Thread: 17/11/2010 - LM - Reply to a Love Letter

Happy November, everyone! As the year draws to a close, I hope you’ve all done a lot of writing this year (maybe that will make me feel better about how little I’ve done)…
IF you’re not quite happy with the amount you’ve gotten down, here’s your chance to get a story written. We’ll try for another two this year, so this is the second last LM for 2010.



Our Prompt this time around is:

Reply to a Love Letter


In 650 words or less, (not including the title), use this prompt to inspire your story.

Submissions may be posted in this thread right here, or in the thread provided in the Writer's Workshop.

If you wish to protect your first rights (in case you want to someday submit the work to a magazine or whatnot). Please remember to provide the judges with a link to your story in this thread. You can get your link by clicking on the number in the top right-hand corner of your post, then copying the link from the address bar.

So just to be clear. If you want to enter the LM Challenge and protect your first rights, what you do is post your entry in the workshop thread (in full—title, text and all), then click on the number in the top right-hand corner of your post, copy the link from the address bar and post that link in this challenge thread.


Everyone is welcome to participate.
Judges are welcome to participate but their entries cannot receive a score.
(Though if judges do participate, it’d be nice for the other judges to read and comment on the story).

Submissions will be accepted until midnight my time (GMT+11), Wednesday December 1st.

(To be safe, anyone not in Australia should aim to get it in by late on Tuesday Nov 30th)

Get into it!

Your judges for this round are:

Bruno Spatola
spider8
ppsage
and me.


No comments please - Only competition entries to be posted in this thread.

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1393871

WARNING : Adult content and language. If it’s too rough and personal ask me and I’ll delete it. It did turn out in a weird way of being good for my head. It’s all true.




I am sorry life’s events caused us to fall out of love, I really am. I didn’t ask for the MS, it took me from you. You are young, you are pretty, you’ll find somebody else. I’ve known the guy you are with over twenty years, I think he is an idiot because he took you from me but I wish you two well. Good thing my parents took my guns away, I was going to put holes in him he couldn’t breathe through. With time that feeling has gone away. My parents still won’t give my damn guns back though. I guess they know me too well, I can go absolutely apeshit at any moment. And with this nerve disorder I’m closer to the edge than before. Word of advice, keep him away from here and me. I still have a Glock my parents don’t know about. Really you’re not worth me spending the rest of my life in jail because I killed some stupid shit. That would do neither of us or our son any good. I begged you to stay but you said “there was nothing I could say or do to change things”. That made me pop, that’s when I said “get the f**k out!”. I’m still of the mindset it takes two to make or break a marriage and that broke it. Getting this disease made me mad and quite introverted but that was something that could be fixed with a little time and guidance. You should’ve worked with me some but it’s too late now, unfortunately.

What I am in awe about is sometimes you still want to help me. If it wasn’t the common bond of our son, I’d chase you away. Remember, I told you to leave. I’ve lived with plenty woman before you, I’m no Gigolo, I just treat people right. People are able to see that. The hardest part has been losing my attitude. I was almost six foot three and 212 pounds at one point, I was humble and nice but ask those that have f**ked with me if they’ll ever do it again. Now I’m stuck in a wheelchair. You have seen me beat down three different people three different times. I’m no pushover, even you found out the hard way. Let’s end this on a good point, I wish you well on all of your feature life’s endeavourers. Life is rough right now but as soon as this passes all will be alright. Priority one is Jay, he’s our son keep him happy and healthy. He’s only six but one day he’ll be able to put all this together. Please, don’t write anymore. I’m still tripping on twelve years together down the drain. But C'est la vie.

With the love for you that is left,
Tobey

Judge Entry
(Adult content)


Thanks - By Kathleen Main

You were vacuuming when you heard your phone go off in the other room. You paused the vacuum, then decided to finish the job first. Not only did you not want to appear too eager in your response time, you didn’t even want to seem too desperate getting to the phone to read it. Not that there was anyone to see you do that. But you’d know.

So three minutes later you put the vacuum away, walked casually over to your phone, and clicked the button that let you read your new message. You saw his name and blinked.

What? Why would he be texting you?

Miss you Bubba x

You hated it when he called you Bubba. The first time he did was right after the only time the two of you ever had sex.

He was laying on top of you, your thumbs gently tracing lines down his sweaty, freckled spine. You couldn’t quite believe you were there, with so many reasons not to be.

Namely her.

And when he’d said Bubba you’d felt sick. His sweat went from hot to cold on your fingertips. He called her Bubba; you’d heard him on the phone all those times you were sitting next to him on the couch, holding hands. The phone would ring and he’d talk to her, tell her he misses her, while determinedly not looking at you.

His roommate would look at you. The roommate hated her, and loved you. So the look said ‘Buck up’. Then he’d hang up and squeeze your hand and you’d all pretend it hadn’t happened.

Why on earth would he call you both Bubba? Is it really that much easier to keep track of pet names if you call the girl you’re fooling around with and your fiancée the same thing? Jesus.

You looked at the text for a long time. Why now? It’d been months and months since you did that big dramatic goodbye thing and he flew away. Afterwards his friends would see you smoking in the street and ask if you’d heard from him and instead of answering like a normal person you’d make some weird pffff noise and say ‘Who cares?’

Showing pretty clearly exactly who cared.

You hit reply and typed in four letter words. You let them sit there shining out from the screen, indifferently. Damn phone and its inability to inject emotion.
Couldn’t even use italics.

Nothing said angry like italics.

You backspaced the indifferent swearwords and wrote a long rambling text. Really let loose. The highlights included things like:
‘You just up and left!’
’What am I supposed to do now?’
’Hate you, hate you, hate you.’
’I’m not angry – I’m just disappointed.’

Then you got really into clichés until you started writing Miss you too, I could’ve loved you, I’m miserable without you.

When it became five messages in length, you deleted it. You weren’t going to spend $1.25 on a rant.

You could write some cool breezy text, and tell him about Roger, maybe. You were waiting for Roger to get home so the two of you could eat. Maybe you’d tell him you didn’t miss him at all, you were happy with Roger. He’d probably be jealous.

You stared at his name at the top of the blank message.

You wrote in Thanks, and then you heard the door.

“Roger?”

Roger came slinking into the kitchen, and wound his tail around your legs, making that stupid bird noise he made. You picked him up and nursed him like a baby, just the way he hated. He tensed up and you said, “You love me, don’t you?”

Roger jumped out of your arms and started meowing at the fridge.

You looked at the phone, saw that Thanks glaring at you, and hit send.

Roger would tell you later that it was purrfect.

Girl on train,

To answer your first question: Yes, I have noticed you noticing me notice you. It sounds flinchingly cheesy, but I can feel the electric touch of your eyes and I swear, it's like you want to kiss my soul. Can I say that to a complete stranger? Because that's what we are - we're strangers - so why do I feel like I can share so much of my mind with you?

I’m also very curious as to how you've managed to get this letter to me, which, seeing as the only time we’ve ever been in contact is on the same train every day to work, I assume you've somehow managed to get close enough to slip your letter into my bag. I'm quite sure my bag was zipped shut this morning and this scares me a little. To answer your second question: Yes, of course I'll reply. I kind of have too seeing as a pack of tissues are missing from my bag. I just checked. If you have them, they are greatly missed and without them you are depriving me of a clean nose. Besides, is stealing stuff really the best start to our relationship...?

Kleptomania issues aside, I have to say you do sound incredibly interesting, if not a tiny bit eccentric; which is devastatingly cute by the way (and not at all disarming...). I’d also like to thank you for pointing out this morning, rather loudly and in front of everyone, about the white stain on my tie. On a scale of One to My face, how red was my face? I guess you could tell I didn't like having to convince everyone on the train that it was yoghurt.

I’ve always really kept to myself, so I’m sorry if I always seem a bit aloof or obnoxious every day. “It’s not you, it’s me” – and for once in relationship history that statement is true. I want you to know that if I did have the confidence and charm and charisma, I’d have given you a proper hello by now. I’d have probably come up with some quick one-liner about how beautiful you look even in the morning when your hair is in a mess, and your eyes still have that tiny bit of sleep in them.

And by the way - I could have always gotten the later train.

Yours for as long as the subway journey,
Guy on train.

My darling husband,

It’s raining and so cold outside, and I ‘m lying here in our big bed trying to get warm underneath the wedding quilt Aunt Maud made for us. I hear thunder and see the lightning flash through my window and I can only imagine the kind of thunder and lightning strikes you have to endure.

I received your letter today and my heart raced. I tore it open to feel another little piece of you, and to inhale your essence as it escapes from inside the envelope. Thank you for that dab of Paco Rabonne. “Down, girl,” you’d always tease as I chased you around the room wanting to kiss you and smell your skin.

I love that you remember that dab of Paco Rabonne.

And, yes babe, I love you. Yes, I will always love you, and no, I am not wearing any clothes right now. You are so bad, Mister. SO BAD. But I hope you will always know the truth about me and you. We are one throughout eternity. Your body is imprinted on mine. I am buried in your bones. Always.

Remember when you left and I told you how handsome you looked in your uniform, but that I didn’t want to imagine it strung with grenades and rifles and straps and helmets and all that horrible war stuff? How I just didn’t want to picture you like that? Well, I’m thankful now. So thankful. I can see you and how you need them to protect your friends, your country... yourself. I’m so proud of you. My heart aches I’m so proud of you. I miss you. Oh God, so much.

This letter, your letter, that I received today filled with your silly self, your tender words of love for me, they fill me up. I am holding it so close that your words will become my heartbeat.

Today when I received this letter, my skin prickled. I felt excited and full of hope again. Yesterday, they told me you were dead and gave me a paper of proof. I didn’t want to believe. So babe, just in case, I’m answering your letter, and disregarding that it was written a while ago. We never say never, do we, baby? Not ever.

Imagine being filled with kisses and hugs and memories and holy love,

from the one who loves you best,

your wife

A reply to a love letter (666 words):

Lord!

You really are the most narcissistic being I have never encountered. The only thing about you that amazes me is that you had to get another man to write to me. Your audacity astounds me.

I really used to believe in you. Now I don’t even know who or what you are. The time I’ve wasted searching for you and now I’m told you are to judge me. For what, may I ask? What gives you the right to judge? Is it because I choose to love various men? Is it because I choose to love my family and friends and not you? I can’t trust what you say. I can only read your word through the writings of strangers. How do I even know that what I’ve read is what you wish?

You’re never around when I need you and you know what? I don’t need you anymore. I have real people and support around me. People who don’t expect me to bow down and be submissive to them in return for nothing except the faint possibility there may be something better for me at the end. I will not be used as a means to your end.

It is understandable that you may have confidence issues. I can see how you would want me to choose to love you before making a commitment but I am not prepared to commit without at least speaking with you face to face. I am not against the idea of compromise either. I am prepared to meet you half way on this issue but I would expect you to come and talk to me, at least before I die.

When I read what you asked those men to write, I was absolutely shocked by your sadistic attitude. You want me to kneel at your feet and declare my love for you over all others. Are you having a laugh? I am not part of you, I never will be. My decisions are my own to make. Don’t try to control me by claiming to have given me my freedom of will. I already have a father and he is not you.

If all this power that you claim to possess is correct then please explain why you do not choose to exert the power to stop the suffering you have apparently created? Does it please you to believe that you are responsible for so much hurt? I suppose you’ll try and justify it by claiming you created many exquisite and beautiful things too.

Pure arrogance is what you are. You are like most men, unable to grasp that the world around them could be here for a reason they may never be able to understand. I may not have been around as long as you but I do know that what those men wrote to me was nothing other than a reflection of your grand illusion. You and they are like the WiZard of Oz; a sad, creepy old man who hides behind an elaborate show pretending to be something he’s not.

Do you think you’ve got the message yet? I get the feeling that it doesn’t matter what I say anymore, you will still just choose to ignore me. I have lately started to acknowledge that you don’t even exist at all. I am replying to something that has been written on your behalf, I cannot even be sure that this anger I have towards you is aimed in the right direction.

I feel as though I am talking to myself as it is strikingly obvious you will never be there to read my reply. Perhaps I am being fooled by the men who claim to relay your message to me? If this is the case then I wonder why they would choose to pretend that you exist.

This will be my last letter to you. I will waste no more of my precious time here on Earth. You really do mean nothing to me.

Ann

My darling,

I found the letter you wrote me. I don't suppose you ever intended to send it, but it was just lying there on the coffee table in the living room -- the table we bought together last summer; do you remember that? I was wearing five-inch heels that day and you laughed and said it was ridiculous, putting on silly high heels and my prettiest Dior daytime dress just to go furniture shopping, and I kissed you, laughed, said you were only jealous because with those heels on I was half an inch taller than you. You grinned -- I love that smile -- and picked me up and whirled me around, and I said 'Honestly, that was an intelligent move; you only made me taller again,' and you said you'd put me on a damn pedestal and to hell with the height difference, because I deserved to be on top of the world and worshipped by everyone down below...

I'm sidetracked, as always. You used to get that certain look when I started to ramble -- the 'Really, Annica, I'm sure there's a point; please get to it' look. Somewhere between amusement and frustration, I think, though you never shouted at me, even when you were angry.

I found your letter. You just left it there, as if you didn't care if our daughter found it and saw your soul laid bare in your endearingly scratchy handwriting. Maybe you don't care. I'm not sure you care about anything any more.

I wish you'd care about something -- anything -- that isn't me. We had a daughter together, our beautiful girl, and she needs you. I'm gone now, darling, and I won't be coming back. I need you to be there for her. I need you to wake up in the morning and make Izzy breakfast and sort her out for school. I suspect you're drinking too much, incidentally, which perhaps isn't helping you with getting up in the morning. I know it's only been a few days, love, but please, please try to start moving on.

My father's still about the place, you know, and he'll be very happy to help you if you need it. I just can't come back myself. I wish I could lie beside you when you have one of your insomniac periods and rub your back until you fall asleep; I wish I could be there when you wake up, even if we both know all you'd do is mock me gently for my morning hair and lack of make-up; I wish I could be curled up on the couch with my laptop when you come in from work, streaming curses at the London traffic in an accent that slips just a little when you get that frustrated; but I can't.

I wish you could read this. I wish I could tell you I'm sorry in some way you would understand. I wish I could let you know it wasn't your fault. I wish you'd believe it was mine, though I know you think I could do no wrong -- but it was my fault, love: I smoked even though I'd known about the heart condition since I was thirteen; I drove too fast even though I'd crashed a half-dozen times before; I hit that barrier at a hundred and six miles an hour and the blood loss because of the damn Warfarin... oh God, I remember seeing it, watching it, knowing that they'd never get there in time, and I cried myself to sleep in this forever-dark because I couldn't say goodbye to you and Izzy, couldn't tell you I love you one last time...

I'm still here, love. I'm still with you. You just can't see me, because it would hurt you even more. But I love you and I always will, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.

Reply to an email

Subject: RE: Kate, we have to end this

Rakesh, (Sorry, I just can’t put “Dear” in front of that anymore)

For the first time, I agree – YES, we should end this. I am finally yearning for a termination of our harmful hide-and-seek, on-and-off pseudo relationship. Reason: I met your wife!

In a bizarre way, I’m thankful for your mail. Your words… same as usual, yet with a twist: “You know I would still be with you if I could, but I have responsibilities now. After what we went through, I’m sorry to tell you that my wife is pregnant. I’m meeting her at the hospital in a couple of hours for our first ultrasound…”

Thank you! That was the most useful information you have ever provided me with. Before, I was just heartbroken, lonely and sad each time you broke up, but somehow these words transformed me – they made me wake up from my state of oblivion. And congrats, you managed to impregnate TWO women almost simultaneously considering your lack of balls – how impressive!

I just had to see her, so I went to your block and waited outside. After a while she appeared, and to my surprise she looked so young and innocent with her long, shiny black hair, a fragile little body and a peaceful face. I just knew it was her. She walked slowly, but determined towards the bus stop - just like I had predicted and I followed her.

You know what’s funny? When we met, I let myself fall insanely in love with you, and although you did insinuate that it would never work out, I didn’t care. I honestly thought that if I just loved you enough, then everything would fall into place. I thought that you just needed time, that after a while you would start calling me your girlfriend, eventually tell your parents about us and that… Well, I was naïve. Even when you mentioned that your family was arranging this wedding for you, I still believed that you would stop it and run away with me. The truth is that you probably got a kick out of playing all these games.

Back to yesterday: We were the only ones waiting for the bus; I kept gazing at her, which made her look about as confused as I felt. So I asked her if she knew which bus would take me to the hospital.
One word let to another and before I knew it we were small talking. I can’t describe how much I wanted to save her. You never told me she was actually a human. Up until now you let me believe she was just some imported object that you were forced to marry in order to maintain the status of your family. I didn’t know she had a face, a heart or a way of smiling that makes me want to kill myself for having been with you.

We sat next to each other on the bus. She told me about her pregnancy, about how lonely she is in this country and how she longed to have a baby. I could’ve said: “If your SOB of a husband hadn’t forced me into having an abortion, our kids could’ve been playmates” but she didn’t deserve that.

For the first time, I feel ashamed; I hate myself for having been with you, for how irresponsible and stupid I’ve acted while in complete denial of reality. Maybe it was my fault, too. After all, you did end this a million times, but I kept insisting and encouraging you to come back to me, and you were too easy to persuade.

I didn’t feel like seeing you again, so I got off the bus before reaching the hospital. I wished your wife best of luck and meant it. I will get over you this time. Sorry for everything.

Kate

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1396294

Ergh! Finally on a computer with normal net access.

Okay, this thread is now closed. Judges - All yours.