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a story by
Corey Mesler
> bio

            I always thought that five sheets was about the limit.  I mean five 8 X 12 sheets of foolscap, folded twice, bent to the commandments of the No. 10 regular envelope and the government strictures of a 37¢ stamp.  I figured that was about as far as things could go.  You could push it, sure, but these were ideas for late at night, for those hours when grey is the dominant scheme.

            But then odd things began appearing in my mailbox.  Slices of someone else’s life, as fresh as foam, living things, half blood and half dream.  The first came on a Friday afternoon—the carrier was late, he was never late, I knew something was up—and its envelope was bulging, almost as if it pulsated with hidden carnality.

            It was a hand.  Or, at least, hand-like.

            After that I began putting the damn things on the credenza where they seemed to form their own alien culture.  A stranger looking at them might believe they were a community, as lively as what goes on between the walls.  But strangers never come here, so this is moot.

            Months went by and the credenza resembled a postdiluvian laboratory, a way of looking at things like shadows and memory.  Every time I placed something new there—and they kept coming, smaller packages of meat and metaphor—there was a gratitude alive in the house.  It was as warm as love.





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