by Pico ヨハネス
The saddest thing about this story is that it isn't fiction. First place flash fiction.
Summer waned and autumn passed. Through it all our mailbox did everything it was designed to do. It held letters from our loved ones from far and wide. It kept our flyers and coupons dry. It also did its part in announcing our debt, but we forgave it for that. A finer mailbox it could not have been until winter set in.
Our distinguished local politicians hired a new snowplough driver for the township, who showed no respect for any of the mailboxes on our street. During his first real winter run he took almost all of them out including ours. We put it back up and he ran it over again. After he finished it off the third time, scoring his triple, we gave up and started picking up our mail at the local post office. Complaints to the township fell on deaf ears. They went so far as to suggest that it was our fault. We still don’t understand why the ditches had to be ploughed.
The final indignity came near the spring. The forlorn metal post jutting out of the frozen snow bank finally thawed so that we could bring it in, but a scrap metal scavenger stole it before we could. Can you think of a sadder mailbox story than that?