6 comment(s) so far. Please add yours!
#AdAstraWriMo – November 2025 Progress!
This hastily written story was inspired by a FaceTime conversation. As I sat in my uniform talking about rain and a research plan, the face on the other side of the screen was illuminated such that it seemed to wear a halo.
Distracting. Because of course I kept thinking of guardian angels… and spanking. Of course.
I stood on tiptoe before the angry, red postbox, fighting to shove a stack of letters through the slot as they threatened to slide out of my grasp. One of them, the thick, unwise one I had written in a fit of 1AM tears, pleading, and righteousness, was wedged right in the middle, its edges tearing.
Already I knew it was a mistake. But the postbox was there, the letters already partway in, and, well, inertia is a powerful force.
(I am Entropy Girl, but that’s another story.)
As I shoved harder, someone behind me cleared his throat. The sound was the most polite, academic, schoolmasterly “ahem” I had ever heard.
I didn’t need to turn. I recognized the voice immediately.
But I turned anyway, my heart already thudding with anticipation and dread.
Despite the polite Britishness of Ruston’s gentle “ahem”, the sound always promised tears at bedtime.
Behind me a tall, faintly rumpled man, spectacles perched halfway down his disapproving nose, his greying hair illuminated in the fading light, stood watching me, his expression mild, eyes intense. I could just see his wings, yes, tucked neatly like an afterthought, the feathers in soft parchment colours, almost shadows against his white shirt. He carried his own oddly individual lighting, the sort that reminded me of the way at dusk a hilltop statue glows at embued with quiet, watchful authority. His gaze was that of a don who’d had to step out of a tutorial, now forced to deal with my nonsense personally.
“My dear girl,” he said in a voice low, warm, but unmistakably reproachful, “you cannot possibly intend to post that.”
Too polite to point, he nodded at the incriminating envelope, the one I’d unconsciously tried to hide in the sandwich of more innocent correspondence. It now stood out and glowed, if not red, then sunset pink.
Knowing I was lost I still tried to brazen it out. “It’s already sealed and stamped.”
Ruston sighed, beleaguered as only a male guardian angel who’s shepherded my communication for almost three decades can sigh. “Neither sealing nor stamping an imprudent letter renders it prudent, my dear, only harder to retrieve.”
As I took a breath, considering how I might defend myself, he reached over and, with the authority of one who marks assignments in red pen, gently but firmly plucked the envelope free.
He held it between two fingers the way a scholar might hold an undergraduate’s too-hastily-written, over-caffeinated essay. “You started this at 1:14 AM. After crying for hours. Without eating. Against the advice of your friends. And certainly before considering consequences.”
I shrank a little, my voice suddenly small and pleading. “It felt necessary.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So does late-night candy. And yet one regrets it by morning.”
I looked down.
“Now, post the birthday card. Mail your bills. But one must never send passion, especially dark passion, by mail. It has a habit of arriving… flammable.”
Slipping my letter into an invisible pocket he continued. “I’ll hold onto this. If you must, you may draft a calmer version tomorrow. After sleep. And breakfast.”
This was said as he rested a large, warm hand atop my head in a gesture part blessing, part rebuke.
I turned back toward him, not surprised his formerly empty hand was holding my hairbrush. Ruston tucked it into my bag as his other hand slipped from the top of my head to lightly but firmly grasp the back of my neck, tipping my face up toward his.
“Now,” he continued. “Go back to your room. Your uniform is on your bed. You know where I expect to find you. Nose right in the corner.”
His lips brushed the top of my head. With a faint scent of old books, and goodness, he straightened, tucked his wings back into place, and strolled off with no fluttering and no fuss, humming unknown but beautiful music.
I sighed. The postbox smiled at my back as I trudged home.
I am by no means a Luddite, and I try to avoid TOO much Boomer sentimentality about the days of yore. But, say what one will about the immediacy and efficiency of texts and DMs and emails and other means of instant communication across oceans, the good old LETTER did require more deliberation to prepare and did offer more opportunities for reconsideration before one committed to transmission.
For a girl who might be subject to corporal consequences for an intemperate correspondence, pen and paper DID offer a layer of protection.
As for guardian angels, while I reject their existence on theological grounds, the notion of them being armed with and prepared to employ hairbushes does suggest a degree of efficacy not appreciated in the traditional conception of them and renders them more appealing to me. (Considering a stern version of Clarence from “It’s a Wonderful Life.”)
I agree completely. letter forces a different kind of consciousness. The pause between drafting and posting is its own moral safeguard. And yes, for girls whose words might meet consequences, that gap between ink and envelope is a kind of shield. Plus, when I write a letter to someone I don’t expect to need to reply to them for at least a few days.
And the other thing I adore about letters is *handwriting*. The loops, pressure, hesitation — all those tiny choices are so intimate. For me, someone’s handwriting is more evocative than their photograph. It feels like a trace of the person that made it.
As for guardian angels: I, too, side-eye them theologically… but I admit that the idea of them wielding hairbrushes or confiscating imprudent correspondence gives them a level of domestic authority I find oddly believable. Ruston is very much the stern Clarence type. I suspect he uses his wings only as a last resort.
Oh my. My handwriting is so appalling that I was advised in fourth grade (so 1970 or so) to learn to type. This back when typing was typing and the machine was manual.
Now for handwriting I print – and that not well.
I’ve seen your penmanship and it is astonishing.
Enchanting as always! Is it a standalone story of anticipation or you’re planning to write more? In the past I’ve been juggling a few multi-chaptered stories at once, it’s incredibly challenging but thrilling.
I started a story called Uncle Ar, The Disciplinarian, it’s loosely based on Devlin O’Neill and also posted a new poem about him today. I wonder what you think. I have a gut feeling you knew him. Sorry, I don’t have your email, so spilling it all in the comments section.
Also wanted to ask about Erica, she stopped posting on her blog a while ago.
I and my lovely bride read all of O’Neill’s books. Never been “in the scene” in any sense so it’s fascinating to me, as a pure consumer, to think of folks like him as a “real person,” which of course he is. (I always figure folks who write about TTWD at that level must be inclined toward it in their own lives, but that isn’t necessarily so. After all, Agatha Christie never really murdered anyone in the drawing room if a manor house. (I assume.))
I’ve gotten to know Mija, a true scene celebrity and brilliant writer, just a bit through correspondence. What a pleasure.
Given our lives, MLB and I will never attend a party or any such, but it is nice to make even an attenuated connection.
Thank you! This one’s a standalone — I’m not usually a series or chapter writer, so when a story arrives, it tends to arrive whole.
And yes, I did know Devlin, though not super well. He really was a lovely man. Once he even drove me to Vegas in his red convertible for a SL party when Paul couldn’t come until the next day — one of those surreal, delightful memories that still makes me smile. I’ll take a look at your Uncle Ar piece and the poem — I’m touched you thought of me.
As for Erica, she’s still around on Bluesky, but I don’t think she’s blogged much since John passed away. Such a terrible loss.
And no worries at all about spilling into the comments — it’s a very familiar way of communicating for me. My email is mija@thetreehouse.net. I’m a pretty patchy correspondent right now – trying to use as much of my playtime to disappear into Saint Clare’s. And London’s last season….