Howdy, Ruth: Whoa, this is something special, and I mean that. "A Mother's Sorrow" is something so human that it makes me want to purr. Sharp sentences with excited language as well as an understanding of human nature that's effective from the less than conventional point of view. We couldn't wait to feature your story. http://madswirl.com/short-stories/2015/11/a-mothers-sorrow/ Peace, Tyler@MadSwirl
My story is loosely based on a true story about a cat once owned by my friend Elissa. The name Manisha in the story is one of our alternate mail carriers. The story, which I wrote about a year ago, had been rejected several times, which shows NEVER GIVE UP and BELIEVE IN YOURSELF.
Was talking tonite to my friend Ginny Burroughs who told me a story about her cat. I'm looking to write a story for my Writer's Group tomro. This story will be amazing.
Remember yesterday I posted a poem JIMMY WINS THEM ALL? I couldn't upload his photo bc my laptop crashed. Well, here it is. He's holding the poem in his hand so his hand looks as if it was cut off in a meat slicer.
I was napping upstairs today when there came a rap on the door.
I couldn't believe it!
Sydney is a sophomore at George Mason University, where she's studying to go into the mental health field. She's a member of Active Minds, which was started by Alison Malmon of Philadelphia after her brother took his own life.
Oh look! Bernie Sanders spoke at George Mason University. We love Bernie but he ain't gonna win. Hillary's clinched it which is fine by me.
Danielle was just promoted to assistant manager at the intimate apparel store SOMA.
Let's give it up for SOMA and Danielle!
Holy cow! There's a branch at the Willow Grove Mall. Be right back. Gonna get some lacy bras to tantalize Scott. Don't tell anyone, but I burned my bra in the sixties and never put it back on.
Roni drove in from Virginia last nite, escaping, she said, in her Ford Escape in the evening
It took five to six hours to drive up. They did not wanna miss their Cousin Nicky's 11th - already!!! - birthday.
Look what Terry brought me from The Holistic Apothecary in Ambler. A tapestry made by the Mola people from Panama.
Kuna Indian Textile Art from the San Blas Islands of Panama.
Terry and I and also New Directions had seen these tapestries at Glencairn in Bryn Athyn. Click here.
We toured the house and I showed them, at Terry's request, my back porch studio. Nippy outside now since it's, well, Friday the 13th, of November.
Saw a terrific free movie today at the Huntingdon Valley Library.
Different Drummers, a 2013 film. It's about two misfits - a hyperactive kid and one with muscular dystrophy - who befriend one another. I was sobbing at the end.
So, a couple days ago I made a terrible mistake. I called Mailman Ken a curmudgeon. I did it in a nice context, but then the day after he asked me what it meant. Ken, I said, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.
So today I wrote him a poem as a way of apologizing.
There's dozens of photos of mail trucks on the Internet. Consistently, tho, Wiki's "images" are always the best.
KEN THE KINDLY CURMUDGEON
Whispers flow from door to door
on this tree-filled street in
“Where’s he gone?”
“What’s happened to the man?”
Our lives were disrupted.
We wanted our mail delivered
not by Brian or Manisha or Michael
or that cute girl in shorts, leg muscles
pumping up Bob & Judy’s great hill.
Strange roads these mailmen have
traversed. Master Ken, the beloved
of mail men has returned.
Hallelujah, we shouted from our
front doors, the lot of us, Nancy and Linda,
their little white barker Kalie, sleepy Scott,
always tired from the night shift, and Carol
Carr, husband dead of Alzie’s years ago.
It was I, passionate me, that celebrated the most.
After slipping my letters in the mailbox –
I’m on a crusade to find Barry Bush a new
kidney and write random churches, “We are
looking for a Good Samaritan.”
I straighten out my checkered pajamas
bought at a garage sale on the upward
slope of Cowbell, and stand outside with a TV table
set for one. He’ll have to remove his gum,
of course, but I’ve placed a paper cup of
Starbucks strong, and two Girl Scout
Thin Mints. His daughters may be
Girl Scouts, we rarely ask personal
The last of the autumn leaves flutter
as if waving to Master Ken. His white
truck arrives down the street where
the Tilghman Boys transform a tiny house
into a mansion. The sign glows in the moon light.
Ken strides up the street, body glowing like
a halo. I have called him Uncle Ken and Master Ken.
Shit! Must I call him Saint Ken now?
- Ruth Z Deming