The Red Hot Pawn Prose Competition 5

The Red Hot Pawn Prose Competition 5

Greetings.

I ran this competition differently from the previous lot. This time around I selected the contestents myself, and secretly. They were chosen from amongst the previous winners and other prolific writers here on these forums.

The title for this competition was: "Letter to a stranger"

Please vote for your favourites. You may select three of the four pieces presented here and rank them, as was done with the previous competitions.
1st = 5pts
2nd = 3pts
3rd = 2pts

The topic for this round was an incredibly difficult one, hence the reason for so few entries... though I'm quite impressed with the interpretation by these participants. I wish them the best of luck, and I urge you all to vote. I shall announce the names of the top 3 when voting closes = Friday 18 November, 11am GMT. Please don't rec a post if you enjoy it, and I'd have to ask that you refrain from commenting until the voting is over. Thank you.
Geoff

Scriptophrenia

Dear Sir,

I lingered hesitantly over the paper when first I began this letter, pen quivering in my fingertips with frustration and expectancy. I do not even know who you are. How can I write a letter to someone whom, not only have I never met, but also about whom I know nothing? When you left your address with my servant and asked me to write to you, I was intrigued and somewhat interested in the idea of a random letter to someone of unknown origin. But now that I am here, writing, the purpose eludes me.

I believe introductions are unnecessary, after all, you gave no name and I am not naive enough to hand my personal details to you. Though I warrant you would have little trouble obtaining them, I am well known in these parts. So what kind of a man are you, that leaves the request for correspondence but offers no identification? Perhaps not as uncouth as your actions might suggest; certainly your hand is graceful – indeed familiar - and my servant said your clothes were well made, albeit with a look of utter discombobulation on his brow. I think perhaps you are the sort of person to whom names and numbers are unimportant. Perhaps your mind perceives people in terms of how they talk, what subjects they discuss, the language they might use. Perhaps, like Doyle's character 'Sherlock Holmes', you are able to deduce a person's very physical actions by the aesthetic minutiae which others of us either perceive subconsciously, or cannot perceive at all. I wonder then, what you might glean from my literary rambling here.

Well, that I have a grasp of the use of words seems evident and also that I am at least familiar with the work of Doyle might suggest an above average education. But then I forget, you have already called round to the house and I presume you know very well what my position is and the background I am likely to have had. But perhaps you are not so sure of the type of mind I have. Yes, I feel your actions are of one who wishes not to understand the scene in a painting, but instead the mind of the painter?

So I may have found the goals you wish to obtain, but perhaps not yet the reason behind your quest. Why do you seek to know my mind and in such a unique way too? I think it not inconceivable that one might address another in a public place by way of introduction and the ensuing conversation would likely furnish you with a more intimate and clarified sense of the man you had thus engaged. So what are the benefits of such an impersonal form of engagement as this? Perhaps, as Kant suggests, the illusion of pretext, which self-meditation can induce, is the state you wish me in. Reflective, sure of my being and my place in the being of others and yet narrowed to my own present function. This letter is my world. I think begin to understand and herein I believe you have given the first real clue to your identity and purpose. You do not wish to learn of the person I am, but rather of the author of this letter, whom I have now become. Just as to me you are not a person who has lived a life, but merely a person who has requested a letter.

So are we just the people we are at any one given time or event? Are our endless, numbered days a history of not one man, but of many men, bound in this corporeal book? Each man a story with many characters; soldiers, politicians, writers, even men who desire letters. You seek to learn the history of me as an author of writing, I wonder where you shall next move to, or which other history you desire. Perhaps you do not know, or cannot say, for the future person you may yet be makes no decisions on that which you are or were. Only the writing of history can reveal who acted and to what purpose.

Have you now learned what you wished? Can you now see that which would clarify the history of such a man? For the reading and writing of letters under the same illusionary blanket as that of Descartes is surely conducive to the same errors as he. Perhaps one can learn nothing more than 'Scribo, ergo sum'. But I make light of the situation, forgive me, I seek not to dampen the value of this exercise.

You have had my attention for some small while now and alas, I am a busy man. So, I shall leave you and finish with a note of thanks, you have given me insight and I hope that upon reading this back, the insight you will gain will further nourish you. Perhaps we two histories shall meet one day, but for now, this letter may stand as a bridge between our respective presents. I fancy that we are not so different. Our goals may yet be the same and if we have both gained knowledge through this transaction, then we have benefited both ourselves and our joint cause. And if our cause is the same, may not other things be so entwined?

Yours,

Lord Cartwright

The End

Dear citizen

We sincerely hope that you will find within yourself the courage to face the subject matter of this letter.

The time is now upon us to put our continual flirtation with the abstraction of our reality aside. This is the most severe rooting out of our human tendency toward making our world into what we want. This time there is no escape. We are on the path towards the end of our short existence in this universe.

The one thing that separated us from the other species on our planet was our ability to design elaborate plans for the future, in preparation for our latter days or for the continuation of our kin through selfless acts of foresight, we slaved away making this world habitable for ourselves and for our future selves. That is why this letter to you will be so painfully received, it’s against every part of our nature to decline the prospect of another tomorrow. We shudder in disbelief at the idea of our own individual ends, we cry and wail at the moments proceeding the passing of our loved ones, we do not prepare ourselves for the end, the end is not something that we can understand, nor is it something that could ever be good for us to understand. Our ignorance of our mortality is what has kept us going for all these millennia. It is now upon us to pack away our hopes and dreams and desires and face the utterly dire truth. This is the end.

Now we assume that you’re filled with disbelief; that is understandable. That is the way you are. That is the way we are. We evolved to survive, to deny the end, to break hard against the shore of the inevitable. To fantasize about the end is perceived as madness. To believe in the continuation of your life after your time here is simply evidential of your fantastic nature, the end just simply doesn’t exist for us. Deep inside yourself you may look back upon the child you once were and you quench the hope of remembrance for the best times in your life, the flashbacks, the reckless days of your youth and feeling so drenched with life that it would have brought you to tears if you ever had to face the truth of your own fragility. Now is not the time for regret or sorrow, in the dawn of the acceptance of the end only the weak minded would take fright at this inevitable conclusion. This has nothing to do with any action you took or any decision you made, no-one is to blame for this, no civilization, no culture, no class, no race, there is to be no blame.

There is no conceivable merit to delving into the true cause of our demise; there is no point in understanding. All intentions are lost, all cares are thrown out the window, and curiosity –at this point – is folly. You can either sit there, with this before you, and read it and accept it, or you can deny, deny, deny. It really doesn’t matter. In fact, this entire letter is flawed in its intention as nothing can prepare you for the end, and no new wisdom can be granted from these words. You already know everything you need to know. You can choose to spend these moments as though they were your last if you care to but it won’t make much difference. Take up smoking, indulge in the embrace of a no-nothing scum prostitute, spend all your money, spend all your love, tell your parents you love them, tell your parents the truth, wake up your children and play hide and seek, these comforts bide us joy in the final instants of our consciousness. You see, it’s all ok. There is no longer anything for you to be concerned about.

If you are a religious person perhaps now is the time to be filled with faith, do not submit to the misconception that your lord or creator has forsaken us. Perhaps this is all part some grand scheme that we are too simple to comprehend. It is not my place to say. Throughout the generations of our civilization there have always been crazy men and women with delusions of the end of time, whatever part of their mind ticked over into that muddy mentality has always been proved false by the fact that we continue. Now there’s this crazy letter telling you the end is nigh, it seems like a joke. It seems like someone is playing a very uncouth prank on you. Do you really think that you’ll even make it to the end of this day? Maybe some part of you suddenly doubts that… perhaps if we used some professional stationery and a posh font you might be more inclined to accept the end… perhaps. It’d be easier to convince you of a lie.

Well, that wraps it up. We really don’t know what else to tell you except

Goodbye
Regards,
Wikkipedia

This is the last day of our acquaintance

Dear Stranger,

As the storm clouds part and the sun breaks through, I, at last, can see so clearly that which was obscured for so long.
Everybody and everything has a time and a place. Such is the way of things. It is not bad. It is not good. It is just the way things are. As all things that have ever been have come, so everything that ever is will also pass.

I’ve led a life fuller than most. I’ve sat on the beach with a bottle of wine watching the sunrise. Indeed, I’ve watched that same sun rise atop of Messada where the Jews once resided and I’ve surveyed that same sun set; shadowed by the Sacre Coeur with Paris at my feet.
I’ve made love amidst trees, dunes and rocket attacks and I’ve drunk many a liquid in various such places and situation as well.
I’ve made love to more women than most, I’ve lived in more countries than most and I’ve made many more friends than most. This is not a letter of complaint. I have nothing to complain about. I have enjoyed everything a man can.

I have never compromised my morals. I have never called any man boss. I have never bowed or capitulated. Not always has my attitude served me, but as I look back on what I have done, I can honestly say that I am a hero to myself.
Some may be heroes to others and others may be heroes to none, but being a hero to one’s self is the motor and essence of pride. I am proud of who I have been; in all my forms and variations.

40 songs have I written, 4 novels also. Countless poems have I scribbled and articles too many to mention have I shared. Though none have ever made me riches, numerous have made me happy and a few have secured me compliments and admiration.
Not only can I boast of my own creativity, but I have always argued for and tried to inspire creativity in others. It may not be much of a legacy, but it is my legacy all the same.

Dear Stranger,

As the storm clouds part and the sun breaks through I can at last word that which has haunted me for the past months.
Everybody has a time and a place. Such is the way of things. It’s not bad, nor is it good. It just is.
I now realise that my time and my place were.

Such as the Elves sail Westward from the shores of men into the ocean of forgetfulness in great fantasies, and such as the real empires of men fade and make way for new empires and new challenges, so my time and place are also faded.

When once I looked down and admired the long row of ants as they marched up hills and over branches forever carrying leaves, twigs and sugar lumps, now I see monotony. Everyday in rows. Everyday marching. Everyday the same mission to complete their cycle of life.

When once I stared upon snails and licked my lips in anticipation of garlic and French bread to come, I now witness the slow salty death of evaporation. The end of a life.

In my youth I desired fame and fortune. My eyes were always set on rock and roll stardom. It is now that I realise that musicianship is not about fame. It is about music. And as my time is passing I notice that the larger the audience, the less personal the showing. Great art touches the soul and that is true intimacy defined. I take great pleasure in knowing that everything I have done was intimate, personal and true.
My actions made me beautiful, dignified and free.

As footballers slow down at the end of extra time; as fruit drops from the branches when it is ripe; as the stars and moon disappear when the sun lightens the sky; as everything new slowly becomes ritual, so my capacity for originality has reached its natural finale.
It truly is best to stop drinking, no matter how good the whisky, before nothing is left but the vague remnants of memory and the harsh reality of a hangover.

Dear Stranger,

There rests me nought but to sincerely wish you the experiences and happiness’s that I have so enjoyed, and yet I hope you remain the conclusions spared.

Yours.

Unmoving

To Whom it May Concern,

I have noticed the decrease in my desk supplies. Yes, it has been noted. And noted it has been. What I have noted it on is a mystery because my paper supplies are dwindling and I haven't seen a pen for months. Let's pretend I noted it somewhere. Perhaps on this very computer, which I have just noted is missing it's mouse.

Desks, desks, everywhere,
And not a drop of ink;
Desks, desks, everywhere,
My pens were yellowish pink.
You are the person who has been removing items from my desk is a malicious manner. Please desist. It is a nuisance when one must waste valuable minutes of one's day searching in vain for the pink post-it notes one knows one placed down mere minutes ago.

Upon talking to other members of the office I have discovered that my discoveries are not unique by any means. In fact, I have discovered that it's an epidemic of pandemic proportions. The pilfering of pilferables must stop! I will ask once more for the return of all that is good in the world (the aforementioned post-it notes) and other sundry items (pens and such). You should consider this your last warning as I have warned you in the past (see letters #1 through #5) and threatened also (see letters #6 through #12 and #17). The pleading was an isolated incident (see letters #13 through #18 excluding the aforementioned #17).

I have informed others of the actions I have taken in this regard and they have informed me that it may indeed be fruitless but I shall persist. Every human has some basic human decency deep down in the sub-cockles of their heart. It's a sin to steal, and also to worship false gods which going by your behaviour I'm sure YOU ARE DOING RIGHT NOW!

Now my dear New York City boy (I've taken criminology and I've profiled you, you should be afraid) your days are numbered. I know that your left leg is slightly shorter and that you lack the corrective footwear for this condition (You should see a shoe doctor or something seriously). Also you have a badly kept moustache of some type. This can be an issue when applying for jobs, unless you are Mexican in which case shine on you crazy illegal diamond.

The work ethic of this office depends on nice things. You are preventing us from preventing bad odours through the removal of items vital to the work ethic of this office. Our work in this office helps protect nasal passages around the world. Without post-it notes how do we keep track of important information on who smells through our patented (don't even try it mister) back of the jacket storage techniques? Working at our desks without chairs is also a major annoyance, Susan reports that she hasn't done this much kneeling since she quit her night job.

Pens have become the final straw. They weren't straw before but I am informed that recently they have become straw. Possibly of a type that camels carry. Or don't carry, Mike wasn't very clear on that point. In any case pens are final.

So in conclusion, return the stuff you stole you lazy person who doesn't like to buy his own stationary.

Sincerely,
James 'Stationary Patrol' Williams

Tricky, very tricky, okay here goes:

1. Scriptophrenia
2. The End
3. Unmoving

I will happily offer my own critique on them, once the voting is over, if any of the authors want it.

1 st: Scriptophrenia

2 nd: Unmoving

3 rd: The End

1st Unmoving
2nd This is the last day of our acquaintance
3rd The end

1. Unmoving
2. The End
3. This is the last day of our acquaintance

D

1. Unmoving
2. The End
3. Scriptophrenia

1.The End
2.Unmoving
3.This is the last day of our acquaintance

Very difficult to choose from, I'm contemplating.

Dear Sir,

contestants

Yours etc.

Originally posted by Bowmann
Dear Sir,

[b]contestants

Yours etc.[/b]

How about a vote from our number 1 literary critic, or is that too much to ask?

BUMP because some of the entries are really good.