Thread: 03/17/08 - Delivery!

And so it begins (again)!

By popular vote, you have been given the challenge of writing a story on the following topic:

Delivery!
In no more than 500 words (not counting the titile). You are a delivery driver for the postal service. You have a particular box to deliver to an unfamiliar address. What's in the box or where it's going to is up to you.
Prompt courtesy of eggo.

Submissions may only be posted in this thread or in the thread provided in the Writers Workshop (you must provide a link to your submission in this thread if you opt to use the Writers' Workshop). Everyone is welcome to participate. Note: Judges may participate, but their entries will not be scored.

Submissions will be accepted until March 31st. (2 weeks)
Judging period: April 1st - 6th
Results will be posted on or before April 7th

Good luck to everyone!

Your judges for this round are:

Chris Miller
Lost in Some Story
Katastrof
ArlenOrobono
Hawke

Author's Note:

Not for kids.

Author's Note:

It's bloody hard to tell a story in 500 words, you know that?

Vincent's Video

The morning after I murdered my husband, my boss sent me to the notorious Vincent Larentino—a man so crooked he was born on probation.

"What's he want me to wear, boss?" I asked.

"Says here… red PVC corset, suspenders and thigh-boots. With four-inch heels and a studded collar."

"Two thousand for this one."

"Gina, I'm paying nothing. If you don't do it, I'll squeal about the corpse in your cellar."

"You bastard!"

"Give him this." Boss handed me a DVD-box.

I smiled sweetly and vowed to kill Boss later. "Fine," I said, "gimme the address."

* * *

In a narrow alley beside a pawnshop was an unmarked steel door. I knocked. It opened and a bouncer in a black tuxedo pulled me inside.

"I've heard about Gina. She's dangerous. Frisk her," said Vincent.

"Gimme a break!" I said. "What the fuck am I gonna hide under this?"

As I'd hoped, the bouncer slammed me to the wall and searched me roughly. That kinda thing was always my kink. His gorgeously calloused fingers probed my gusset so unsubtly I nearly came.

"What's this?" he said, pulling out the DVD.

"Part of the service," I said, and snatched it back. "Vincent watches this while he's doing me."

"Nice touch, I love it," said Vincent. "Hi, Gina. Come on through."

Vincent gripped my left bicep and tugged me into another room. A second man in a black suit stood just inside. Everything about him was thin—his body, his tie, his moustache and his smile. Vincent locked the door.

"You want me to stay while you do her, Vince?" said Mr Thin. "Or help?" He reached for his fly.

"She's not a hooker, you fucking idiot," snapped Vince. "She's dressed like that so fuckwits like you will think she's one. It's a cover. When the Families send me important shit, they don't use the regular mail, okay?"

"Got it. Sorry, Vincent."

"Put the DVD on. Gina, make noises."

I did my best impression of a porn-flick soundtrack, alternately moaning, pleading, swearing and assenting. There was a TV in one corner, and Mr Thin played the DVD.

Oh, shit. It showed my husband's head on a plate.

"That's Giacomo's head," said Vincent flatly. "Who has killed my brother?"

Boss's gravelly voice reverberated from the speakers.

"Vincent, it hurts me to send you proof of your brother's death. I ease the pain of his passing by sending you his murderess: his own wife, Gina."

Mr Thin's right hand blurred, and then there was a flick-knife in it.

I gaped at Vincent. "Giacomo was your brother?"

Vincent nodded, and Mr Thin whipped the flick-knife up to my throat. I wet myself, which is particularly bad when you're wearing a PVC corset. Warm urine trickled down my thigh.

Mr Thin looked at Vincent.

"Let her go," said the latter. "I'm glad the little shit's dead. Always hated my brother."

I sagged with relief.

So I murdered my treacherous bastard of a boss that afternoon and married Vincent's bouncer three days later.

DEAD ON ARRIVAL

Josh McCoy's heart sunk as he realised where the package had to be delivered. Brilliant, he groaned, knowing his job was certainly over, and worse still, maybe his life.

'You have exactly thirty minutes, starting from now,' the deep-throat voice instructed, and then the line went dead.

Ninety blocks in thirty minutes! In New York traffic! McCoy slapped the parking brake off, and shifted into first. He hated the damn manual drive vans, but the company insisted on using them. Squealing out of the parking lot, he swung hard right, taking him onto Worth Street beside Columbus Park.

McCoy didn't know his destination - he'd no reason to have ever been there, either on or off-duty. Still, getting from here to there in thirty minutes would take some kind of miracle, and he'd been rapidly running out of them lately. He had no choice, though. He had to make it. Those men he dealt with, hadn't the words 'room for error' in their vocabulary. They did have Janie, though.

Miraculously, twenty-eight and a half minutes later, McCoy fishtailed the van into a reserved space, and bolted from it, leaving his door open.

He sailed through the doors of the Metropolitan Hospital Center on 99th Street, and stopped dead in the middle of the lobby, eyes frantically searching for the Paediatric Ward. He found it seconds later, and sprinted for the elevators, knocking aside anybody in proximity.

'C'mon, c'mon! Fuck me, c'mon!' he roared, startling others patiently waiting. When the elevator eventually arrived, he rushed inside, immediately hitting the button for the third floor. Those outside protested and tried to enter, but McCoy held them back until the doors closed.

Checking his watch, he sprinted towards the desk when the doors finally opened. Annoyed to see the receptionist talking on a phone, he rudely interrupted, and informed her of the package: 'This is for Mrs Jenkins. Will you see that it gets to her?' Without waiting for an answer, he burst through the door leading to the stairs, and took them two at a time until he reached the bottom. Once outside, he found a livid paramedic standing beside his van. The paramedic gestured to the huge sign stating 'for ambulances only' but McCoy shrugged his shoulders in feigned stupidity, and hopped inside the van.

One minute later, the five pounds of C-4 explosive within the package detonated, taking the entire Paediatric Ward and two-hundred lives with it. All this for just one in return, and yet McCoy consoled himself by pretending he hadn't known the contents of the mysterious package. Maybe not, but he definitely knew it wasn't something good.

Five minutes later, McCoy drove the van into the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir.

Hit and Run

“Hold up there, Kade,” Vincent said, trying to hide his surprised expression. “What’s your business here?”

Kade held up the package, its dark blue wrapping reflecting the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. “Late birthday present for Mr. Zarilla.”

“Mr. Zarilla’s birthday was over a month ago.”

“You don’t get much time for shopping in my line of work.”

Vincent eyed him suspiciously for a moment and then stepped back. "Take the elevator to the top floor. Door on the left."

Kade gave him a nod and headed for the elevator. He drummed his fingers on the box while he waited for the doors to open. When he reached the top floor, he headed straight for the closed door to his left and walked inside.

A fat man in an immaculate Armani suit filled a chair behind a polished mahogany desk. His bulbous jowls gave the impression that he had two marshmallows stuffed in his cheeks at all times.

Zarilla hauled himself to his feet and extended his hand. “Kade,” he said in greeting. “What can I do for you?”

Kade shook the proffered hand and placed the package on the desk. “Happy Birthday.”

Zarilla eyed the box skeptically. “You and I have known each other through our respective professions for several years now and this is the first time you’ve even paid a visit, let alone brought a present with you. Why the sudden generosity?”

“Let’s just say I appreciated the business you threw my way the last time and I felt like I owed you.”

“It was an important hit,” Zarilla agreed and ripped off the wrapping paper.

Zarilla frowned into the open box. “You and your modernization. I prefer the old days and the Tommy guns.”

“You just don’t know how it works. Here, I’ll show you.”

Kade pulled the Glock 9mm from the box and popped the clip into it. As he screwed the silencer onto the end, he indicated the box with a nod of his head.

“Have a look in the card. I have a feeling you’ll find that more interesting.”

Zarilla opened it and his frown deepened. He threw the photograph on the desk.

“You took a picture of me fucking some broad and thought it would make a good birthday gift?”

Kade leveled the gun at Zarilla’s head. “That’s my wife, you son of a bitch.”

He squeezed the trigger and Joseph Zarilla went limp in his chair.

Kade dropped the gun and jumped out the window onto the fire escape. He took the stairs two at a time and hopped into a black Honda waiting for him at the bottom.

The driver glanced at him and pulled away in a rush.

“Am I taking you back to your place now?”

Kade grunted. “Take me home to my wife’s dead body? I don’t think so. Hit the gas, lover. We’re going to Cancun.”

Johnny grinned and punched the gas. “Been waiting to hear you say those words for years.”

Author's Note:

Couldn't resist the prompt.

Cherry Schnapps

Gordon threw her body into the back of his van. He didn’t check to see if the woman in the scarlet dress was alive or not; he just didn’t have the time. That brown package had to get to 331 California St. before noon and his Timex had just flashed 11:54. Besides, he could just drop her off at St. Peter’s hospital before his last delivery of the day.

He slammed the doors together and ran to jump in the driver’s side. Buckling his seat belt, Gordon shifted into drive and stepped on the accelerator. The red of the van blurred out of the neighborhood; the only presence it left was a burgundy tire mark and Gordon’s own self-doubt of whether it was a good idea to commit another crime while transporting a felony.

It wasn’t his fault—not entirely. The light was green and he was in a hurry. She shouldn’t have been walking when the crimson hand had so blatantly told her to stop. Well, he shouldn’t have drunk that bottle of cherry schnapps either, but it was stressful being a postman. St. Pete’s was just around the corner from the delivery address, anyways.

The cherry black steering wheel slipped in his hands as he turned the corner onto California St. He clutched madly for it, painting most of the van’s interior that same cherry color before getting a hold of it again. Several cars beeped at Gordon, but he paid no attention to them; just to the numbers of the houses.

281…292…305…321…327…331!

Gordon’s boot came down hard on the brake and he received a regular screech and an unusual thud in response. He wiped his hands on the dashboard and unbuckled. Opening the glove compartment, he took out the package labeled ‘Fragile’ and put his clipboard under his arm. He looked down at his watch and 11:59 blazed back at him. Gordon and his maroon uniform dashed to the door, both nearly tripping over the last few steps to the doorbell.

A noticeably worried young man in a turquoise shirt and tie answered the door. Gordon smiled and handed the man his package. “Here it is, sir. If you’d just sign—”

“Ya, ya,” the man said, barely glancing at Gordon before snatching the clipboard away from him. “You’re late by-the-way.”

Gordon glared at him, but swayed patiently for his clipboard. When the man had signed it, he stumbled back to his van. He hopped, ungracefully, back into the driver’s seat.

Before leaving, he turned back to the man pacing impatiently in the doorway.

“Hey!” Gordon called, “What’s in the box anyways?”

The man stopped pacing. “It’s a ring; a ring as beautiful as the women it’s for. You wouldn’t have happened to see her walking up the street? She’s in a stunning red dress, you can’t miss her.”

“Nope.” Gordon shifted into drive. “But I’m sure she’s just around the corner.”

Ponder-poster

Cassian’s body ambled in rhythm as the wheels turned over the rough track. He chewed slowly on a few leaves of tobacco and ignored the bitter taste as he squinted into the sun. Good day, he thought to himself, goo-ood day. He didn’t much have a liking for the taste of tobacco, but it gave him something more to do than whistle, especially when his travels lasted longer than he meant them to. He reckoned it made him think more crafty too, and he liked to spit. If he ever figured on it, he might even come upon the notion that spitting had become his favourite pastime.


The two mares pulling the coach protested as he urged them on, but idling was not for the mornings. Not when he was set to deliver such expensive cargo. Thieves were rife in these parts, and a man always had to be prepared. He confirmed the thought by taking his gun out of its holster, spinning it around in one hand as he held the reins in the other. The ears of the horses suddenly flicked back, the one on his right shaking its head as the other tried to turn its head sideways.


“Steady, girls,” he soothed, “I hear ‘em too.”


Cassian grinned as he slowed the horses to a more gentle pace. He spat out the tobacco and began to whistle and old folk song his ma had taught him, waiting for the would-be thieves to catch him up.

There were two, coming up on each side of him. Punks, he thought gleefully.


“Stop the cart!” One of them yelled, waving a small pistol about, while the other was too busy concentrating on keeping the reins of his horse in his hands.


Cassian did as he was told, then waited for them to turn their horses ‘round and canter back.


“We’re takin’ what you got there,” the one with the pistol said.


“Sure you are,” Cassian let his yellowed teeth show. “Right after you gimme them horses - and yer breeches while yer at it.”


Before he’d even finished that sentence, the punk with the pistol had slipped from his saddle, a bullet hole clean through his temple. The other kid turned ashen and began fumbling with his belt. Cassian laughed, not being able to tell if he was reaching for a gun or getting set to hand over his pants. It didn't matter, he fell from his horse just as easy.


His two new horses tethered to the coach, Cassian drove the cart on. This keeps up, he thought ruefully as he reached back into the cabin for the opened box, I’ll 'ave made me way through this whole load a tobacco ‘fore I deliver it.

Being_Postal

500 Words on the dot.

Parade Court: the end of my route.

Greta, 470, was the first.

A blond, with a wealthy, bald husband who has a penchant for trips to Vegas--trips that have impregnated his wife’s mind with doubts--she needs reassurance. Her long legs seem as though they could wrap comfortably around the entire planet, but it’s enough that they make it around my waist.

I don’t particularly care about my Parade women, as I call them. But I know them, perhaps better than their husbands. Greta reads Cosmopolitan. Jeanie, 482, takes aerobics classes, which, judging by all the final notices, she barely affords. Cynthia, 493, is a member of a book club--romance novels. She’s not much on conversation, but I’m not after intellectual stimulation.

During lunch, I sometimes flip through Cosmo’, or think of new ways to tell Jeanie she looks more toned, or jot down character names and plot points in Jennifer Blake’s latest sex-romp. Understanding gets me beyond the foyer, up the stairs, into the sheets. They crave it.

Then there’s 500 Parade Court. I’ve never delivered there, not even junk mail. The big, old Victorian sits between empty lots at the end of the cul-de-sac, sad and stoic, like an ancient king whose subjects have deserted. I assumed it abandoned--never a light on, the exterior unkempt, paint peeling--but that must not be the case; today, there is a package for 500. A small box, black and tied with red string. It’s weighty and feels important. Addressed to occupant. No return.

But 500 can wait. I have other doors to knock on, loneliness to cure.

Rain. I step out of my truck and pull on my hood. People consider rain misery for mailmen. No. Rain is my wingman; it gives housewives an excuse to invite me in for coffee. Time is also my ally; they know I have a schedule to keep, so lack of foreplay is forgiven.

470. Greta doesn’t answer, not unusual for her; she’s hit and miss.

482. Jeanie whispers through a cracked door that she has company, though I don’t notice any vehicles foreign to Parade.

No matter. There’s still 493: Cynthia, my favorite. Small breasts, but insatiable desire. She works me--works at me, like a prisoner digging through a wall to freedom. I knock. No answer. Her blinds are closed.

Only 500 left. Damn rain has me soaked, now.

The gate looks rusted shut, but it opens. The porch steps are weathered, brittle. The package won’t fit in the broken mailbox so I start to knock, intending to set it down, walk away. The door opens. I recognize the men from their photographs.

“Open it,” says the first man, pointing to the package. “It’s for you.”

“Yes,” the second confirms.

The third hauls me inside by the arm.

I untie the package, withstanding the husbands’ heated stares. Inside, there’s a pistol. Taped underneath the box lid, a single bullet.

The three men are smiling.

The Yellow House

Chad had been delivering mail on this route for twenty years, and for twenty years one house stood out more than any other. It was a small, yellow house sitting in the middle of a block of larger beige houses. That is not why it stood out, though.

It stood out because, in the twenty years Chad had been delivering mail, not once had he delivered a single piece of mail to the small yellow house. At first, Chad did not notice. He delivered to hundreds of houses, why should one stick out? Eventually, though, because the house was so much different than its neighbors, Chad did notice.

Maybe it’s vacant, thought Chad, and for about five years it seemed vacant. Then, one day, as Chad delivered mail he observed a man entering the front door of the small yellow house. The man, dressed in a plain business suit complete with hat, was opening the front door of the small yellow house while Chad was making his way up the street. Chad, overcome with wonder, sped his pace to just fast enough to glance in as the suited man swung the door open. Inside, Chad saw a well furnished living room. Clearly, the house that never got mail was not vacant.

From then on the suited man became a normal sight on his route, always wearing that suite. Sometimes he was coming, sometimes going, and sometimes hauling trash out of the little alley. Chad’s imagination ran wild for the next century. He pictured the house as a drug house, a spy’s headquarters, a married man’s rendezvous point for a secret affair, and countless other wild, imaginative stories.

For the last five years, Chad had thought little of the house or man, the mystique had fizzled. Today, though, it returned, the small yellow house was getting mail. What was in this compact disc sized box? Chad wanted desperately to open the thing and see, and as he delivered mail, it was all he could think about.

When the time came to deliver the box, the suited man was waiting outside. Chad approached, handed the man the small box, and waited. The suited man looked at the box, then at Chad. Chad did not move. The suited man began to look around, awkwardness falling over his features.

“Is there something else?” he said.

Chad knew he should let it go, but the words fell out “I’ve been delivering mail on this block for twenty years and this is the first time I…” The suited man cut him off

“And now you want to know which one of the crazy little stories you’ve made up is true” said the suited man, condescendingly.

Chad’s eyes narrowed, “Actually, no. I don’t.” Chad finished his mail route, and never thought of the small yellow house, or suited man again.

“You’re late!" The little man stood defiantly at the open door of the Carpenter’s Gothic house, oddly situated down a well wooded road about a mile from any other houses, which were all a more modern style.

“Not really sir.”

“This should have been here before ten o’clock this morning! It’s nearly...” he looked at his watch, “five fifty seven.”

I nonchalantly turned the package towards the irate little elf of a man, glaring up at me over his thick bifocals and pointed at the phrase “Standard Delivery Ground” written in big bold lettering.

“What is wrong with that girl? I always want next day delivery and here it’s nearly...Oh God! It’s nearly five fifty seven! She’s gone for the day, isn’t she? She goes at five. I’ll give you one hundred dollars for five minutes work, if you help me.”

“A hundred bucks? For five minutes? Is it legal?”

“There’s no law against it.” He began focusing on opening the package. “I think.”

“You think?”

“I promise no harm will come to you.”

“What the heck.”

He started down the hallway, opening the package, and pulled out the object inside.

“That looks like an electric guitar replacement pickup,” I said.

“That’s what it is. It has an alnico V magnet, adjustable pole-pieces and 5,000 windings of 42AWG copper wire per bobbin on two bobbins. What a great world. Saved me hours of time winding wire.”

We entered a room and my hair stood up instantly from the static electricity. The room was unfurnished, except for an ornate mahogany table covered with circuit boards and a bunch of wires and a chair in the center of the room with two brass, joystick like handles, wired back to the table. There was one overhead light fixture. “Touch this.” he said, and pointed at a small whitish pad. I touched it and the static dissipated.

“Pay in advance,” I said.

He handed me two gold coins. “Evaluate these before you spend them.” Then he started soldering the wire pickup leads into a space on one of the a circuit boards.

I looked at the glittering coins in my hand. “San Francisco, 900 thous., fifty dollars, Wass Molitor and Co.”

“Done. Now, when I tell you, push the brass button, right there. This is important. Then you run out the door you came in and out of the house. You got that?”

“Push the button, run like hell. Got it.”

He sat in the chair. Grabbed both handles. “Ready? Now!”

I pushed the brass button and the lights went out, but the chair and the little man glowed gold.

“Run!” he said. The walls began to glow gold as well.

I nearly tripped as I went to jump from the porch, but managed to keep my footing. I turned back the entire house was an iridescent gold, then it vanished!

Feeling in my pocket, I pulled out one of the coins. Written under a liberty head on the front was the date, “1855."

Coming To Terms

I walked to the door of the little cottage, a smile on my face. This week’s package was quite heavy. Something else for the trip, perhaps?

This was my third visit this month.

The first time I came, several weeks ago, a young girl answered the door. She was beautiful, all blond curls and white teeth and pale skin, with a little flush of excitement in her cheeks. A real little angel. The kind I hoped to have some day. She shouldn’t be answering the door, I thought.

“Ello!” she chirped at me.

“’Ello, miss!” I replied, “Package. Is your mum at home?”

“Ye!” she said. “Mum! Brown man is here!”

“Coming!”

A harried looking young woman appeared.

“UPS, ma’am,” I said. “Package for Miss Daphne Jones.”

“It’s for me!” squealed the girl. “What is it?”

The woman scanned the package for the identity of the sender. It was a clothing company.

“It’s your dress, your beautiful white dress.”

“It’s my dress for my trip!” said the girl proudly to me. Her mother signed for the package.

Ten days ago, when little Daphne opened the door, she recognized me with a little squeek of glee.

“Mum! Brown man again!” She looked at me with blue eyes sparkling. “Is it for me?”

It was. New shoes for her trip. She was very excited. She did a little dance.

“Don’t wear yourself out, Daphne!” her mother scolded, but kindly.

Now I was back for the third time. I propped the heavy, flat package against the cottage wall and rang the bell. To my surprise, Daphne’s mother answered. She gave me a distracted look, and asked me to bring in the package. I carried it into a small living room. Daphne was on the couch, having a nap, it appeared. I lugged in the delivery and lay it up against a wall, as directed. On the wall was hung a little white dress. Below it sat two pearl-white shiny shoes.

I heard the tiniest voice behind me.

“Is that for me, mr. brown man?”

“Sure is, miss,” I said with a smile.

“It made it,” said the little child with weary relief, and I looked at her. She wasn’t at all well. Even paler than before, but with bright red spots in her cheeks that weren’t natural, weren’t healthy. Her eyes were listless. Her arms lay unmoving on the covering blanket.

“It must be my marker,” she whispered weakly. “Can you open it for me?”

I nodded, concerned. Such a little one to be so sick. I slipped out my boxcutter and began to cut along the edge. For the first time, I noticed the sender. Adams Monument Company.

As I peeled back the cardboard, the little girl spoke again.

“It's so pretty. I’m ready for my trip now, mum. I hope God will be glad to see me.”

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1095757

My story. Hope I understood how this works.

One of Two

Routine, normalcy, dependability. That's what I deliver everyday on my route. Legal documents I bring to Lumpkin, Lumpkin, and Horowitz. Their secretary Marcy, sips a Grande Latte while she checks her email and signs my tablet, oblivious to my existence. Fabric swatches go to the design company down the street. My favorite delivery two blocks over, Tiffany Milks receives another Ebay win, that she undoubtedly spent too much of her rich, old, husband's money on.


“Good morning Ralph”, she smiles, her silk robe hanging loosely to reveal her voluptuous figure beneath.

“Good mmmorning Mmiss Milks”, I reply shyly amused by the irony of her name, “wwhat's in your package today?”

“Oh, this is one of my new Mystery Auctions, it's a surprise even to me. Would you like to come inside while I open it?” she asks.

“Nnno ththththank yyou Mmmissss. I have to get bback to my rroute.” I retreat quickly down the sidewalk and into my truck. I turn my head in time to peer out the passenger side and watch Ms Milks' robe slip open as she walks inside her door. “Phew” I breathe out as I wipe the sweat from my brow and my truck sputters down the street toward my next delivery.


From the corner of my eye I see a small envelope that slid between two other packages. I reach down to grab it while keeping a keen watch on the School Crossing Guard up ahead. Glancing down at the name it reads: Ms. Tiffany Milks 2 of 2.


Crap! I've never done this before, deliver only half a shipment. Quickly, I make a U-Turn and push my speed limit in a rush back to Tiffany's house. I need to keep my schedule in order to bonus at the end of the month.


Trotting up to her brownstone once again, I rap on the door in hopes that her robe will be tightly knotted when she appears.


With a knowing smile Tiffany swings the door open, her eyes fixed on the envelope in my hand.


“I knew you'd be back” she says as she grabs my arm and pulls me in the doorway. The click of metal surrounds my wrist and I'm thrown off balance. From the floor I look up to see her large breasts hovering above my face, the other wrist cuffed. “I've been waiting for this for a long time”, she sneers in satisfaction.


“Wwhat's gggoing on?” I ask.


“Ralphie, you're mine now. Thankfully you brought me this envelope, it contains your forged suicide note. The other package contains our documents to escape together forever. My men are moving your truck now. You are officially missing, never to be seen again.” Ms Milks says. A sensation I've never felt before washes over me, a rush of adrenaline that is far from routine.


A vice-like grip shakes my shoulder, the light invades my eyes. “Ralphie! Your alarm has been going off for an hour”, shrieks mother's raspy voice.

Note to judges: Stuttering dialogue originally had dashes, however they greatly increased my word count so I took them out.

I'm in!

You Could Already be a Winner- 482.5 words

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1096901

**Submissions are now closed**