The Character, 825 words

Faced with a request to write up to 1000 words on the theme 'A Letter' I wanted to avoid the obvious and came up with this - let me know what you think.

The Character

Dear reader, I give thanks to God for the breeding and learning that has led you to this page. Blessings to your parents, who bestowed upon you the great gift of education, to the tutors who beat the lessons into your thick skull, and, of course, to the inventors of this new age, to whom I owe my very existence.

In this year of our Lord one thousand four hundred and ninety nine, I am proud of the part I am to play in the century ahead, when all men can learn the wisdom of their ancestors. At last they can set down their opinion, and share it by spreading their words, along with the word of God, throughout the land.

I am also humble, because I am not unique. There are hundreds like me, maybe thousands, and some are not just similar to me but exactly like me. If they did not exist I could not make my contribution, because I cannot do my job on my own. I cannot be in hundreds of places at once.

I enjoy a busy and productive life. Every day I am laid in a row, alongside others, either by a master of his trade, in which case my journey is swift and uneventful, or by an apprentice who will, like as not, drop me on the floor several times, then attempt to put me in my place upside down, or back to front, which is more interesting, but uncomfortable.

After a few moments of quiet contemplation I become aware of the characters either side of me. Although my companions are sometimes identical to myself, they normally have a different shape, a curve here or a straightness there, which marks their own character and purpose.

When the Master is happy with the way we are laid out, he covers us with ink. Paper is placed in the machine above me and a wheel is turned which presses a plate down upon me with so much pressure I think I will burst. Then the wheel is turned the other way, the paper is removed, and the process is repeated, hundreds of times. At last, accompanied by much admiration and congratulation, I am placed in a box with my own kind, until the next time, when I am arranged alongside faces of a different type, in another configuration, and all is repeated.

At the end of the day we are blessed by the Master. Often he will talk to us as he busies himself around the place. Once he explained that his role in life was to transform my face by the application of ink, then impressing me to paper, where the glorious mind of man will take my shape and make a vibration inside his head. By the glory of God, this sound that is me is joined with the sounds of my compatriots, and this cacophony turns into knowledge and understanding, and this metamorphosis will take the world to places which do not yet exist. He crosses himself as he says this, because he is aware that his suppositions carry the faint odour of blasphemy, and he cannot be too careful.

He says that every day I am part of a different word. One day I am in beauty, the next I am in the beast. One week I am in Heaven but then I will be sent to Hell. It’s all the same to me.

The master also says that before man made me, everything was written by hand. Scribes took decades to perfect their skills but still made mistakes, when they were tired, or ill, or drunk. Each slip of the nib, each drag of a hem into ink, would cause such sorrow.

He had heard of a place where poor penmanship was followed by swift and fatal retribution, although most transgressions were minor and paid for with temporary suffering. He said that a day without bread, or a rap on the knuckles, even an act of contrition in front of the Abbott, were all necessary reminders that perfection and pain are common bedfellows on the journey towards the future.

And now I must rest, because the constant thumping and bumping of the press, the whirring and whining of the workshop, and the stamping and standing, take its toll on an old character like me. With the grace of God I have had good fortune. I have kept my form and my appearance is good. The ink still clings to me with the correct viscosity, for the right amount of time. I continue to make a good impression. I have avoided the stains and blemishes which have led others to the bin in the corner, where they are melted down.

Goodnight dear reader, go well into the night. If you dream, then think of me, lying in my box, preparing myself for another day when I must play my part in this beautiful business of printing.

Itchy & Scratchy, 409 words of dialogue

I wrote this as an exercise in dialogue - not sure I will ever use it anywhere, but here it is:

Itchy & Scratchy

“Stop that you horrible child.”

“But it itches.”

“I know it itches. It will itch if you run full speed into a bush of stinging nettles.”

“The lion was going to get me. It was scratching itself and it was going to come right through the fence and get me.”

“No it wasn’t. You know it wasn’t. You’re just pretending to be about 3 years old to annoy me. There’s no point. You’re annoying enough already. You can’t get any more annoying.”

“My head itches.”

“So don’t scratch it.”

“Don’t scratch it?”

“That’s right. If you scratch it, the itch will just get worse.”

“So the only time I ever want to scratch is when I itch, and that’s when I’m not supposed to scratch?”

“That’s right.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s just one of God’s little jokes. You’ll have to get used to them.”

“That doesn’t make any sense either. The monkeys are always scratching.”

“This might come as a shock but you’re not a monkey. If you’re going to wait for life to make sense my jolly little friend you’ve got a very long wait ahead of you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that life doesn’t make sense. If your head doesn’t itch then go ahead and scratch it. Unless your finger nails are a foot long you can’t do any harm.”

“What’s a foot?”

“About one third of one of those metres they teach you about in school. And stop scratching.”

“If my head wasn’t itching then I wouldn’t know when to scratch it. And I’m not supposed to do that.”

“I know – life’s funny like that.”

“Funny?”

“Yes – funny peculiar, not funny ha-ha. Do you know the difference yet?”

“I don’t know what peculiar means.”

“Funny peculiar means it’s not thekind of funny that makes you laugh but it’s the kind of funny that’s different from what you expect, it’s sort of strange, it’s well, peculiar.”

“Are pelicans peculiar?”

“Pelicans?”

“I can see a pelican. It’s not scratching. It’s got no arms.”

“Maybe that’s what happens to little boys who scratch their head when they’re not supposed to. Their arms fall off.”

“Pelicans don’t have arms, or hands. They have legs, and, and, . . . beaks.”

“So they do.”

“So if a pelican fell into a bush of stinging nettles and his head itched, how would he scratch it?”

“Don’t ask me son. I’m only the zookeeper. Where’s your mother got to?”