mailbox - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The mailbox paint curls like autumn leaves, yet they stay regardless of the wind and rain. It's the beloved old-man of the street, bright in every fog; it's every winter's flower. Jasmine reaches high with white envelopes in tiny hand, Christmas greetings to spread far and wide. She stands on tip-toes as the letter's tumble inside, her face a picture brighter than any card.
At the end of the track, made rough by the tractor treads in the soft mud of fall, was a mailbox. It was set in the ground at a jaunty angle, although perhaps twenty years ago it had been upright. The seasonal rain of spring, baking of summer, rain of fall and freezing of winter had clearly taken it's toll. The post looked as rotten as a cow's luck in the slaughter house. On top of the post sat a metal box, domed at the top, paint peeling, with a little metal door on rusted hinges. Jet was sure that years ago the name of the farm would have been painted gaily on the sides in bright paint, but now it was both gone and unnecessary. The name of the farm was known across the country after what was discovered there last year.
The mailbox was a large silver coloured box on legs set in concrete. It was divided into thee main sections and each of those sections had three lockable compartments across it and eight down, so that the mailbox was big enough for seventy two homes. On the side of it were always plastered notices about lost dogs and home tutors. But this morning was different, there was a notice on the side with a riddle. It was a macabre sort of verse with a picture of a bloody knife and the notice said in red ink "When the butcher man comes calling you'd better know the answer or he'll write it in your blood on the door."
If you'd been asked to describe Mrs Daisy's mailbox you'd have said it looked much like a bird house. It looked for all the world like she'd bought a large birdhouse and cut a hole in the front large enough for the mail and mounted it on a pole. It was painted in all sorts of gay colours in such a way that you could imagine it had been decorated by her nursery school class. Maybe they had, maybe it had been a project.
Teddy's description of the mailbox always made me grin. He said it stood at the end of the garden path like a hungry puppy with it's metal tongue hanging open. But it wouldn't get fed today, it was Sunday and the mailman had the day off.
The mailbox was little more than a crude metal box with a lid fastened next to the front door. It wasn't a problem that it was small since it was emptied daily. That's how the mailman knew something was wrong, it was wednesday and it was still crammed with the mail since Monday. When he knocked on the door and got no reply he went to the neighbours...
The mailbox sat at the end of the driveway, crooked in front of the trees that obscured the house. Delilah sighed. It was beaten and rusted, no doubt the house that was to greet her beyond it was just the same, dilapidated, draughty, rotting. Her eyes rested on the chipped black paint until the movement of the taxi stole it from view and instead she found herself searching for a first glimpse Mrs Fry's abode.
Jenny burst out laughing. The mailbox looked like a person bending over with the mail inserted into their trouser flap. So this was her uncle's house, perhaps he wouldn't be as strict as mother warned. Such an irreverent box must at least mean jokes are allowed inside the tall brick walls.
The mailbox was brand new - a government issued steel box on legs, twenty locked compartments for letters and two larger ones below for parcels. Across the top was the band of red, maple leaves imbedded inside. Kevin snickered, give it a few weeks and it would be plastered with the usual neighbourhood notices.