The thing had a boxy, metallic look. A matte hue in color, it stood ominously, like a medieval sentry outside my house. Day in, day out; week in, week out; 24-7, 52 weeks a year it kept its stance. Not unlike a Martian vehicle from War of the Worlds, it was poised on one leg with an encased cockpit, completed with a large red antenna that folded down when not in use.
It had a gaping yaw of a mouth that opened to suck in wood pulp products; perhaps as fuel? Frightened, on a daily basis, I visited this machine-like device; some days rewarded, others disappointed.
Fortunately, the Federal government instituted a means of control; control only, for eradication seemed out of the question. Multiple times a week, a messenger would visit the apparatus in his or her own craft. Feeding the aforementioned steel orifice with objects from a bag, it seemed to placate the beast.
Thus, I could comfortably walk toward the contraption, my mailbox, "the thing at the end of" my driveway.
YOU ARE READING
The Thing at the End of ...
HumorA series of really short stories describing the thing at the end of.... Which could be almost anything!
