The mailman who delivers mail to work is really strange. Not a strange person, but strange for a mailman. Our past mailmen have all been older and all of them wore a uniform. This guy is young and never wears a uniform. The first five times he came to deliver the mail I kept asking him who he was coming to visit. He looks like someone I went to highschool with. Not anyone in particular really, just that one type of guy that all the girls had crushes on. Our old mailman used to say hi and ask how my day was going. This guy always says, "Hay!" and then smirks at me. Today after he smirked he said, "Habadoyon," which is mailmanese for "Have a good one." I carried the mail into my office and started sneezing. Then I noticed a strange stain on the mail. Then, I started to smell it. Yes, our mail was drenched in Polo. Which begs the question: does he carry cologne in his mailbag? If so, why? And if not, what on earth happened to my mail?
Something strange happened this month: I missed my 12 Short Stories deadline. There have been many things changing in my life, and I’ve realized that there are a few things I will need to put less energy into. That doesn’t mean I won’t write anymore, but that I may write less, or may just focus on longer pieces. That being said, I did write something, it just didn’t meet the word count. So here is one more story. It’s not a story about politics, it’s a story about human nature and human feelings. ——— The war is over, or at least that is what they say. But how do you stop such a thing once it is started? Charles sighed when I asked him, “You act as if you don’t understand politics.” “I don’t,” I scratched a sliver of paint off the window with a razor, “I’m not even sure we should be doing this.” “They said we could remove the blackout paint,” Charles swiped an even curl of latex to the ground. It fell among the budding roses, an artificial petal. “But there are still soldiers ove