Our Story A Day prompt for today is to use a song title. My Holly prompt is fountain pen.
It’s been a while since Steffie visited, so I combined all these with a dream I had long ago, and BOOM! STORY!
Please, Mr. Postman
Steffie smiled up at the nattily dressed man and patted the seaside bench, next to where she was sitting.
He groomed his white mustache, touched the brim of his cap, bowed slightly, and complied. He looked her up and down, a smirk on his thin pink lips, a roguish and hungry twinkle in his bright blue eyes. “Haven’t I seen you at the hotel?”
“You have,” she said. “And I’ve seen you.”
He groomed his mustache again. “I can’t stay long, alas,” he said, “much as I’d like to. It isn’t often one meets an angel on the beach. I have another appointment rather soon.” He gave another slight bow. “Not, I assure you, with so charming a lady.”
Steffie put a hand over the watch he turned his wrist to check.
“I know, Mr. Postman,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you know my name. I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, there.”
“You know my name,” she said. “You just don’t know it’s who I am.”
“I’ll tell you something else I know: I know who your appointment is with.”
He jerked, but she held him fast.
“I know something else: I know what’s in your inside jacket pocket. Why don’t you give it to me, instead?”
Postman tugged against Steffie’s grip, his eyes wide, like a horse’s who smells smoke.
“Please?” she said, her winsome expression at odds with her iron clasp of his wrist.
“They’ll kill me if I don’t deliver,” he whispered, suddenly haggard, suddenly old.
“You should have come to me when they approached you.” She shook her head, more in sorrow than in anger. “Did they offer you money? Money, Mr. Postman? Money?“
“I’ll share,” he said.
Steffie released his wrist and knocked his cap to the ground, exposing his bald dome.
His face went from sallow to flushed, and he knelt at her feet to retrieve his dignity.
She pulled a very special fountain pen from her pocket, uncapped it, jammed the point into his scalp, and injected its contents–not ink–into a pulsing vein.
He cried out and threw himself away from her, woozy before he could stand, unconscious before he could even think of running.
Steffie found the letter she was looking for exactly where she knew it was and replaced it with another.
When Postman woke, he wouldn’t remember the past half hour. Waking in the sea grass would puzzle and frighten him, and he would look forward to retiring on the money he was selling his soul for. The document he was selling would prove to be useless, and his retirement would prove to be short-lived.
Steffie, reflecting on this, was unmoved. “I said please,” she told the universe.
Yeah, I had that dream about stabbing a guy’s head with a fountain pen when I was a child, only I killed the guy. A. Child. Fear me.
And now, because I’m all about the earworms:
MY PROMPTS TODAY: Song title, fountain pen