The Letter – Sunday Photo Fiction

AnElephantCant write a letter
Every time he tries he knows he must fail
Because of his trunk
He just churns out junk
And his fat feet are not designed for email

This is a weekly invitation to write a short piece of fiction (c. 150 words) based on a photo prompt (below) provided by Alastair.
Just click on the link to examine exemplary epistles from excellent editors.
But please first take a minute to read AnElephant’s unstamped utterings.

Copyright Al Forbes

The Letter

He recognises the handwriting immediately, of course, although it is many years since he saw his name written in its style.
He is surprised by his own reaction, because he is slightly unnerved to see it again after so long.
He turns the envelope in his hands for some time, as though searching for a flaw or, perhaps, an entrance.
He fails to identify any smudge or trace of scent.
He sighs softly.
A somewhat rueful smile turns up the corners of his mouth.
He lifts a butter knife, slides it under the flap.
There is a single sheet of pale blue writing paper inside, folded to fit.
He pulls it out, sets the envelope aside, lays down the page, still doubled.
With another sigh and an almost imperceptible shake of the head he opens the sheet, spreads it flat.
There is only one word written on it.
No.
He starts to frown, changes to a smile, shakes his head more forcefully.
His short laugh sounds somewhat bitter.
He knows he is in trouble.
He cannot remember the question.
He lifts his head and gazes at her across the breakfast table.
No what, my love?