Sheesh. This is hard. Chosing one winner from four amazing challenge entries.

It’s freezing here, in winter2010, and instead of getting into bed, I’m writing to myself. It feels a bit odd. Because I don’t know who you are – are you the Mavis who lives on that restored house on the beach, or are you the Mavis whose money and life force conked out early?

KL413,

I can see you, and I know you are reading this. No, don’t pull that face and don’t look around—those two guards wearing the yellow riot police helmets staring at you will only become suspicious. Keep your head down, keep the Reader in the palm of your hand, and keep walking.

Good. Now pay attention.

Dearest self, if you are reading this, then the technology worked. I’m writing to you from the future, fifteen years on.

Oh hey Clare, it’s you. God you look good. Must be before you started smoking.

First stop in my time machine is 1988, Johannesburg. I'll get hold of my former self, and drag her away from the musty green-covered textbooks with gold writing, and yawns trapped between the pages.

Ok folks. It time to stretch those blog muscles again.

I have always liked the idea of a time capsule of sorts. A letter to yourself and other mementos buried in a tin box, in your garden or favourite spot. Something you could unearth 15 years or 20 years for now (assuming you remember where you buried it).

Looking back from your future self, what would you like to see?

I'm Hippo! It is more than seldom but not often. Hmmmm? "Agghimm." Where was I? On occasion I've had occasion to view the water at eye level. An experience YOU may recreate by wearing goggles and dipping to the line of the surface. Yes! Did it! Can't do better. Dipping to the line of the surface is what I wanted to say. Hold it. Now. Continue, and seeing - the waterline. Millimeters of tension. Because, because I am Hippo, obviously. I'm not a fly. Although I saw one. It was a giant conglomeration. A huge macro thing, rubbing its face with its feeler. Question: does a fly have a face or is it just an eye?

This guy comes up to me, says, 'Who are you, question mark.' I'm not lying. 'Who are you, question mark?' This guy says his punctuation. So I tell him I'm a person, and then, 'Who are you?' And I poke him in the chest. Sniff. I mean, I don't know this guy. Anybody know a guy who says his punctuation, question mark. See, now I'm doing it too. But only sometimes. This guy though, he did it all the time. He said, 'Well, comma, what kind of a person are you, question mark.' I'm not lying. Only he said person funny. He said 'Perrrrrrson. 'What kind of a perrrrrrson are you, question mark?' So I poke him in the chest and I say, I asked you a question. You ask a question then I answer and then I ask a question. That's how it works. 'Okay, comma, but first stop poking me, full stop.' I'm not lying. That's what he said. And when I asked my question he said his name was Marc. My name's Marc, full stop. With a quote c quote full stop.' I was glad it wasn't with a 'k'. But even so, I stopped talking to him, poking him, everything. And I came back here, full stop.

... er...
by default...
(as well as sheer brilliance of course...)

She cried when I told her I didn’t love her anymore. Before I had a chance to react she reached for her gun, concealed in her purse. Her eyes alight with fury, moist with tears unborn. Distracted by the shining Magnum in her small hands, she kicked me in the balls. I crumpled to the floor in a heap as my mind exploded with pain. It felt like my balls were trying to crawl up into my abdomen.

The important thing, the really seriously, monumentally, critically important thing to remember when trying to summon a demon, right, is to make sure the Coffee Can of Slaughter is properly holed. If you screw that up you just end up with a big old soggy cup of congealing bits instead of a nice clean pouring line.

V. Turtles all the way down.

IV. I am large, I contain multitudes.

III. Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself.

II. The centre cannot hold.

I. Things fall apart.

Flies gilt hyper_pigmentation mad natal,
Off-piste politesse.
Cheerful ribald,
Shunt Subjunctive
Tithe piece de resistance – hers.
Ecosystem bonnethead, casting votes -
Falchion Falcon, HYPALLAGE!
Madame Nunatak’s poltergeist
Indignant.

Things [constantly] fall apart,
The centre [of language] cannot hold.
Txt bcomes king.
Sorry, William. Both of u.

-1-

In the centre of this room, right here in the middle, a little girl was playing.

It is turtles all the way down. I thought about this, and really the only way that this would be possible, is if the bible is on to something. They got a few things wrong. I will rectify them now:

Heaven is not up, it is down and inside hell
Satan is not half goat he is all turtle
God is a vagina
Since we were made in his image, we are vaginas and therefore fucked, it’s our purpose.