SHORT: The Gremlin in the Pillarbox [2011]

THE GREMLIN IN THE PILLARBOX

The door clanked shut and the key ground noisily inside the lock; the collector whistled cheerily to himself as he obliviously went about his daily routine. He never saw the gremlin in the pillarbox as it emerged from a prolonged bout of hibernation and began to loiter drowsily amongst the shadows.

Resolutely unimpressed at being woken from his slumber, the creature shook its head free of a rogue utility bill and scrabbled above the pile of undelivered mail beneath which he had laid dormant for what may have been weeks, months or even years. He emitted a soft, low growl as the groggy remnants of sleep escaped from the back of his throat, and rubbed his tired eyes with grubby palms. He was home again in the dead letter office, the place where countless untold sentiments come to die. All that was left for him to do now was to sit and wait for a sign to mark the final delivery.

Though the hooting calm of nightfall was his favoured environ, as the evening wore on, the creature grew restless. At each echo of approaching footsteps, he cocked an inquisitive ear towards the sky, impatiently willing the next arrival. He cantankerously wrestled the tide of envelopes which fell like celestial envoys from the heavens above, all the while fumbling anxiously against the bristling storeys of his nest.

As the sound of loutish voices crescendoed and faded outside, the messenger arrived like a flaming comet from some distant dimension. The firelight zonked down upon the pile of untarnished mail, emitting a pageant of sparks as its sooty remains met the letters’ immaculate white surface. The critter reached out and jostled the repudiated cigarette-end quizzically with one stubby paw; puzzled by the smouldering prospect before him, he pondered its potential significance for a moment before scooping it up into his hungry jaws. Hot ash dusted the base of his tongue as he munched on the murky piece of foul-tasting cotton, hacking clouds of toxic cinders into the air with each grisly chomp. Gulping the morsel down in one final, decisive effort, he emitted a confused purr as he mulled over its caustic tang.

Feeling a warm glow envelope his stomach, the creature’s eyes lit up and he smiled mischievously, both sets of pointed, pearly-white teeth glinting in the darkness as his top lip curled into a playful, impish sneer. His slitted apertures beamed a luminous shade of cherry-red as he slid one claw beneath the brim of a nearby envelope and etched a light serration across its brow. He carefully extracted the contents and cast an enquiring glance over the eloquent calligraphy inscribed within, tracing the outlines of its ink-laden cursive with a scholarly eye.

And so, he read. Smitten by possibility’s ceaseless allure, he read tales of love lost, love found and love forever destined to remain cruelly out of reach. He pored over each token of affection with the diligence and attentiveness of a museum curator. As he perused, so too did he eat, scrunching each scrap of spent correspondence into a tight, unyielding ball and chewing thoughtfully while keenly absorbing the next instalment. He demolished reams of glossy advertising, and savoured the rose-tinted scent of myriad greetings cards. He digested endless snapshots, tearing them into bite-size tetragons and sliding them onto his tongue, soaking up the acidic twinge of their lacquered surface as they slid languidly down his gullet.

The banquet of pulp massaged his incisors like pink dentist’s gum as he devoured the envelopes’ contents with an appetite previously reserved for medieval monarchs. The sum of a thousand postal districts, freight-voyages and faraway zip-codes found their final resting place in his rumbling, furry belly as he ravenously consumed all that his curious gaze fell upon. Yet all the money in the world, all the tiresome gift vouchers and unsigned cheques from well-meaning grandparents could not quell his hunger. The sheaves of heartfelt poetry, lovesick prose and optimistic compilation tapes defied his insatiable craving. Indeed, the more he ingested, the less satisfied he felt, for still he burned inside: the prickly, porcupine heat nestling warmly in his stomach as the discarded cigarette butt slowly galvanised his innards, coating his abdomen in a fine layer of carbon. He wheezed heaving billows of smog into the air, squinting in concentration as he struggled to navigate the deluge of words left hanging in stasis between that fleeting shaft of moonlight and his own expulsions of hideous pollution. All those wonderful, aching words hovering wistfully in the ether. Just words, words, words…

The rapture eventually began to pale as the firelight dimmed inside him and night gave way to a humid cloak of damp morning mist. Dawn would be here soon; the collector would return, and a new day would be upon us. So much to do, so little time. The creature stretched his tiny arms and yawned a little, whistling a lazy shriek from the back of his weary, cauterised throat. He clopped his mouth a few times and felt his eyelids becoming heavy as he burrowed downwards towards the snug core of his inner sanctum, eventually nuzzling against an abandoned Jiffy Bag which crackled lightly as it bent to accommodate his round, fuzzy form. His eyes closed lethargically as he felt himself floating away to one of the quixotic islands depicted in so many of the missives he’d consumed - be they real, imagined or simply the product of innumerable doting syllables carved hopefully upon the page. Before long he was adrift in a blissful sleep, satiated at last by the gratifying toil wrought by so many, to such precious little purpose. At peace again, he began to dream.

Somewhere across town, the spider in the bathtub awoke to the agony of scalding water upon its skin.

C.C. 22/11/11