Super Short Story

The box is almost full already.

"I need to buy my son socks, these are the last ones," I think to myself while squeezing a few pairs into the few remaining gaps of the box.

The package sits on the table by the bay window that overlooks the street.

I like to pack it there, so I can see when the men arrive to pick it up.

Once a week, we exchange correspondence - I give them the parcel, and they hand me a letter.

At first, the letters were cheerful and humorous.

He would tell stories about his companions and how the training made him stronger and more fit for battle.

Once my son even joked how the mud was helping him overcome his acne.

His best friend, Peter, slept on the neighboring bunk bed.

They marched together during the day and kept each other sane during the lonely nights.

It all changed when he arrived at the battlefield.

"Trenches have to be dug, and the rain seems to fight on the foe's side; my clothes have been soaked for longer than I can remember."

That week, I packed wool socks so that his feet would remain warm despite the damp.

"Today, we carried Jacob back after an explosion.

I don't know if he will be able to hear again."

Books made it into the parcel.

"The colonel ordered us to surprise the enemy line tomorrow morning.

I am scared."

Prayers intensified.

The following week, when two men came with the letter and took the parcel, I was relieved.

My son had survived.

As I read it, I learned that Peter had not.

I cried.

The new letters rest unopened ever since.

From the window, I see two men approach my house.

I take the parcel downstairs and open the door, but they are gone.

On my post box lies one telegram with a priority stamp on it.

It feels different than the letters he usually sends.

I walk back to the house, feeling the telegram in my hand.

"Should I open this one?"

I think to myself.

Glancing at the table, I let it slip through my fingers onto the stack of unopened letters.

Standing up, I decide: "Next morning I will go and tell the post office they forgot to pick up the parcel."

Super Short Story

The box is almost full already.

The package sits on the table by the bay window that overlooks the street.

I like to pack it there, so I can see when the men arrive to pick it up.

Once a week, we exchange correspondence - I give them the parcel, and they hand me a letter.

I have not opened the handed letters for a while now, and they pile up on the coffee table.

My son has been gone for several months now.

At first, the letters were cheerful and humorous.

He would tell stories about his companions and how the training made him stronger and more fit for battle.

Once my son even joked how the mud was helping him overcome his acne.

His best friend, Peter, slept on the neighboring bunk bed.

They marched together during the day and kept each other sane during the lonely nights.

It all changed when he arrived at the battlefield.

"Trenches have to be dug, and the rain seems to fight on the foe's side; my clothes have been soaked for longer than I can remember."

That week, I packed wool socks so that his feet would remain warm despite the damp.

"Today, we carried Jacob back after an explosion.

I don't know if he will be able to hear again."

Books made it into the parcel.

"The colonel ordered us to surprise the enemy line tomorrow morning.

I am scared."

Prayers intensified.

The following week, when two men came with the letter and took the parcel, I was relieved.

My son had survived.

As I read it, I learned that Peter had not.

I cried.

The new letters rest unopened ever since.

From the window, I see two men approach my house.

I take the parcel downstairs and open the door, but they are gone.

On my post box lies one telegram with a priority stamp on it.

It feels different than the letters he usually sends.

I walk back to the house, feeling the telegram in my hand.

"Should I open this one?"

I think to myself.

Standing up, I decide: "Next morning I will go and tell the post office they forgot to

pick up the parcel".