The Letter (Pixel fiction)

This pixel fiction was begun by Carol on her blog site. ( Carol's Little World ) I am attempting to write an ending for it. Hopefully other bloggers will write their own ending as well.

Carol's beginning:



The Letter

Beatrice Martin dips her garden trowel into a bag of potting soil as she sits on her knees in her front garden. She maneuvers the garden trowel skillfully with her right arm, almost as it's an extension of her own hand, as she sifts the soil in front of her with her left arm. A gardener for most of her 72 years, her curly white hair frames her face as she shifts her weight forward and works the earth. She pauses only to occasionally wipe her brow, without stopping to remove her thick cloth gloves, or resting her garden tools. The small garden that she tends has been in her family for generations-it was her mother's garden before she took it over and her grandfather's before that. Every year, come the first thaw of spring, she rides her bicycle into the center of town to pick-up seeds, fresh bulbs, and a new bag of potting soil. Her small cottage style house too has been in her family for generations-it holds fond memories of her younger days, sipping lemonade on the front porch and hanging the sheets out to dry on the clothesline in the back, watching them blow softly in the cool breeze of summer or fend off the approaching snap of an autumn chill. As a child she darted in and out between those sheets, running with the vibrancy of her younger days, now her arthritic hands sometimes struggle with the small wooden clothespins that keep the sheets aloft in the slight breeze. Much has changed in her 72 years in the house. She left to attend university, her brother passed in the war, she married and bore children, all of whom grew up and left the city and the small cottage as well. Perhaps the most noticeable change marks the landscape surrounding Beatrice. As a child, she lived out in the country, far from the bustling downtown of city traffic, the congestion, and the neighbors, in a small farm cottage with a well-tended flower garden out front. But, times change, towns grew, cities rose up, and shopping malls were built almost overnight. The town moved in, almost beside her, rising up and swallowing the old farm community she once knew. Condos dot the landscape where corn used to grow and, much to her dismay, new highways stripe the once open prairie.

"'Mornin', Bea," her gardening work interrupted by a voice from down the sidewalk.

"Why, good morning, Jerry!" It was her postman, Jerry, coming up the path, past the picket fence, entering the garden to deliver her mail.

"How's the old hip doing today, Bea?" Jerry asks with a smile, "I hope it's holding up ok, what with this crazy weather we've been having and all."

"Oh, I'm doing fine, Jerry, fine, thanks for asking," she responds, reaching for the mail. "What's this?" she says as she spots a letter in the pile, "I see I might have an answer from the city."

"Is that the letter you've been waiting for?" asks Jerry.

In fact it was. For the past months, going on a year now, Beatrice had been engaged in a battle with the city over her land. With all the recent growth and development, the town wanted to take over most of her family acres and build an exit ramp for an upcoming freeway. Beatrice liked the land as it was and did not want to relinquish it to the developers and land grabbers who had taken over the City Council. Of course, the land grabbing City Council did not want to pay a fair price for the land, and thought they could easily swindle an old woman out of her acres, but the land had been in Beatrice's family for generations. She was not willing to give it up so easily, not without a fight.

"Let's see what they have to say now," she spoke to Jerry as she opened and unfolded the letter. (End of Carol's beginning ).....(Beginning of my ending: )

Beatrice grimaced and placed a hand on her hip as she sat wearily down on the front porch steps. She looked up over her glasses at Jerry and waved the paper in her hand. "These people take me for some kind of idiot!" she said scornfully. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and squinted at the letter, then began reading it aloud.
"Dear Mrs Martin...After careful review of your grievance by both county and state boards of appeal, we regret to inform you that your property does, in fact, fall within the re-zoning ordinance put into law by your local city council. Pursuant to such findings, an order to vacate the afore-mentioned property was issued and is effective immediately. Said order allows a 90 day grace period during which time we are sure you will be able to find other suitable housing. Our office stands ready to offer any assistance needed to facilitate this transition."

Beatrice crumpled the letter up in her fist with a scornful laugh that abruptly turned to uncontrollable sobbing. "Oh, Bea," Jerry stammered as he sat down next to her and rested a hand on her shoulder, "I'm so sorry!" Bea took a deep breath and wiped away the tears with her hands as she stared off into the distance. "I guess its like they say, 'You can't knock City Hall'. " She waved to Jerry from the porch swing as he walked on down the road, and looked down at the rest of her mail.

Her lips formed a faint smile and her eyes glistened with tears of another kind as she looked at the pink envelope on her lap. It was from her nephew, Jimmy. He never forgot her birthday, even now, as busy as he was at the university.
Her smile broadened as she looked at the picture on the card. She traced it lightly with her fingertips as though caressing a fond memory. It was a picture of a woman pushing a young boy on a swing. She thought of the summers Jimmy used to spend with her when he was just a little boy. She turned to glance over at the majestic white oak tree in the yard and the swing that still hung there, and then slowly opened the card.

"Dear Aunt Bea, I wish so much I could be with you today! I wish I could tell you this news in person. I am sending you a copy of the term paper I wrote for my Cultural Anthropology class. I wrote it about my great-grandfather. Remember how you used to tell me stories of his Cherokee ancestors and the "Trail of Tears"? And how his father stood his ground and refused to leave? I traced this story back, Aunt Bea, and it is true! The ground you live on is sacred ground, Aunt Bea, and there is no way it can be taken from you. I have retained a lawyer, and I have the documentation. We will be there next week. Happy Birthday, Aunt Bea!
love, Jimmy"

Beatrice walked slowly out to the old oak tree and sat down on the swing. She kicked off her shoes and felt the cool grass beneath her feet as she pushed back and then pumped. A light rain began to fall. She threw her head back and laughed. " It's not over, after all. We are comin' to get you, city hall! "

The End
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