Write about finding a letter, reading it, and then wanting to return it to the sender. For a twist, be as brief as possible.
A $50 bill for a tip. Rare, but not that rare at a fine dining restaurant.
When it is handed to me it is crisp, new, and folded in half. It is not until I open up and flatten it out that I see the dark writing trace a black-inked story that covers the bill in miniscule writing, all but obscuring the lavender and aqua shades of it from end to end.
When I get home, a glass of red wine and the note accompany me to my room. I lay the bill out once more, find the magnify glass I use from time to time, and set to work reading what it had to say.
It only takes me about 15 or 20 minutes to decipher the scrawl to read it through the first time. Then I read it over again at least a dozen times. Transfixed by the message, I gaze at the page, my brow furrowed, as I sit deep in thought.
Suddenly, I rise, upsetting the grey cat that was sitting at my feet. He hisses, but my mind is racing too fast to notice. I grab one of the long candle lighters from the fireplace, don a sweater, and take the backdoor to the concrete steps.
Twisting the $50 bill upon itself, I hold the flame an inch away. The full moon watches overhead, shining brightly, illuminating the entire scene far beyond the lighter’s ability. Yet the light of the flame makes the note opaque, and the writing gleams upon the paper.
For a second I feel surreal, and a little mad, then I remember the words I had read. With no further hesitation, I touch the light to the paper, and watch as it first catches at the corner, then engulfs the bill, and extinguishes itself upon the concrete where I drop it.
Brushing the ashes off the stoop, I return to the house, as the moon looks on unchanged. I however, would never be the same after that night.