have his dad sound this way, “Who from?”

There was another pregnant pause, before his dad finally spoke once more. “Well, they’re from that girl. Y’know, the one that uh died in that car accident years ago. Your friend, Olive.”

...

Well, that certainly wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. 

-----------------

It’s a day later when Peter is stepping into the airport closest to his hometown. Immediately, he catches his mother and father waiting just five feet off. They are holding hands and smiling widely at him. Ignoring the chasm in his chest, he stepped towards them and allowed himself to enveloped in their familiar warmth. They stood that way for a long time and Peter readily lapped up the comfort that this gesture brought him. 

When they finally broke apart, his mother quickly yanked her phone out of her purse, “Smile, Petey!” She held her phone up high and snapped a picture. He’s pretty sure that he wasn’t smiling. 

“C’mon, Victoria, enough pictures. Let’s head home.” Patterson Beach reached for his wife’s hand once more, and then the family was quickly seated in the car.

It was surreal, finally being back in his childhood home for the first time in more than seven years. He forgot what it was like to see his parents here, in their domain. For years, they had only stepped foot in his. He might have spent more time reminiscing over this and looking through the house, but he wasn’t the type to do that and he also far more important things on his mind.

Like the letters, sitting neatly in a stack on his kitchen counter. He’d asked his parents to read them, so he already knew the contents. Still, he needed to see them for himself. He took them carefully and headed outside for a cigarette. 

Well... this really was happening, wasn’t it? He really was about to embark on a roadtrip with all of his old friends, simply because a dead girl had written them a letter and told them to do it?

“Fuckin’ hell...” he whispered, taking a long drag of his cigarette. 

Oh well, here goes nothing. 

[teddybeas-blog]

to teddy, from olive. received: august 1, 2017.

She read it once, and then she read it again.  She read it forwards, and she read it backwards.  She read it with her fingers gripping the paper so tightly it almost ripped in half, nearly sending her bursting out into a fit of tears over just how careless she had almost been.

Olive… Olive, Olive, Olive.

Her Olive.  Her best friend.  Her girl.  She wasn’t supposed to die.  She wasn’t supposed to do this.  She… and she had the audacity to talk about it like it was a joke, to treat it like some great epic adventure in a way that only Olive Graff ever would.

When she’d first gotten to the mailbox and seen the two envelopes delicately placed side by side, she hadn’t thought much of it.  And then — and then — she’d seen the handwriting.

It didn’t matter how much time passed, because she would recognize that handwriting anywhere.  She would always recognize Olive’s scrawl over anyone else’s.  It was the handwriting that had been sent to her through countless class periods over the school years.  It was Olive, Olive, Olive talking to her.

After all this time, like a ghost creeping out of the shadows.

“This probably isn’t the first stuff you wanted to hear from me,” is what Olive had told her, and Olive was right.

But then again, what would Teddy want to hear from her instead?

She’d want her voice.  She’d want her here.  No amount of letters was going to bring her back.

She read through both letters until she knew her tears were smearing the seven-year-old ink and she had to place them down on the table before she soiled them any further.

She was okay.  She was okay!  She was totally and perfectly and completely okay.

No.  She wasn’t.

Everything was rushing back to her.  That night.  That night, that night, that night.  Sitting curled up on the bathroom floor with her stomach in knots, the way Olive had told her she was going to take Auggie home.  Sending Olive those stupid, stupid text messages that had caused everything afterwards.

Finding out a month later that the baby she’d been so worried about in the first place had been more than a worry after all, but not anymore.

Everything — everything, everything — was Teddy’s fault.

She’d lost Olive, she’d lost Auggie, she’d lost the baby, she’d lost so many pieces of herself that at this point, even after all these years, she was still scrambling to find them all.

And now, her past was staring her back in the face.  Mocking her mercilessly, bit by bit.

First the initial note that had been sent to her doorstep with a Return Date from Eliza Lange, Charleston, South Carolina.  And then that night with Auggie at the restaurant.  And… and now this.

Now this.

August 5.  They left August 5.

Everything that had been building up inside of her since before she’d opened her mailbox and maybe even before that was bubbling, coiling, charging and snarling angrily back at her, and she found herself rushing for the bathroom, emptying out all she had left in her before she was left crumpled on the bathroom floor.  

Teddy Graham finally let herself break down.

She didn’t know when she’d let herself get back up.

[onelongdrive]

PLEASE MAKE SURE THAT YOUR SUBMIT BOXES ARE TURNED ON.  WHEN POSTING YOUR LETTERS WITH ANY REACTIONS YOUR CHARACTERS MAY HAVE, PLEASE TAG THEM WITH LDLETTERS!  (( Letters will be sent and posted momentarily! ))

With her hands trembling, Eliza Lange looked down at each address that had been written down for her years before, when Olive Graff had given her the very first set of letters.  Yes, that’s right.  The first set of letters.  Over the course of the next six months, there would be more, more, more.  More than Eliza knew what to do with.

She’d categorized them and sorted them all, paying close attention to the dates that Olive left for her so she would know exactly when to drop them off and where to leave them, how to get them where they needed to go.

“You’re sure they all still live here?”  Cinna Monroe was sitting in the driver’s seat of his Jeep, giving her a few glances as they made their way through the small town streets of Shallow Creek, Georgia.

“Olive used to tell me a thousand times, if you’re old, and you’re here?  You don’t leave.  This is where they are.”

He sat a little stiffer at the mention of Olive’s name, but he nodded a moment later.  “So.  Which house is first?”