moondust | p. pan

o n e

"Go collect the mail!" My mother shouts from the kitchen.

I cover my eyes with my hand and groan in frustration and pray she just forgets. I certainly don't care nor want to collet mail when I know that there's never mail addressed to me. Besides I don't understand why the damned woman doesn't do it herself. She's all the way down the stairs and I'm here; in my war comfortable bed reading.

"Zoey! Now!" She repeats.

"Uh," I groan as a jump out of bed.

I sigh and put on my old trainers and I run down the polished stairs in a hurry not to upset her and through the front door.

The sun is hidden beneath the grey clouds and the breeze whips my hair around my face. The only thing keeping me warm is the large grey knit jumper my grandmother made for me. I love it.

Walking towards the mail box, I keep my hands placed in my pockets.

The suburban street I live on is empty except for a fifty something years old mailman who is, of course, delivering mail this fine morning. The sun shines, now partly hidden beneath a cloud. The warm light only offers little help from the cold breeze.

I pluck the mail from the box and begin to shuffle through it. I skim over the few bills, business letters and catalogues from nearby shops not really seeing any appealing or frankly addressed to me. Not surprising clearly.

One of the letters catches my eye though. The envelope in my hands is crinkled and dirty, but still looks quite nice. The scent is so familiar and what it is exactly is one the top of my tongue.

I click my fingers and exclaim in realisation, "Liquorice!"

And as I realise the smell is liquorice a bring it to my nose and give it a good sniff. I smile at the scent. It gives me a feelings of comfort and familiarity. Remembering to the times my gran would sit and snack in her liquorice chocolates whilst knitting.

God I miss her.

The letter is addressed to a 'lost girl'. It's quite odd, since no one in this household is 'lost girl'. I double check that the it has the right address, sure it was sent sent to the wrong house. But when I look, the address is correct. And when I think of it there isn't anyone with the nickname of 'lost girl' in town even. And even the weirdest part it is that it sound so familiar though I feel like my stomach's been dropped.

Maybe it's a joke. A weird joke. A joke made for the loser girl. That loser girl who sits by herself and has no friends. It's joke made for the that lonely loser girl.

I know that I shouldn't, (because 1. It's illegal and 2. it's probably going to cause more tears and trouble than bargained for) but I can't help it. The curiosity to open the letter and find out what it's says, eats me up. I looks around to check if anyone is watching.

Peering around I find that the mailman is gone and there is nobody sitting and watching by there windows. When I'm sure there are no prying eyes I take a deep breath and open the crinkled letter.

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yay! first chapter!
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