A red phone box stands alone in the middle of a field. Long grass and wildflowers surround it and little else. I make my way over; glad I’m wearing my wellies. I avoid the cow pats along the way and bat a couple of flies from my face.
An old-fashioned way of communicating is fitting, I feel.
Opening the door takes both hands and a fair amount of tugging. Once inside, I brace myself for the inevitable smell of urine. I’m glad when my nose isn’t assaulted as I try to avoid eye contact with the big black spider hiding in the corner.
Looking at the number pad, I pick up the receiver. I don’t know what number to dial. Then I notice the sign. It reads:
Dial 1 for Heaven
Dial 5 for Purgatory
Dial 13 for Hell
Dial 0 for the Operator
It makes me chuckle. I put the receiver to my ear and press 1.
“Now, before you say anything, just listen. There are a few things I forgot to tell you. I’ve fixed the dripping tap in the bathroom at last and I’ve got a gardener who comes twice a month, so you don’t need to worry about that.”
I close my eyes and bite my lip, holding back the welling emotions that threaten to break over the barrier.
“Everyone is fine. You made sure we were all well looked after. The grand kids are good. Jake is off to university soon and Emmy is graduating next week.”
A smile hovers on my lips.
“You’d be so proud of them.”
A tear splatters on my wellie. I hadn’t realised I’d started crying. I throw my eyes up to heaven like I can force the salty water back inside. Instead, I notice the spider has a friend.
“Your wife has probably gone off her head.” I have to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
“I’m standing in the middle of a field in a disused phone box, talking to an unconnected phone.”
My nose has decided to join in with my eyes. With my free hand, I hunt around my pocket for a tissue. Instead, I find a small stone with a hole in the middle.
“I keep finding these things everywhere! I know it’s you. Thank you.”
I turn the smooth stone over a few times in my fingers. I imagine it radiates warmth from the sun after you’d picked it up on the beach and presented it to me with a smile.
“We are fine you know. You can move on or whatever it is you do. If there’s a light you can go towards it. I’d be happier knowing you’d passed over.”
A breeze catches my hair through a broken pane of glass like you gently brushed past my cheek.
“God, I miss you.”
I hang up the phone but let my hand rest on the warm receiver like I’m holding my hand on your chest.
Then I push open the heavy door, walk back across the field and don’t look back.
Image by Ichigo121212 from Pixabay – top of a red telephone box showing the edge of a gold crown and the word Telephone in black on a white background
literally stories 
Hi N J,
Talking to to those that we’ve lost is something that I reckon we all do in some way or another. Trying to move on is another. Considering and touching on the unsaid can be mixed in with talking about what is happening in our lives.
All that was very well done.
Also, I really did enjoy the description of the disused telephone box although you may have totally confused some of our younger readers!!
A gentle and thought provoking way to start the week!!
All the very best.
Hugh
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Thank you Hugh,
I really appreciate your comments and you taking the time to make them. I read about a Japanese garden designer who incorporated an unconnected phone box into his design so he could talk to his deceased cousin. People started coming to just use the phone. I thought it was a lovely idea.
When people listened in on the conversations they were surprisingly mundane. That’s how they should be, like you are having a chat with someone on the other side of the world that you’ll get to see again soon.
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Hi Hugh
Thanks for taking the time to comment. I read about a Japanese garden designer who put an unconnected phone box in his garden so he could chat to his deceased cousin and thought it was a lovely idea. People would come just to use the phone and the conversations were surprisingly mundane. That’s the way they should be, like you’er talking to someone you will see again soon.
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A lovely start to the week – short and not too sweet, nicely balanced emotionally and just a little weird!
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Steven, you’ve just described me perfectly! Thank you for the comment, Im glad you enjoyed it. It was written from the heart.
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Very skillfully done. This short story has real emotive weight. It takes some to have an impact we can all relate to in some way in so few words too.
in reality I picture the repeating words, ‘your call is important to us, we will answer as soon as possible. You are number 147 in the queue’.
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Thank you! It’s lovely to have such positive feedback. I’m glad touched the hearts of those who read it.
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NJ
This is one of those ideas that makes me wish I’d had it!
I recall phone booths (that’s what they were in America). Despite the gain, something was lost.
The description is great, and having the phone do all the talking was the way to go.
Still, those other numbers would be tempting…
Leila
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Hi Leila, Thank you for commenting! I would like to write some more using this idea. I write a lot of Dark fiction so I’m itching to do Dial 13 for Hell but I also think it might be fun to talk to the operator!
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The deserted phone box was a great idea, and the dialogue/monologue was very well done. Thank you. I keep wondering: why ‘Dial 5’ for Purgatory?
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Dial 1 had to be Heaven and 13 had to be hell so in my way of thinking 5 was somewhere in the middle!
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Quirky and poignant. The line about the protagonist’s hand resting on the warm receiver is heart-wrenching. The protagonist says he won’t look back. Good luck with that.
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Hi David
Maybe somethings need to be said out loud for both parties to move on.
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You may have heard. Thirty years ago a man from Las Vegas was used to paying $10 for a call to heaven. When he visited his brother in Portland OR USA , it was just $1. He was told it was a local call. Presently, it costs $25 from Portland, and it isn’t local.
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That’s outrageous! Calls to Heaven should always be free.
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Thirty years ago, a man visited Portland Oregon. He was surprised to find that phone calls to heaven were only $1 in Portland. They were $25 in Las Vegas where he lived. Cheaper in Portland because it was a local call then. Today, it costs $100 to make the call from Portland.
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NJ
What strikes me, is how we knew so much more, even if none of it was true, in medieval and ancient times. We had so many guides: Milton, Dante, Blake, the various Scriptures. Today we tend to see things more symbolically or reject it all as superstition. Unless you note the recent US election.
I love how the man in your story grieved. He grieved for what he knew and he grieved for what he didn’t. “If there’s a light, you can go towards it,” he says. It’s the modern dilemma. Certainty brings us blind faith and Science brings us quarks.
Your story never goes out of control. I know this guy. — Gerry
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The best thing about magic is it can never be proven. There’s a power in saying things out loud. There are definitely comparisons to be drawn between this phone box and a confessional.
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beautiful. It really is the little things.
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The brevity of this piece helps it avoid being twee which I do think a longer piece on this might be. I like that the reader (or I was) is left wondering if this is a dream sequence, or even sadder, a construct the bereaved is living in reality in order to help manage their grief.
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