still figuring some things out, but it's my first work in progress.......


     It's crooked...or is it? Zach stares a yellow envelop. Canary, Golden Rod, Mustard, Daffodil, "Isn't it just yellow?"  He says to himself. So many envelopes fly through this place everyday that eventually they all begin to blur together. "Looks the same to me," he thinks to himself. Yet he was being stared at...crookedly. Fucking Marilyn Monroe. Her seductive stare burning giving him the burning tingly feeling you get at the back of your head when your being laughed at. Marilyn, the controversial yet beautiful actress of Hollywood. Loving wife of baseball celebrities and playwrights. Locking eyes with Zach and crookedly staring into his meaningless, benign, stale existence. Frozen in mid laugh, laughing at Zachary because even in her sugary saliva licked one by one inch mausoleum, she would still lead a more interesting existence and see more exciting places then he. "Crooked Marilyn." Zach's lips curl in deranged bliss as he slams a giant red rubber stamp reading "RETURN TO SENDER" on the yellow envelope. 

     The hallway leading from the mail receiving room to the break room was narrow. So narrow in fact that if two people walked side by side down it they would probably get stuck. Staring down the long hall Zach contemplates taking his break. If he makes it the twenty or so feet to the break room he could sit down and clear his head. Tax week was always the worst at the post office, as it seems no one can punctually submit his or her state and national taxes. That or they just can't use their own damn mailbox. Deciding to make a break for it, Zach briskly walks to his fate. He might make it to the break room, but theirs a fifty fifty chance he might get stopped dead in his tracks and forced to squeeze by one of the 300 lb mail clerks who had been out delivering and perspiring all afternoon. Or theirs Charlene the 15-year-old boy trapped in a 68-year-old woman's body. The possibility of sweaty lecherous encounters with yellow slog stained men and testy, lustful elderly ladies formed a pit in his stomach. With stomach acid welling up in the back of his throat Zach closes his eyes and lunges foreword...doorknob, success.


 "You okay dude?" Zach looks up after closing the break room door sweat perspiring from his forehead and sees Lester sitting in a wooden chair flipping through an issue of Rolling Stone that some emo preteen with a chip on his shoulder will never receive. "Yeah, I'm good man. I just need some coffee. It was a late night last night." Lester looks up from his magazine, "Dude you gotta stop doing this to yourself. Working two jobs can be considered honorable if you have like a family to raise, but aren't you by yourself?" Zach stirs sugar into a cup what the postal staff lovingly refer to "tar and gasoline" and sits at the table. "Yeah but I gotta do something with my time ya know." Lester turns his head sideways at him "So go for a drive, get a dog, hell get laid for Christ sakes!" Lester was his senior in years by a good decade yet you wouldn't know it if you looked or talked to him. Lester spent his off time in an ecstasy induced party atmosphere laced with the acidic intentions of sleeping with every thing that walked and could be penetrated, male or female. "Maybe a woman would loosen you up a bit and make you realize that life's about enjoying the pleasures of being free, not bound to a job constantly." Zach sips his coffee. Caffeine never seems to help anymore. Maybe being free is just too much responsibility, he thinks to himself.  "Maybe your right, maybe I should take a day off." Lester stares at him menacingly through the bolt in his septum, "No not maybe! You're going to!" Zach stares down at the black liquid.....


The End

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