To Whom It May Concern – A Story


Afternoon Kindle-ites! Ok, so I had every intention of posting a review today, BUT while cruising around town (aka running errands) a song came on and inspiration struck. So instead of spending the last hour writing a snarky review (like I should have been) I decided to write a little story instead. This (admittedly) is way outside of  my writing style, so I’m a little concerned about how it might go over, but I encourage your thoughts all the same. Oh…and I INSIST that you watch the video I’ve attached at the bottom, after you read the story. It’s not only beautiful, but it might help you understand my thought process. xoxo – Misty



To Whom It May Concern

by Misty Baker


write-a-letterThe world had always looked the same to Matt. Sparks of light, nestled neatly between rows and rows of debilitating darkness.  Maybe that’s why he had signed up, he thought. To retrieve more sparks. Find a way to replicate them and live off their brilliance. Instead he had only found more darkness. Behind collapsed buildings, buried a foot underground. Cloaked and standing in a solitary window; commanding space that had once been occupied by things like hope.

Instead he learned a different lesson. That days were long, but nights were longer. A lesson he’d be all too willing to share with his dust-covered companions if they had half a mind to listen. But they didn’t. For all intents and purposes, they were much too happy for that. So instead, he did what he always did. He lay on his bunk, eyes facing up, counting the number of patches that now graced the top of his home, and wondering, selfishly, how it would feel to be loved.


To everyone who had ever encountered her, Julie, who was made of big blue eyes, and yards and yards of glossy brunette hair, was perfect.  But no one knew better than her that looks could be deceiving. For each day, before the sun decided to grace the world with its radiant brilliance, Julie wrote letters.

She wrote letters to her loved ones, which had passed on with little more than a flutter of exhausted eyelids. Letters to her father, who spent his days silently enduring the past from the comfort of an assisted living establishment three states away. To her sister, who reminded her daily that independence could easily morph into loneliness if not watched properly. And to him. A him she had never actually met, but had faith would find her, and need her as desperately as she needed him.

Her letters weren’t filled with information; the most logical of assumptions, under the circumstances. No name, only initials. Sent to a random mailing address she found online, but the sentiment was clear. She craved connection. To have real conversations, disperse the dust from her hazy days, and welcome the feeling of warmth in her chest. That feeling you get when excitement overwhelms your better judgment. Joy, she believed it was called.

So she wrote her letters. Each day, on pretty little purple sheets of paper and sent them on their way.


Today was especially dark. The sounds growing louder with each pop. A wail from a heartbroken mother. A curse, so full of steel, it was almost certain to cause physical pain. A pain he welcomed, almost begged for, because it meant he was still alive. And alive was a blessing seldom received these days.  Glancing to the left he watched the flames lick the sky. Make this desolate place they laid their heads its bitch.  Taking what it wanted, and making no apologies. He smiled as he watch their letters catch a breeze and take flight. Karma for the brothers that liked to bait him with their blessings. But then cried as he saw their memories disappear under sand and sadness. Lost to the ugliness of misunderstanding.


She had been walking for hours, forced to find a new home after hatred had destroyed her last one. Her feet blistered, face covered in dirt. Eyes wild with a fear she never knew existed.  A fear steadied on the building blocks of what she now was. Alone. She had watched them fall. All of them. Her mother, so full of animosity, her brothers…carrying rifles longer than their arms. Fighting a battle they didn’t understand, never understood, but bore the weight of.

She had promised herself ten more steps. Ten more steps and she could finally rest her weary bones. Gather her thoughts, and allow herself to grieve, but then she saw it. Dingy and tattered, it’s corner peaking from the ground like a treasure map. She picked it up, confused by the unfamiliar writing on the outside, and opened it. What she saw she didn’t understand, but what she felt was undeniable.

Dear Whoever You Might Be,

I’m still waiting patiently. Oh how I miss you, though I haven’t met you. But I really want to. Oh how I do.


Folding it gently, securing the words from further harm, she put the letter in her battered pocket, and moved on.


About Misty

Your friendly neighborhood narcissist. I'm sarcastic, cynical and a bit cranky. I own a soap box so big that sometimes I have difficulty stepping down off of it, and I'm about 94% certain I have multiple personalities. I don't sleep enough, and I read more than any person should ever consider normal. I have anger management issues, especially when I'm stuck in traffic and I have an unhealthy obsession with my Kindle. I am a vampire lovin', zombie obsessed, book-in-hand, iPod freak. You either love me or hate me. You be the judge.

2 thoughts on “To Whom It May Concern – A Story

  1. There is something intrinsically beautiful and personal in writing a letter, no matter how hard the content is to write or to receive. We all yearn for the connection Julie wanted.
    I recently finished writing a collaborative novel where the characters hand wrote letters to each other. We wrote and posted in real time. It was such a buzz waiting for the postman to arrive with a new letter from the character.
    Adam B @revhappiness

  2. I loved this! Nothing gives me greater pleasure than writing a card or letter to a friend and, although I don’t write as many letters as I used to, I hope I never give it up. I liked the fact that as well as writing to real people already in her life, Julie was also writing to a future someone she hoped would be part of her life. There’s something very human about that, full of hope that she will find that person. And so much more romantic than logging on to a dating website! I hope the letter she’s found leads to its author and that she never stops writing those letters, no matter how many times she’s displaced from her home. And I thought the way that you handled the war and the disruption of people’s lives was well done.

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