The Red Hot Pawn Prose Competition: Pretention

THE RED HOT PAWN PROSE COMPETITION SPECIAL EDITION: PRETENTION

I began the first prose competition on the General Forum of Red Hot Pawn in the hope that it would in some way encourage creative writing amongst these forum inhabitants. I think it succeeded in that respect. You might share the view that all the best posts on this site have been written in argument on the debates or spirituality forums, but none of these forums have so challenged a writer's ability to stretch his or her imagination and creative ability as the general forum. There is a wealth of untapped talent here, lurking behind sarcasm, behind characterisation, behind the lies that you are free to tell when you hide behind your Red Hot Pawn moniker. This round of the prose competition is very special to me because it plays upon that fundamental truth behind all language: manipulation. You may think to yourself, "but here I am really behaving just as I normally would in real life!". Liar. There is no room to pause for thought in real life. The printed word is much stronger than the spoken word, and it lasts forever. We wake tomorrow and bathe in the consequence of our posts from the day before and that changes us, makes us aware, our post history becomes a ball and chain.

1) The rules for the writers:
Entries must not exceed 1000 words, no profanity, no plagiarism, stick within forum guidelines bearing in mind that this is a "family" website, the writers may only vote when I give them instruction, i.e. they must wait before voting, when the last day for voting ends I shall announce the names of all the writers, until that time the writers must remain anonymous, if I learn that a writer has revealed his/her identity then that writer will be immediately disqualified, no questions asked.

2) The rules for voting
PLEASE VOTE! A lot of effort has gone into this competition and the ten minutes it takes you to read all the entries is a drop in the ocean compared to how much your vote means to the writers. Please feel free to comment on the prose, however you want, for better or for worse. There are five pieces of prose here, you must choose your top three and rank them accordingly by title. i.e. 1st: title A, 2nd: title B, and 3rd, title C. You need not mention or comment on a piece if it does not make it into your top three. If you are unable to find three entries that you would rank then do not vote.
I shall use the following points system in tallying the final ranking: 1st = 5 pts, 2nd = 3pts, 3rd = 2pts.
The theme for this round was pretention. You may vote however you want but bear in mind that the submissions for this round were based on this theme so you might want to adjust your vote if you feel that a writer strayed too far. The entries here are less than 1000 words each.
Please don't give me a recommendation on a piece of prose because the chances are pretty good that I didn't write it.
Voting closes on 1 April 2006 at 11:00 am GMT.

Here we go then:

The Floating Girl

Life throws many things your way; a chance encounter with the friend of a friend, the desire to dance - but the embarrassment to keep you from liberation, the longing for things you can never have, the apathy of habitual process – keeping you from the very energy you need to get out of the habit. And somewhere in all that you manage to exist.
If I think of all the opportunities presented to me and count them against all those I have wasted, I come up half a man. But somehow, therein, I find definition, a place to call myself me. I live with all the shame of my self-restraint and find my borders made from lines of unfulfilment. I watch people dance and I yearn to join them; to step in time, in the beautiful perseverance of youth; each moment grasped as if to hold rhythm and entropy for just an instant longer. And yet I do not dance. Once more, here I sit, watching her turn and for a moment she seems to be flying; her feet are feathers, caressing the air; her hair flicking from side to side, trying to generate the lift of innocence; her smile and her eyes radiating the simple freedom of her soul, a soul so light and distant from the cares of humanity that, just for a moment, it rises above the physical constraints of this realm and soars ever upwards. Her chains are broken; perhaps they were never there to begin with. How fortunate to be able fly without effort, to have no boundaries but those she sets herself.
And what of my own chains? Are they so intrinsic to me that to relinquish myself of them would be to surrender my ego to that vast and terrifying expanse of the unknown? Freedom comes at a price: freedom means no safety zone, no place to hide, no sanctuary from failure. Life, you see, is a great scale. We weigh opportunity against the fear of failure, apathy against consequence, innocence against culpability. Blessed are those that weigh in light of soul, they have but to imagine and their dreams are realised. Cursed are the heavy of soul, the thinkers and the worriers, the beings drunk on information and the endless pressure of communication, for they can but imagine their dreams; the realisation of which, nothing but an exercise in the futility of thought.
Oh to be simple! To have no need for problems or the consideration of ramifications. Oh to be as light as her; to dance on the feathered wings of placidity, to leap ever higher on the joyous toes of unbiased and guiltless existence. More than anything I wish to be free of this accursed mind of mine and all its emotions. This insipid empathy rots at me like a cancer. I hate myself; I hate the never-ending considerations, the ceaseless caring, the monotony of my concern. I curse my soul and its growing mass. I dream of being light, of flying, of dancing with her, just once. We would laugh as we span and each laugh would propel our souls farther up into the golden fettered sky: up and up until we forget. Up until we lose our memories; drawn somehow from our existence into a joyous vacuum of sense, where to realise is to cease in participation.

She and I circling into infinity, our souls entwined and the undeniable union of our rhythm and laughter; the very fabric of our joining.

And for just one moment; happiness. Enough to last a lifetime, for surely the height of experience defines the time within which we reside with it. So high that never again can happiness be lost. For the rest of my life I would only be floating down and not even death would wait long enough for me to land. She would make me a great bird, an angel of rhythm, the beautiful refraction of a peel of laughter.

But now the dance is done. She grins and lands and I think I feel one last breeze across my eyelids, as she brushes the hair from her face; scattering the last weightless beats of freedom out, into the darkness of reality, where they quickly dissipate.

The Winning Entry

While I’m sure this piece is flanked by two worthy entries this is in fact the one you should vote for with all your heart. My esteemed fellow writers are mistaken in their belief that anything they write can be better than what I can scrawl down during my lunch hour.
In fact as I have such an important and busy life I forgot about this competition entirely. As such this piece has received no editing, no planning and very little thought. However, I am confident that my latent writing flair will show through and clearly be better than anything my compatriots can produce given infinite time and thought.

Ever since I was a young boy I have soaked up knowledge, while others have struggled to remember times tables I took one look and swallowed them whole, just waiting for that moment where I could regurgitate them onto the page in a test. Books by the truckload, concepts by the ton and irrelevant facts by the large pile, all of them stored inside my head just waiting to enlighten my audience. You are witnessing (not literally as I’m here and you’re there as the quicker among you may have noticed) the writings of a genius. Now of course most people believe themselves to be at least smarter than the average bear, I however have the distinction of being right.

Because of my large brain power and knowledge I can form opinions and which are far beyond the ken of my lessers. Abortion, Free Trade, Healthcare, I have an opinion on them all and on every one I’m correct. Unfortunately my ideas and reasons are too complex for most to understand so I am occasionally outnumbered. A truly sad situation where the intelligent are diluted by the uneducated masses. That last sentence is a fragment by design, many of you cannot see the effect I desired and the way I satisfied it through the use of the fragment.

A good wine, a leather armchair, a treatise on probability (in original French) by Laplace (not pronounced Lap-lace) and a warm fire make for a great evening of enjoyment. Perhaps a little chess played on my antique carved wooden set. Some people today have no taste whatsoever; the craftsman is no more, duplication and repeatability the operative word. I want the finest hand raised free-range chicken served with organic vegetables all on plates made by indigenous people with natural materials. That’s a meal, pre-processed ‘fillet’ steak from a pre-processed cow eating pre-processed feed isn’t food. It’s garbage. I wouldn’t feed that to my dog.

When I was seventeen I drank some very good beer. It was a small microbrew made using spruce and tea tree rather than hops according to an 18th century recipe.

I am the enlightened one, the saviour of the culture of man, without me we could forever be lost in plastics, single-use books, single-use cups and conversations about said books with single-use friends. Heed my warning or be lost.

Confirm don’t consume.

Thus ends the winning entry.

Ophidian Unconquered


Rejection lived, floated in delusion and yet, he still spends the sweet lies in total darkness. Oblivious.

Unaware. Accountable.

Stood against, rejected and dispelled the cracked skin of childhood. Eternally damned to face the sorrow realisation. Where has the blameless youth been shed? Uncaring and cold blooded. Until he finally met her. Back then, he was trapped in a slither of misery. And loss was close. Was at hand. Only to be freed mockingly by her keen claws.

Misery and despair were near to sight. Viper of deception. His sorrows turned to anger. He had grown to appreciate how slowly anger mounts up over time. His Sahara speaks it loudly. Begin with one grain of sand and the sand dune ultimately bakes. Or in its defence, be blown away to reform millions of other dunes. Scorching and thirsty as they are with anger, only his thirsted for blood.

And so she came unaware and rescued him. Accountable.

Never deceit never lie
Placid falcon breezing by
Green eyes of earth and sky
Melody your victorious cry
Slithering viper..
Never let me fly

Falco Peregrinus. Or a Wandering Falcon. So she was before she found him. Purposelessly, aimlessly, worthlessly. That cursed sunset. She was drifting in pure air that never changes, forever whole. And he was slipping through life, slashed by every grain of sand, influenced by every object passed. Never leaving any of his dirty past behind whenever his skin changed. History always held solid, forever bound by the intricate patterns of his hellish viper skin.

Breezed by to capture his entire existence with the pierce of her eye. Divine loneliness, thirst and longing altered the claws of death to a heavenly embrace.

Unaware. Silent. Unexpected.

Could a downcast snake and a free falcon spirit ever fall in love? Far from hunger or lust, the prey became the hunter, the fierce-winged became the defenceless. Both exhibited their God given weapons, they held an uttered truce. In silence it was offered. And wordlessly it was accepted. The hiss defused into melodies and soothed the injured. The calling cries dried into comfort. With that hold the viper realised he was feathered with his better self. Could it be his kinder self? It takes two to be an enemy, but to each other they were soul mates. Souls that it took the breadth of Heavens to Earth to keep apart. Only to crash one on the other in a moment of loneliness and a flash of desire.

The embrace collided their hearts and to each other they resonated their surrender. His life gathering of anger now long forgotten. She had to worry no longer that her bewildered lonely life would ever glide from under her. At least, not when she is on the ground with him. Within him. Warm and safe and secure amid his newly skin-shed coil. Or so she had perceived.

Lost in memories, locked in vision, united in spirit. Nature's sworn enemies since the day they both cracked eggshells. Now bonded by the deathly embrace. Confidence restored, the viper had drawn his fangs, folding them back. Trust settled, the claws eased and retreated. The dreamy flood of emotions drowned them.

The viper never hid the burning desire in his cat-like irises. It was obviously clear. Or was the desire's true meaning unconsciously altered? From sinister anger to devilish lust to a dance of pure menace. The queen of birds was mesmerised. No longer was he the feast her Heavens spoke to her about. At that very moment he was her lover. The sparkles of his slit eyes couldn't be lying. Or so she had believed.

With viper's venom deadlier than that of a cobra, she knew she would be risking all. Still, she willingly declared her submission to him. Gave in and danced. Fluttered and sang. For her it was an ecstasy like no other. She saw his soul as clearly defined as mountain tops. She understood his pain as that of sunsets. She became to accept his complex nature, his duality. Secure yet vulnerable. Elegant yet hideous.

Fangs drawn yet deadly. She was in total oblivion to that for she knew she conquered his heart too. She was certain the charm of the snake could not be plain deceit. With ease she could have torn his tough skin to shreds. But she let go and danced joyfully.

Unaware.

Descended by simple chance
Should I change my stance?
With me forever you will dance
Hurl you in venomous trance
My sweetheart..
Couldn’t you read my glance?

And he joined in the dance and hypnotised her. Drew her closer and lured her. Span around her, twisted and tightly hugged her. Kissed her and dug in his blades.

Rejection lived once again.

To My Readers

Since the publication of my book, I have received many readers‘ letters. I am sorry I cannot reply to each letter individually, as this would be an irresponsible waste of time. The world needs me. But I decided to take some minutes of my precious time to thank all of you for your feedback, and to address an issue which has been brought up by several of you. Many of you told me they were intrigued by my thoughts and ideas, yet they had often had trouble following my train of thoughts. Others accused me of not making sense at all. Why, you ask, have I not written the book in a more comprehensible way?

The answer is that I would have done so if it were possible. I am a modest man, but I cannot deny the facts – my mental capacity is so far above normal that most people seem like children to me. Have you ever tried to explain to a three year old child why we have ebb and flow? The subject may seem easily understandable to you; but even if you would use simple words, it would be too complex for a small child. The best you might hope to achieve would be to give the child a very vague, only partly understood idea of the processes involved, and to awaken its curiosity and eagerness to learn more. Similarly, I cannot expect to be able to give a person of average intelligence more than a very vague understanding of my highly complex ideas.

Only oversimplification could have made my book more comprehensible to the layman. Such a book might have become very popular, it might even have made me rich. But popularity and money mean little to me. My main motive was to preserve my thoughts for future generations. I have been working tirelessly on the implementation of my ideas, putting them into practice. If you have understood even just a very small part of my book, you will see why this work is of extreme importance, not only for my own country, but the whole world. But I am old, and will not be able to finish what I have started. My hope is that there will one day be a person who will be able to fully understand my book, and who will continue my work. I had hoped to find such a person in my lifetime. I longed to share my thoughts with someone who would understand. It is a lonely life at these mental heights, and the responsibility which comes with intellectual superiority can be a heavy burden. Yes, you may envy me my superior intellect, but in truth you should be glad of the simpler and easier life you have.

But I digress. What I wanted you to know is that my book is not, and cannot be, for everybody to understand. This is neither my nor your fault, and neither of us can change it. Even so, I hope that the book has widened your horizon and let you have a glimpse of my intellectual world, and that it will further your intellectual growth.

Sincerely,
Quirinus Goldbaum

A Walk on White Lake

Jenny Mason buried her father four days after her 21st birthday. As she was standing in cemetery – gritting her teeth against the blistering cold Minnesota morning – she wondered if she was officially an orphan or not. She hoped she was – there had to be some way to play that somewhere along the line. Jenny knew how to play things.

Monahan’s Steak House closed early on Monday nights and Jenny was out of there in record time. The bartenders wanted to buy her a drink – since it was her birthday and all. They had hopes, those boys. But she did not have time for bartenders – Jenny only slept with her professors or men who had enough money to buy her nice clothes.

Clothes were very important. People judged you on how you looked and being smokin’ hot was not enough – you also had to have style. Jenny may have been something of a pain in the ass to work with – but she did have a sense of style.

No drinks tonight boys – I need to get home to my Pops – he is taking be out for my first official drink. There were smiles all around. How many folks in this part of the frozen world had Bobby M taken out for their first drink?

Yes, Bob Mason drank. A lot. He also gambled. Every day. He was very good at one and terrible at the other. Luckily, he had a knack for selling houses and lakefront property and for making money. Folks around town thought Bob was pretty happy – considering Jenny was such a bitch and his wife of twenty years had an aneurism at the kitchen table one morning and was dead before the day was out. However, Jenny knew better. He must be miserable inside. Why else would he be pissing all her money away at such an amazing rate, drinking and betting on everything he could?

Two years since Mom was gone - how much of my money has he pissed away during that time Jenny wondered, as she drove home that night. The drinking had gotten really bad recently – how could he take care of himself? He can’t – I am never getting out of this sad excuse for a town.

Good old Bob was just about done for the night when Jenny got home. She poured them both another Jack Daniels and as he swallowed it down she asked him if he was still going to pony up for her first legal drink.

“Yes baby, but you will have to drive – I am a little tired.”

“Drive hell old man, you are always talking about how you used to walk across the lake to the Marina Bar – get your coat, let’s go”

“Oh, not tonight Jen – it’s too late.”

“You are too soft and slow you mean. Figures that just when you can start drinking with me, you get too old to party. I don’t think you can do it Pop. In fact – I have forty bucks in tips that say you can’t walk across the ice to the bar with me. We can catch a ride back on the snowmobiles after a couple.”

Just about a mile. On a good day, it was a 25-minute walk – straight across the ice. However, it was not a good day for Bobby M. 10 degrees feels a lot colder when the wind picks up past the tree break. Jenny brought the bottle of Jack to keep them warm along the way. By halfway Bob was slowed to almost a stumble. Jenny kept up the conversation and the jokes and when he suggested they take a short break she complied. Rest was a good idea – let’s just sit for five minutes. Bob was asleep within a few minutes and that is where the snowmobilers found him the next morning. Frozen solid.

As Jenny fell asleep on her 21st birthday, she thought about selling the house and spending a year studying in Europe. That would look good on her resume. She felt a bit sad about Bob, but knew that he could never take care of himself and anyway, he went doing the two things he liked best – drinking and gambling.

A Walk on White Lake
The Winning Entry
The Floating Girl

http://www.chessatwork.com/board/search.php?authorname=no1marauder

A Walk on White Lake...I can't wait for the novel to come out on the best seller list.

The Floating Girl... If the Mona Lisa could be painted with words. I would be able to feel every brush stroke on the canvas in my mind, and smell the paint as it dries. Well done.

The Winning Entry...Followed the theme perfectly. How pretentious. Way to reach out and claim something yet to be judged to be yours, egotistical as it may be. Self promotion at its best. Simpletons are always unable to recognise a genius without being told. I really liked the manipulation, which compelled me...no forced me to reread and remember one sentence. Even though I may disagree. Editing is forgiven only because of your unbelievable time constraints and your forgetfulness. I loved it.

Once upon a time there was a little bump...

Originally posted by hopscotch
Once upon a time there was a little bump...

Everybody's busy reading the Scribbles vs. wingett debate results.

Things that go bump in the night.

Bump.

Please guys, it only takes five minutes to read all the entries and cast your votes.

The winning entry
A Walk on White Lake
To my readers


wucky

Originally posted by Starrman
Bump.

Please guys, it only takes five minutes to read all the entries and cast your votes.

Then why haven't you voted yet?