A letter to a nasty mosquito

Dear Miss Stealthy Mosquito,

As much as you like the taste of my warm blood, I need to be able to sleep tonight. Like punching below the belt in boxing, biting my toes is not fucking allowed! I'm used to you making a buffet out of my back, feasting on my legs and arms, even my ultra-sensitive elbows at times. And I willingly accept my fate as just another link in the food chain (an occasional bite snuck in here and there).

But my toes?! This means war! Be warned: I'm going to hunt you down before itching my way to bed and fry you!

May the best man win!

Yours Truly,
Brently

Welcome -- Submissions Wanted

While I can't take credit for this idea, I like it so much that I've decided to attempt starting my own similar page -- letters to anyone. I got the idea from the Futile Letters blog, on which I posted a couple of my own creations and found joy in writing and sharing them. So, here's my go at it.

This idea is a place for letters written to anyone, real or fictitious, known or unknown, even anonymous, to be published and shared with whoever trips across this blog. They can be funny, witty, heartfelt, sad, angry, or even just rants. However, I won't publish anything discriminatory (i.e., ethnic, sexual, or gender discrimination, etc.), so please refrain from sending that sort of material to me.

If you'd like to contribute, please send your letter to me via e-mail, with "Onymous Letters" as the subject. Type or paste your letter, as you want it published, in the body of your mail (no attachments). Any additional information you want added at the bottom -- a short bio, for example -- please include within the body of your message as well. All submissions and inquiries should be sent to stewart_brently@yahoo.com.

Let the fun begin!

A Letter to the Pilgrims

Dear Pilgrim,

Today is for many a favorite time of the year. People in the United States are gathering with friends and loved ones to share in comaraderie, food and drink. Today they celebrate a bloody holiday that has for too long been a tribute to you.

What troubles me so much about this is not the gaiety and shared quality time with loved ones, but that so few are willing to recognize the truth behind the story of Thanksgiving. I'm all for giving thanks and being grateful for the countless blessings that my life has been filled with. But I can't sit comfortably praising a bunch of racist, sword-wielding murderers who take false credit for this day.

While the bones of those innocent natives lie rotting alongside your ivory monuments, and people give thanks for all the blessings that you made possible for generations of stubbornly ignorant Americans, there are a few more enlightened folks who turn our heads and spit on your graves.

I do have so much to be thankful for today, yet what I ask most for is forgiveness for the atrocities that my ancestors committed against those peoples who rightfully deserve the blessings of this Thanksgiving Day.

In shame,
Brently

A Letter to Miranda

Dear Miranda,

As your best friend, I have to fill you in on something. You're always complaining about how guys gawk at you, how you can't even walk down the street without strange men making lewd comments and staring at you lustfully. I gotta agree though...men can sometimes be real pigs.

But what you haven't thought about is how your gym pants have JUICY written across your plump little ass. Yes, girlfriend, you do "got it goin' on." But you also need to realize that wearing provocative clothing is an invitation for all the creeps to come out of their shells and slobber when you're strutting past them in your "slut gear" (as you jokingly call it).

If you don't want people staring at your butt, making references to peaches when they're walking behind you, maybe you should think twice about the messages you're giving when you choose clothing that screams "Hey, check out my ass!"

Always,
Gloria

A Letter to the Ents

Dear Treebeard,

How ya doing, old buddy? I want to say thanks first off for the help you lent to Merry and Pippin, and in the wonderful disaster you caused for that nasty old grinch, Saruman. I'd be willing to bet that those jolly little "hobbitses" have written a few songs about you and your comrades. I'm sure that makes you all very proud.

A buddy of mine likes trees, and he's a "recycling nazi." So I jokingly call him "tree hugger" when he gets fanatic about people throwing recyclables into the trash. But this makes me wonder about something. Do you like hugs? Granted, you might crush me to dust if you tried hugging me. Can I hug you, though?

I bet you enjoy birds nesting on your limbs, humming along with their joyful singing. And the squirrels -- you gotta love the squirrels! The bears, rubbing their backs against you to cure that itch, must be a soft, furry delight, huh? But why do you Ents let the dogs pee on your feet?

Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. Sorry I haven't written in a while.
Brently Baggins

P.S. I composed this on a computer, by the way, so that you'd be willing to read it. (I remember the first time how you scolded me about using paper.) Take care, old friend.

A Letter to the Phone Solicitor

Dear Annoying Solicitor,

I don't have the heart to be rude to you, even if I feel you are invading my privacy. I'm not going to yell at you or speak insults when you ignore me and continue your endless chatter either. But I certainly don't want even to pretend that I understand your mile-a-minute Chinese fluttering in my ear.

So while you holler "Wei, wei..." I'm going to respond with "Hello, hello...can you speak English?" really fast -- making your head spin, your blood pressure rise -- until YOU hang up (and, hopefully, resolve never to call this number again).

I know you're only doing your job, but this is my privacy you're treading on. If I want something, I'll go buy it myself. I don't want your spiel, so you needn't call me anymore.

Thanks for your understanding. ;)
Brently

A Letter to "Dolly"

Dear Dolly,

I stared in grief at the photo. You lay there, as beautiful as ever, the sun shining off your satin-like body. Your eyes cried not of desperation, but of utter despair.

You're not the first to have done this. And you'll quite likely not be the last. What disturbs me, however, is why. This is a question I've ruminated over for weeks -- why?

You're intelligent beyond measure, beautiful, loved by so many. You have a power that captivates people. You're gentle, empathetic, a healer of immense proportions.

Staring into your eyes, I saw a sadness more abysmal than the depths of the vast world you call home. Your gaze bore into my depths, tearing at my insides. I wanted to reach out to you, to lift you from that gritty deathbed you'd made for yourself. I wanted to ask you, "Why?"

This burden, whatever it is, must be great. Was it a cry of warning? An act of defiance at mankind's cruelty? A message from the gods? Or was it that pain that only love can cause -- having lost your soulmate?

I go back to that photo, to the beauty, and the intense suffering that your heart cried out. That stricken gaze now lives within me, haunting me.

Mankind needs you. Let me ease your burden.

A Letter to Righty

Hey, Righty.

You think it's strange that I can't use my right hand to write, at least nothing better than the scribble you'd see from a five-year-old playing with crayons. So you snicker to yourself. You laugh when I try kicking the ball with my right foot, and how clumsy my right side is while playing hackysack. You ask me strange questions such as "Why do you use your right hand to hold your soup spoon?" as if there's something wrong with that. After laughing at my expense, you insult my left-handedness.

Basking in your glory, you consider me inferior. But what you forgot to realize that night when we were drinking and messing around playing ninja warriors in the basement is that you never expected that wild left cross. Living in your delusional right-handed-only world, I sucker-punched your proud ass. Damn, it felt good.

It's already hard enough trying to find scissors that actually cut when I use them, can openers that I can use without looking like a twisted pretzel, left-handed ergonomic computer mice, and so on. You have it made, buddy.

That bruise on your right cheek is a sweet reminder that I'm not only as good as you, Righty, but that in a fight, I'd take you out faster than you could say "Where the hell did that come from?!"

Still friends?
Lefty

Sean's Letter to Mother Nature

Dear Mother Nature,

The mountain was empty today, Gaia, I suppose because of the weather. On the west side, I stopped a ways down the trail and turned to face the wind—at this time of year (as you know), the cool weather makes the mountain wind crisp and biting—and, surrounded on both sides by the tall native Taiwan grass, the thick blades closely packed, I just stared into the greyness. You know how I feel when I'm alone. The silence and the closeness of this day, at that spot, perfectly created my ideal loneliness. For twenty minutes I let your wind caress my face. Nothing could move me from that spot.

Are you planning more of the same weather for later this year? I hope so. We don't get it that often in Taipei city because the buildings block it out. We have to go to the mountains most times to experience it.

I know we haven't had a meaningful contact in quite some time, and this is my fault. Most of my days are spent in the school, and I don't have many opportunities to go and visit you. Although I see you around the city occasionally, this is not enough for me; I want to be with you always — alone and surrounded by you. I read a story recently entitled Sailing Around the World Alone. The man in this true story writes of the infinite solitude and singular aloneness that he felt drifting on the open ocean with only the lapping of the water against his little boat's sides and the fish for company. I feel this way each and every time you and I are together, whether this be on the mountain in Taipei or on the open expanses of Saskatchewan's Qu' Appelle Valley.

I look forward to seeing you again. Perhaps tomorrow, after class, we could meet on the mountain. I don't think my wife will mind, indeed, she is quite fond of you and even will come with me sometimes to visit our favourite places.

Be well, Gaia.
The greatest of your passion remains with me always.

An Anonymous Letter to "You Know Who"

Dear You-Know-Who,

It's strange (don't you think?) that everyone I know seems to know you, but I'm certain that you and I have never met. Everywhere I go, people I know -- even strangers -- speak out your name like you're a household commodity. Just the other day, I overheard Mom say "You Know Who is coming over to dinner tomorrow." My theory is that you don't really exist, but then how could everyone know you by name?

Perhaps you're a distant cousin of "What's His Name," or someone who likes to use the words "whatchamacallit" and "thingy."

Anyway, I don't know who the hell you are. Until I figure you out though, I'm going to call you Ordinary Bob. How do you like that, Mr. Mystery Man?

Sincerely,
Anonymous Me

Emily's Letter to Cockroach

Dear Cockroach,

I hate you! You're a worthless, vile insect. You crawl everywhere, you invade my home, you haunt me in my sleep. And you stink after I've crushed you into mush.

I understand that everything has its place, that you're part of the multitude of creatures that feed and feed off each other. You just might have your place in that chain of all things, but I'm skeptical as to what it is you can offer this world other than serving as a nasty, freeloading pest.

I dislike ants, but they serve a worthwhile purpose in decomposing waste, playing a part in ecology's biological makeup. Spiders, which really creep me out, make ingenious contraptions that catch their foes -- and then they eat them. Muahhhh haaaah haaaah! Bees, with that annoying buzzing, those poisonous stingers, and their sick fascination with my picnic baskets, at least provide me with honey for my tea.

So what the hell do you have to offer? Why should my karma be impacted for mashing your brains into the concrete?

Here's the deal, bucko...I hereby serve you an official, signed eviction notice -- get the hell out of my house!

In angst and despair,
Emily