Fan Mail (Short Fiction)
09th August 2026
In: Short Stories
Eamon didn’t get so many fan letters these days. Numbers had dwindled steadily over the past decade, and now it probably averaged thirty a week, give or take. No longer any need for a secretary to assist with correspondence, which saved on the similarly diminishing budget, and also allowed him more privacy. Some of the letters he found were really not for sharing, and now he rather relished opening his own mail, deciding which ones to linger over and possibly reply to, if so inclined.
Some were long-term fans, and it was obvious they’d followed his work from the beginning. These were a pleasure to read, boosting his spirits. Occasionally, something less pleasant, even insulting or downright sinister and worrying arrived from a total crackpot. He shredded those, but filed the others in sections, according to their star ratings. There were only three individuals who merited five stars. All of them women, or so they claimed.
There were odd days when there was no mail on the mat. Not a bill, not a charity appeal, not even a random unasked-for catalogue from a company he’d never heard of selling the sort of products he’d never need. Such mornings left a gap in his schedule, and resulted in a mood of despondency — a sense of disconnection from the world of readers who were most probably choosing other writers’ work in preference to his. That thought chilled him far more than the fearmongering headlines in his daily barely-glanced-at paper, or the dramas presented on televised news. The threat of falling slowly into a deep chasm of obscurity terrified him. His work never to be reprinted for future generations to ponder on and study, his name lost — eclipsed by new talents who grabbed every opportunity to push their latest collection, appearing on talk shows and becoming celebrities, with their social and political opinions considered to be of public interest.
Out of necessary curiosity in a bid to gauge the strength of the competition, he tracked down some of their publications. The local library had a dismal selection of poetry, hardly anything by contemporary writers on the untouched- looking shelves. The book shops had a few slim paperbacks with unexciting covers, and unashamedly overpriced. He browsed as long as he was able to before being bothered by an over-eager assistant convinced he needed help. Ignoring the young man’s enthusiastic recommendation of the latest offering from Jim Colclunie — ‘No Gs in Horse’ — or Winnie Dunn’s ‘Recipe 4 Past Caring’, he walked out. There was, of course, no sign of his own last collection but, he reasoned, it was hardly current, since he hadn’t produced another one in eight years.
Back home, he decided to go through his store of notebooks. He began pulling dust-caked suitcases from the loft to locate old journals that were, if his memory could be believed, full of youthful ideas and outlines for projects he’d never got around to. He picked out a few at random and flicked through the pages, some smudged by coffee or tea stains, or other beverages reckoned a little more bracing. God, he thought, my writing’s bloody awful, finding he was struggling to make sense of much of it, and annoyed with himself for the undisciplined scrawl. After all, what was the point of keeping a journal that was illegible? If he couldn’t read it, what chance had anyone else got?
Returning to the mid-1990s — the summer of ’96, early June, her name jumped out at him, written in bold capitals and underlined emphatically — CAROLINE !!! He’d rhapsodied so extravagantly over her that it was probably a blessing the writing was largely past deciphering. What was legible was embarrassing. All sugary gush and sentimental nonsense. He winced at this outpouring, amazed and appalled. Did he really write this? And how can anyone fall head over heels, passionately and madly in love with a woman they’ve never met, but only exchanged a handful of letters with? It was absurd — truly unbelievable. And yet it had happened. Here was the proof, or something like it. He felt the blush of something like shame. God, what a fool he’d been. Old enough at his age to have known better. Except, for those few dizzy weeks, he had felt ecstatic — like he’d been dosed with some magic potion that changed his view of the world. He was in thrall to an impossible idea he had, by some divine intervention, found his Muse.
‘Poppycock!’ he said aloud. But read on as well as he could, this Niagara of emotion recorded so unselfconsciously, and in the throes of total lunacy. Some of the lines were teeth-grindingly awful. ‘Your words sing out a symphony/sublime as any poetry ...’ Yuck! What the devil had she done to him to provoke such drivel? And ‘Love folded fire into a paper dart/ that finds its target — pierces deep my heart ...’ Cringeworthy stuff. He had to resist the impulse to rip out the page. Who was it said that love makes all men fools? Or words to that effect, anyway.
He sat, sighing heavily as he turned the pages more slowly now, picking out a phrase here and there, trying to rekindle the feelings he had been driven to express here more than a quarter of a century ago. A small passport-size photo fell out. He’d forgotten she’d sent a picture of herself. He stared at it, a faint but unmistakeable ache reawoken inside of him. Even if taken in some coin-in-the-slot photo booth, as it almost certainly was, the image of her had something of the timeless classical artist’s pose about it. She could have been a model for Rossetti, or another of the great Pre-Raphaelite painters. A Muse, indeed. For those few months, Caroline had been his ‘Elizabeth Siddal’ — the embodiment of his perfect woman, and the love of his life.
Unsettled by these thoughts, he was unsure what to do with it. Why hadn’t he thrown it away, as he’d certainly done with her letters? Or had he? He couldn’t be sure, now. Irritated by his brain’s lack of reliable records, he flicked through the next couple of months until he found, at the end of September, a change in tone. The entries no longer euphoric, but depressed by her lack of communication. Her letters simply stopped without any explanation and he was beside himself with worry.
He’d waited, as patiently as he could, inventing reasons to explain her delay in replying. First, blaming the postal service, then imagining she might be ill or have had an accident. There had to be a logical explanation — she wouldn’t have decided to cease writing, leaving him dangling with no clue as to why. Perplexed, he’d nursed his unease for almost three weeks before giving in to the need to prompt her with a very cute ‘Missing You’ card. Perhaps a little too sentimental, the illustration of a bird — a swallow, possibly — wiping a tear from its eye with one wing-tip, its mate flying far off in the distance, might seem to be overdoing it. He countered this with a light tone in the message inside ‘Haven’t heard from you for a while — is everything okay? Do get in touch when you can...’ He’d hesitated about sending it, even to the point of dithering in front of the postbox, card in hand, half turning away, then turning back again, finally and hastily thrusting the envelope into its black ever-hungry mouth as though it was some monster who fed on the hopes and dreams of all who dared commit such things to paper before entrusting them to that vast and erratic digestive system.
After a month dragged by, the card was returned to him. He’d heard the snap of the letterbox as it was delivered. He’d recognised the blue envelope on the mat. The pain of realization hit him as he’d picked it up and seen the words ‘GONE AWAY’ scrawled across her address.
For the following few days there were no entries, because he had done the only reasonable thing someone in receipt of such mind-numbing news could do: he got blind drunk. His best friend and only companion being a bottle of single malt. A good bottle never lets you down. Sobering up was another misery.
More gaps, a few brief entries later in the year bemoaning the loss of inspiration. Couldn’t write, didn’t feel any inclination to put pen to paper. Total blockage. Depression — a word that hides a ton of ills ...
This wasn’t getting him anywhere — this wallowing in things best left buried. He felt pathetic. All the stuff he’d planned to do that he’d just let go by the by. All that money spent on therapy. The trips abroad to distract him — free his mind of her — try to get over it. And now, here he was, dredging it all up again. He could feel his mood darkening. No — no — no! He wasn’t going to let that old black dog in again.
Time for a coffee, then a wander in the park — get a bit of fresh air and blow away these ghosts. He looked out. It was grey and drizzly. Well, what did he expect? It was February. Coat, scarf, gloves, umbrella. A hip flask of scotch tucked inside his breast pocket to keep the chill out. It would cheer him up, too. The hall phone began ringing as he got to the front door. He ignored it and sailed on through.
There were few people in the park: one cross-looking dog-walker whose boxer puppy wouldn’t come however many times she called it — Topsy — no surprise it ignored her; an old man hunched on a wooden bench feeding half a dozen eager pigeons; and an androgynous lycra-kitted jogger puffing determindly who, nonetheless, managed a ‘morning’ as he/she passed by, and despite it being after midday. Eamon grunted in return as it seemed only polite. So much for social interaction. However, strangely, it lifted his mood.
The children’s playground was empty, the swings too damp to sit on. Besides, it was no fun at all without an indignant-sounding five-year-old asking their mother in a very loud voice what a grown-up was doing there. The drizzle had now developed into a more steady shower, so he took refuge in the café next to the closed-for-repairs swimming pool.
Only one other customer, a young woman, who didn’t look up as he chose a table that was close enough for conversation if the opportunity arose, but didn’t impinge on her privacy. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. It was simply nice to chat to another human being once in a while. He crunched his cheese on toast and gazed out at the rain.
It was a while before he realized she was staring at him, then back to the book she had open on the table in front of her, as if checking something. Then she spoke. ‘Are you Eamon O’Hara?’
He blinked, it being a question he’d not been asked for years. ‘Yes.’
She tapped the book. ‘I thought so — your picture’s in here.’
He was tingling with pleasure now. ‘Oh, you’ve got one of my books — which one?’
She held it up so he could see the title: Cooking in the Devil’s Kitchen. ‘You autographed it for my mother — she was a fan. She wrote to you once and
you replied. She kept your letter — I found it going through her stuff ...’
‘I’m sorry — when did she ...?’
‘Last year. She had all your books. I have them now.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Olivia Newell. I’m Frances — pleased to meet you.’ They smiled and shook hands.
Who would have thought it? — Olivia Newell — one of his first five star fan letters. Planning the dedication in his next collection, he whistled all the way home.
Some were long-term fans, and it was obvious they’d followed his work from the beginning. These were a pleasure to read, boosting his spirits. Occasionally, something less pleasant, even insulting or downright sinister and worrying arrived from a total crackpot. He shredded those, but filed the others in sections, according to their star ratings. There were only three individuals who merited five stars. All of them women, or so they claimed.
There were odd days when there was no mail on the mat. Not a bill, not a charity appeal, not even a random unasked-for catalogue from a company he’d never heard of selling the sort of products he’d never need. Such mornings left a gap in his schedule, and resulted in a mood of despondency — a sense of disconnection from the world of readers who were most probably choosing other writers’ work in preference to his. That thought chilled him far more than the fearmongering headlines in his daily barely-glanced-at paper, or the dramas presented on televised news. The threat of falling slowly into a deep chasm of obscurity terrified him. His work never to be reprinted for future generations to ponder on and study, his name lost — eclipsed by new talents who grabbed every opportunity to push their latest collection, appearing on talk shows and becoming celebrities, with their social and political opinions considered to be of public interest.
Out of necessary curiosity in a bid to gauge the strength of the competition, he tracked down some of their publications. The local library had a dismal selection of poetry, hardly anything by contemporary writers on the untouched- looking shelves. The book shops had a few slim paperbacks with unexciting covers, and unashamedly overpriced. He browsed as long as he was able to before being bothered by an over-eager assistant convinced he needed help. Ignoring the young man’s enthusiastic recommendation of the latest offering from Jim Colclunie — ‘No Gs in Horse’ — or Winnie Dunn’s ‘Recipe 4 Past Caring’, he walked out. There was, of course, no sign of his own last collection but, he reasoned, it was hardly current, since he hadn’t produced another one in eight years.
Back home, he decided to go through his store of notebooks. He began pulling dust-caked suitcases from the loft to locate old journals that were, if his memory could be believed, full of youthful ideas and outlines for projects he’d never got around to. He picked out a few at random and flicked through the pages, some smudged by coffee or tea stains, or other beverages reckoned a little more bracing. God, he thought, my writing’s bloody awful, finding he was struggling to make sense of much of it, and annoyed with himself for the undisciplined scrawl. After all, what was the point of keeping a journal that was illegible? If he couldn’t read it, what chance had anyone else got?
Returning to the mid-1990s — the summer of ’96, early June, her name jumped out at him, written in bold capitals and underlined emphatically — CAROLINE !!! He’d rhapsodied so extravagantly over her that it was probably a blessing the writing was largely past deciphering. What was legible was embarrassing. All sugary gush and sentimental nonsense. He winced at this outpouring, amazed and appalled. Did he really write this? And how can anyone fall head over heels, passionately and madly in love with a woman they’ve never met, but only exchanged a handful of letters with? It was absurd — truly unbelievable. And yet it had happened. Here was the proof, or something like it. He felt the blush of something like shame. God, what a fool he’d been. Old enough at his age to have known better. Except, for those few dizzy weeks, he had felt ecstatic — like he’d been dosed with some magic potion that changed his view of the world. He was in thrall to an impossible idea he had, by some divine intervention, found his Muse.
‘Poppycock!’ he said aloud. But read on as well as he could, this Niagara of emotion recorded so unselfconsciously, and in the throes of total lunacy. Some of the lines were teeth-grindingly awful. ‘Your words sing out a symphony/sublime as any poetry ...’ Yuck! What the devil had she done to him to provoke such drivel? And ‘Love folded fire into a paper dart/ that finds its target — pierces deep my heart ...’ Cringeworthy stuff. He had to resist the impulse to rip out the page. Who was it said that love makes all men fools? Or words to that effect, anyway.
He sat, sighing heavily as he turned the pages more slowly now, picking out a phrase here and there, trying to rekindle the feelings he had been driven to express here more than a quarter of a century ago. A small passport-size photo fell out. He’d forgotten she’d sent a picture of herself. He stared at it, a faint but unmistakeable ache reawoken inside of him. Even if taken in some coin-in-the-slot photo booth, as it almost certainly was, the image of her had something of the timeless classical artist’s pose about it. She could have been a model for Rossetti, or another of the great Pre-Raphaelite painters. A Muse, indeed. For those few months, Caroline had been his ‘Elizabeth Siddal’ — the embodiment of his perfect woman, and the love of his life.
Unsettled by these thoughts, he was unsure what to do with it. Why hadn’t he thrown it away, as he’d certainly done with her letters? Or had he? He couldn’t be sure, now. Irritated by his brain’s lack of reliable records, he flicked through the next couple of months until he found, at the end of September, a change in tone. The entries no longer euphoric, but depressed by her lack of communication. Her letters simply stopped without any explanation and he was beside himself with worry.
He’d waited, as patiently as he could, inventing reasons to explain her delay in replying. First, blaming the postal service, then imagining she might be ill or have had an accident. There had to be a logical explanation — she wouldn’t have decided to cease writing, leaving him dangling with no clue as to why. Perplexed, he’d nursed his unease for almost three weeks before giving in to the need to prompt her with a very cute ‘Missing You’ card. Perhaps a little too sentimental, the illustration of a bird — a swallow, possibly — wiping a tear from its eye with one wing-tip, its mate flying far off in the distance, might seem to be overdoing it. He countered this with a light tone in the message inside ‘Haven’t heard from you for a while — is everything okay? Do get in touch when you can...’ He’d hesitated about sending it, even to the point of dithering in front of the postbox, card in hand, half turning away, then turning back again, finally and hastily thrusting the envelope into its black ever-hungry mouth as though it was some monster who fed on the hopes and dreams of all who dared commit such things to paper before entrusting them to that vast and erratic digestive system.
After a month dragged by, the card was returned to him. He’d heard the snap of the letterbox as it was delivered. He’d recognised the blue envelope on the mat. The pain of realization hit him as he’d picked it up and seen the words ‘GONE AWAY’ scrawled across her address.
For the following few days there were no entries, because he had done the only reasonable thing someone in receipt of such mind-numbing news could do: he got blind drunk. His best friend and only companion being a bottle of single malt. A good bottle never lets you down. Sobering up was another misery.
More gaps, a few brief entries later in the year bemoaning the loss of inspiration. Couldn’t write, didn’t feel any inclination to put pen to paper. Total blockage. Depression — a word that hides a ton of ills ...
This wasn’t getting him anywhere — this wallowing in things best left buried. He felt pathetic. All the stuff he’d planned to do that he’d just let go by the by. All that money spent on therapy. The trips abroad to distract him — free his mind of her — try to get over it. And now, here he was, dredging it all up again. He could feel his mood darkening. No — no — no! He wasn’t going to let that old black dog in again.
Time for a coffee, then a wander in the park — get a bit of fresh air and blow away these ghosts. He looked out. It was grey and drizzly. Well, what did he expect? It was February. Coat, scarf, gloves, umbrella. A hip flask of scotch tucked inside his breast pocket to keep the chill out. It would cheer him up, too. The hall phone began ringing as he got to the front door. He ignored it and sailed on through.
There were few people in the park: one cross-looking dog-walker whose boxer puppy wouldn’t come however many times she called it — Topsy — no surprise it ignored her; an old man hunched on a wooden bench feeding half a dozen eager pigeons; and an androgynous lycra-kitted jogger puffing determindly who, nonetheless, managed a ‘morning’ as he/she passed by, and despite it being after midday. Eamon grunted in return as it seemed only polite. So much for social interaction. However, strangely, it lifted his mood.
The children’s playground was empty, the swings too damp to sit on. Besides, it was no fun at all without an indignant-sounding five-year-old asking their mother in a very loud voice what a grown-up was doing there. The drizzle had now developed into a more steady shower, so he took refuge in the café next to the closed-for-repairs swimming pool.
Only one other customer, a young woman, who didn’t look up as he chose a table that was close enough for conversation if the opportunity arose, but didn’t impinge on her privacy. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. It was simply nice to chat to another human being once in a while. He crunched his cheese on toast and gazed out at the rain.
It was a while before he realized she was staring at him, then back to the book she had open on the table in front of her, as if checking something. Then she spoke. ‘Are you Eamon O’Hara?’
He blinked, it being a question he’d not been asked for years. ‘Yes.’
She tapped the book. ‘I thought so — your picture’s in here.’
He was tingling with pleasure now. ‘Oh, you’ve got one of my books — which one?’
She held it up so he could see the title: Cooking in the Devil’s Kitchen. ‘You autographed it for my mother — she was a fan. She wrote to you once and
you replied. She kept your letter — I found it going through her stuff ...’
‘I’m sorry — when did she ...?’
‘Last year. She had all your books. I have them now.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Olivia Newell. I’m Frances — pleased to meet you.’ They smiled and shook hands.
Who would have thought it? — Olivia Newell — one of his first five star fan letters. Planning the dedication in his next collection, he whistled all the way home.