Flash Fiction

Crayford Burns had spent the last 20 years working in the Department for Undelivered Mail, popularly known as the dump. He will not work there for much longer. They, the management, are making redundancies. Crayford and his two fellow dumpsters are to go. Subsequent to their departure the undelivered mail will be held in a holding pen for the obligatory wait time and then automatically incinerated. The policy is known as postal synergy.

For the last month Crayford has been secretly taking as much mail as he can possibly fit into his daily knapsack without arousing suspicion home with him. His home is at the top, 15th floor, of tower block number z37 in suburb i7. The z indicates that the tower is occupied by unmarried, mostly, men - i suburb is for unqualified workers. From the single large window Crayford can see across the east of the city towards the mountains. In the summer months he often gets up early and watches the sunrise, occasionally glimpsing a purple light cast upon the city's armoured border posts. The view is slowly being consumed by the growing piles of undelivered mail from the dump. Crayford has persuaded his to coworkers, to at least assist him, with the absconding of the seemingly unloved, unwanted mail.

Why did Crayford care? He didn't. It was just something he felt the urge to do. After 20 years he couldn't stop.

On the last day of the dump he was giving his reassignment. He was to be repurposed at the Transport Allocation Department but he wasn't required for three weeks. So, a holiday but nowhere to go. No matter, he never went anywhere anyway. He would use his time sorting and analysing the undelivered mail that had rapidly grown to a small mountain. He would start first thing tomorrow.

First thing tomorrow there was a loud banging at the door to Crayford's accommodation. Surprised, as he never got any visitors, he opened the door wide. On reflection he wasn't sure who he was expecting, but the six upright armed militia that marched straight in were not on the list. The obvious leader handed over a sheet of closely printed paper while the other five started stuffing the piled but unsorted mail into large green postal sacks. When he looked at the paper the lead militia man had given him it seemed that his reassignment had been reassessed. He was to be dispatched with immediate effect to the farthest most border post where he would spend three years on solitary watch. Watching, but no one ever came to the border. Crayford was handed a large pair of binoculars and a one way travel warrant.

He was reassigned, no argument, no appeal.