Do people still mail letters?

Time for another writing sample! This one's a little different as it is actually three small samples. The prompt here was to write a brief vignette for three different people who are mailing letters: someone who is in love, someone who is dying, and a paranoid conspiracy theorist. First person, third person, present tense, past tense... let's do this!

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Someone who is in love

Instead of putting my letter in the mail, I brought it directly to the administrative office at the prison. It takes a while for the letters to be processed: sorted, opened, reviewed, delivered... But I wanted this letter to get to Andrew as soon as possible. I spent hours at Walmart on Saturday picking out decorations for the house so everything would be perfect when I brought him home. He is being released next week. This will be our first time together without a pane of glass between us, but I knew how I felt about him the first time I saw him on TV after the trial. I always thought he was innocent, and he took all the hatred with such grace and nobility—what more could you ask for in a man.

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Someone who is dying

This might be the last letter I ever send. Doris and I have been pen pals since we were children. We have never met in person, but I feel closer to her than anyone else in my life. I suppose it was inevitable, having written back-and-forth every month without fail. Our correspondence began as a school project in fifth grade, but now, at 64 years old, she is my closest friend. I take the walk to the mailbox as slowly as possible, almost as slowly as I wrote this letter. I got the diagnosis yesterday—I'll probably be gone before I get to write to her again, but I hope to be alive long enough to read her response. Her words have always given me peace and comfort in hard times. When Alfred left me, she was there; when the basement flooded, she was there; when my mother broke her hip, Doris was there—never in person but always in spirit. I’m glad I don’t have to tell her in person. Perhaps that’s why we have always been so open with each other. Distance is a buffer from pain.

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Paranoid conspiracy theorist

Harold lived on a 30-acre plot of land in the middle of Idaho to distance himself from the government as much as possible. He used to live on five acres, but he had to move to a larger plot where his neighbors couldn’t watch him through their binoculars. His brother lived one plot over, and the two got together every Sunday for dinner. Harold wanted to let his brother know that he would be late this week, as he had spotted a few deer passing behind the house that were all just a little too similar, and just a little too evenly spaced—probably robots. So, he needed to wait until they passed before he could leave the house. Since the government reads all its citizens’ mail, Harold had never trusted the postal service. This meant that he had a very well-trained homing pigeon, named Bruce, who delivered his letters. Bruce came in very handy for inter-brother communications as well. Harold jotted a brief note, cryptic but informative. “Doe-ray-me. Be along shortly,” and strapped it to Bruce’s ankle.