I was sitting on the couch, writing my creepy (but uplifting!) novel, when I looked in the general direction of the painting that’s close to our front window. It took me a moment to realize I was looking at a face in the painting’s glass.
It turns out that the face in the glass belonged to the mailman, who was taking the outgoing letters from our box at just the right angle for him to register in the glass. I waited for the guy to leave before I checked the box. Two minutes later, I opened the door–and he was still standing there. The trouble is that after all that time, he left no mail.
He was resting, right? Or sorting stuff?
The snow is deep, dearies. If you don’t hear from me after a while, check the banks for tracks of… I don’t know what. Postal monster eagle feet.
(Originally posted February 19, 2014)