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Weekly Contest #51
The mailbox is still at the end of the lane, though there are only a few patches of green paint left on the rusted steel. It used to feature a bright yellow sun, hand-painted by my mom with the words ‘Sunshine Acres.’ An ironic name for the location of a murder. I haven’t been here for more than forty years, but I open the box like I’d just come home from work and checking for mail. The hinges tell me ‘fuck off’ and won’t budge, but I use two hands and pry the bitch open. The metal grinds, but I prevail. I don’t know what I expected to fin...
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