Mr. Postman

Sigh! “Another day…more writing…what for?” Martin was so fed up of the life he lead. He didn’t seem to be making much progress, there he was daily without fail making blog entries, no comments no ‘likes’ or ‘shares’. He just kept at it. He had tried variations in length of his posts just to avoid putting some people off. But that really didn’t impact his ratings much, he was like other bloggers and centuries of writers before him. He was in a sea of similarly talented folks who were all waiting for a breakthrough.

Martin was 50 years too late. He had been writing since he was a wee boy. He was a gifted sketch artist as well. As a child he made several comic books which he would sell to his peers. His superhero, Captain Zero was a huge hit, probably because his biggest fan base was the handicapped, geeky and loner type students. They related to Captain Zero’s inability to get there on time. The superhero with powers but was always beat to the rescue by the more popular and established superheros.

Martin was now 56 years old and wondering why he spent so much time, working on bucket loads of novels that only sold no more than 200 copies. His mother now in her 80’s diligently read each book, critiquing it and applauding him for following his heart. She believed Martin was a success not because of glory and fame; that despite having it, he was still persistent in writing and giving 200 people in his neighbourhood something to constantly look forward to. Martin had fought off iceberg causing dragons, Eskimos with fists of fire and Jungles of Europe colonized by Africa.

Martin chose to see the world contrary to how others saw it. He was about to retire from his elementary school teaching job, he had never married or ever had children. He saw what his cousin John went through falling in love with the girl everyone died to have, being Mr. Popularity, the athlete of the year and the valedictorian and confined to an office job in his 50’s miserable, divorced, broke and collapsing in debt. Martin chose to stay married to only one thing, his stories.

Martin had wished that he gave his mother a grandchild, she was frail and a lot lonelier, and it had been a decade since Papa’s death. Every Sunday Martin would take fresh flowers and do some dusting in the house and prepare them lunch to share and chat about their week. Martin would also write a 50 page short story every week to keep his Mum busy during the week. She would always discuss the short stories every Sunday with so much enthusiasm. “You are great love. I am proud of you.” His Mum would say repeatedly. Martin would give off a sheepish smile and shrug his shoulders. Mum would lean in and beckon him to get that age old hug and kiss that he’s got almost every day since he was born.

 

 

 

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