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“The Task”

By Emmanuel Williams

June 26, 2026

*

There isn’t a task I wanted to endure least. Here I sit, a half a cup of whiskey left in my worn right hand, and ash growing softly between my other fingers. 

The truck delivering the mail was already 30 feet gone from the white picket fence surrounding my perfect lawn with the path down the middle. It isn’t an attractive distance from here to the mailbox, and the dying engine on the afternoon makes it seem even further.

If only Madge were here. I didn’t want to leave. Every moment was like bathing in chocolate in a river flowing through heaven’s golden stones. And she cooked. Cleaned with an unmatched neatness. Every night a new adventure through the city. Until…

Why get up?

I’ve been expecting news about my diagnosis for weeks. When they told me that the results from my latest cancer screening would arrive by mail, and they simply couldn’t tell me while I was standing there… 

It must have been my stare. The same one I had in the military…

The cold one. The one that made men turn tail, wet themselves, or shoot way too fast.

Okay you bastards. Let’s play your game.

I came home, I put on Betty Davis. And I wept.

They didn’t have to say anything. What they did say is “you’ll know soon enough.”

Well that’s a very bad way to end a conversation.

Only 3 types of people have said that to me. Employers, Madge’s gynecologist, and these pussy ass buffoons.

I know what you’re thinking. But they’re all growed up and on to any life that isn’t watching me deteriorate. Well I’m still watching. And frankly, my dears-

They’re missing quite a show.

I fall down every Saturday. Don’t know why, just do. Never in the same place. I once fell in the bath tub and I was already under water. I was just trying to roll over.

I fell in the car. Ok dammit I fell out of the car. I’m too old for a truck. Although in order to get one of those fancy ass coupes or hatchbacks the tiniest hipsters are driving, I’ll have to trade in the Ford and dig into the mortgage, and…

I don’t wanna get up. If this sip is good, I’m staying put.

Ok, fuck it, let’s go to the mailbox.

I doubt today’s even the day. I couldn’t tell by the mail man what he dropped off. Those suckers never know what they’re leaving behind. They place it, note it, and erase it from their minds. Not knowing whether they’re condemning a man to months or less to live or if they’re delivering a birthday card with $20 in cash for the 12 year old at the residence.

The tires kick up dust and we’re left with what they left us. For better or worse.

I can’t stand straight up, I gotta grip the chair. Or I’d have a rocker on this God forsaken porch. I’d have an awning in seven places and 12 porches. Fuck this one porch, one sidewalk nonsense. Gotta park my truck among the bushes just outside the fence and pretend I’m fucking lucky.

Lucky I’m the only house for miles.

And miles…

It gets lonely… But I can’t think about that while I’m looking forward to bad news.

Takes a little out of you, don’t you know.

I got to the mailbox and if I don’t stop staring at it, it won’t open. I’ll never pull the trigger. 

I’ll never know.

And death will creep up on me and steal my fucking lunch. Right from under my hungry old nose.

So I gather up what strength is left in my arms after dragging my cane along the path. I flip the lid open, and there staring at me is an envelope.

The most frightening single envelope I’ve ever seen.

I swear I’m fucked…

*