Mystic Messenger Emails Novels & Stories

She smiled, looking at the photo of them holding each other and smiling happily. “There are icons, just like your iPod. The one that says NHT is for my assistant and my company, the one that says York is a list of my family’s numbers and the one that says VM is for the voicemail. The one on the bottom that has the little letter is the e-mail, just touch it and it will pull up my private account.” Sandra did as she was told, then found a very quick connection as several pages scrolled quickly in front of her. “Find an e-mail from Horace, Baker and Marshall. It will be from my solicitor.”

I was about to close it when I noticed the date. Months ago. My breath caught. I scrolled. There was another one. Hi. Then another. And another. Same sender. Same single word. Spread out over weeks. Sometimes days. Sometimes months. All of them sitting quietly in my junk folder, unnoticed, waiting. A strange chill ran down my spine. Who sends messages like that? And why keep sending them when there’s no reply? I clicked on the sender’s email address. It wasn’t familiar. No name I recognized. Just a string of letters and numbers that meant nothing to me.

I drafted a new email, pouring everything into it, the vision for Cristainternational and then I sent it. A moment later, a notification popped up. Message not delivered.

So close yet so fucking far. In less than five minutes, Yates was sleeping soundly. Then, a notification popped up. I slowed down, reached for the phone, unlocked it to reveal its contents. A message from an unknown number. This was the burner phone Jericho took. That must be what he used in contacting "him" "9:00am, 5:00pm, 2:00am." The contents read. Three different time. What did they mean. It was an email so there was a mobile signature at the end. It was just one letter. "M"

"Don't do this, Ms. Hailey! Boss will kill me and throw me into the Strait of Messina to pollute the ocean!" That day, as usual, I was sorting through my emails, which were mostly academic invitations, along with acknowledgments from organ donation registries at home and abroad. I didn't have time to participate in forums and summits for the time being, and the results of the matches were the same as before, with the word 'Sorry' always on the first page of the emails. This time, however, I saw a file with no sender's note and no subject. I opened it. Leo: [Dear one, I still have faith in our reconciliation. As long as we can be open with each other. I am saddened that you insist on ignoring

1 New Message > I'm back in town. > From: Sterling Thorne

said Coralis. “I have a question. The agents sent a parchment to Coralis through a pigeon. Is it your normal way to send out mail?” said Molly. “It’s still the traditional way for most of us. Families who live in elemental hubs or rural areas usually own a pigeon carrier. Mages like Blue who live in the city among humans and are always on the go can’t exactly own one and will use different methods. Holograms are more popular and practical nowadays,” said Sebastian. “I don’t need a pigeon carrier to get messages across. My hologram can receive documents and media files. If I need to pigeon-mail something, I’ve got a junk-mail receiver disguised as a gumball machine I can also use to send out

He was still standing under the streetlight without an umbrella, looking like a statue as he stared up at my window. He finally left the next morning, just before I left for work, and that was the last I saw of him. … A month later, I received an email. The email address was just a bunch of randomized letters and numbers, and the title read, "For Christine." When I opened it, I saw a bunch of links. There was a private website dedicated to recording every wish I had ever mentioned. There was also a scheduling app that reminded me to bring an umbrella on rainy days and automatically scheduled a delivery for hot chocolate and painkillers to my house during my period.

My breath stutters. It’s not from anyone I know. Just a line of numbers—no subject, no greeting. But the sender name reads only one word: Fixer. My stomach knots. This isn’t my secretary. Or Penelope. Or Dad. Only a handful of people even know this account exists. It’s an old, near-dead inbox I used for school back when life was simpler, back when I wasn’t watched, handled, managed. I click it. There’s no body text. Just an encrypted file. The kind that requires a password to open.

It would simply be considered good enough if the company didn't collapse. "I will come back next week. Hang in there," Jessamine texted back. Judith replied, "Jacinda, please come back soon. We are all waiting for you! Sob!" Jessamine handled some work emails and then, out of boredom, logged into her personal email. She found an overseas email written in full Anglish quietly sitting in the mailbox. She noticed that it was dated as having been received last week. She opened and read the email in detail.