A Letter of Importance

The pen stood resolutely on the paper. It was being held captive, forced against its will to spill its dark blood in lines across the page. The paper drank in the blood, spat back words at the beings who tried to read it.

Then the pen was liberated, thrown down onto the table, and it rolled away. The blood dried in the last spot and the paper felt cool air float beneath it as it rose up from its seat.

“It's perfect,” a feminine voice conveyed.

The paper folded in on itself and took shelter inside a small, white envelope. A stamp hopped and latched onto the corner as the pen was called to service one last time.

Then another voice was at the door, asking in a girlish manner if the letter was ready.

It was.

The mailbox consumed the envelope, digested it with the other envelopes it had devoured at an earlier time. Then like birds the envelopes flew to their destinations.

A man with reddish hair collected the mail today. He brought it inside- one small, white envelope- and gave it to the other man there.

“What's this, Phil?”

The man called Phil shrugged and answered, “Dunno, mate, but it's for you and Chris.”

Then Chris appeared at the sound of his name, sat down beside the envelope with growing curiosity.

“Go ahead, Jon, open it,” he said with wide eyes.

As the paper slid outside, it stretched its cramped legs and displayed for the men the blood tattooed across its surface.

And this is what it read: