200 letters for Mason

It was a wonderfully calm morning, Shallow Dump was draped in this foggy, summer-morning heat that stuck to everything. Drops of dew were dripping from the roses outside Shallow Dump n.18, the biggest, most crooked house in the street. The big, old and bent house, with the exceptionally overgrown garden, belonged to Mason Rembrandt.

Loaded outside this very huge, fertile garden with it's red brick house behind it, on this wonderfully calm morning, was a pile of letters about the size of a large television set.
The envelopes were all addressed to the same place, in colours of yellow, blue, white, brown, green and some even red, and all of them had been left by the porch of n. 18.

Parts of the mail delivery had been mashed into the mailbox with great force, indicating the mailman wasn't especially thrilled by the idea of having to load 200 more letters than usual in his bags this morning. You could also tell by the sledge leaned up against the stonefence, covered in tiny bits of paper.

The tall and stilty Mason came staggering out of her house. That was the way she moved, slightly like a giant, she had the longest legs in the world, today wearing her gigantic green rubber-boots. Mason had very characteristic cheekbones placed in a hollow, milky face. As usual she was wearing her catty glasses.
Her ginger hair stood out in every direction, making her look like she was wearing an agitated red cat on her head.

The moment Mason realised that a mountain of letters were piled up in front of her house, she let out an excited squeal. Like the wind she ran up to the attic and kicked all the boxes with junk into the same corner. With amazing haste she swept the floor quickly with a mouldy old broom.
She didn't have time to even consider breakfast before late afternoon the same day. Every single letter had been sorted after colour in the huge attic, stacked neatly beside each other. The fuzzed, gingerly striped cat, Scruffy, was purring in the sunlight beside Mason, that sat with her legs crossed in the centre of all the letters. In one hand holding a cold cup of tea (that she had completely forgotten), and in the other hand, a long, long letter.

Her mouth had slightly opened, completely unaware of the world around her. Beside her was a few biscuits on a plate, but they had not been touched, and a glass of milk had tipped over when she was reaching for a new letter earlier. But sitting among all this mess, she was glued to the floor for hours. Outside, Shallow Dump was consumed by darkness, but in the flickering light from the old bulb in the roof, she sat like a statue and read through every single of the first 200 letters that were for Mason.

//mason