Tag Archives: Letter

Dear John

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Photo by Steve Shreve via unsplash

Dear John,
I know, I know, your name is not John, but just go with it, okay? (sigh)

Dear John,
I don’t think I can remember a time when you weren’t there. You helped me through the terrible two’s, riding a bike without training wheels for the first time, losing my front teeth, school, braces, bullies, exams, dating. Good times. But John…I know. You never really had a name, did you? Friend, maybe. You’ve been a good friend, but you must’ve noticed, people are starting to talk about me talking to you. I’m getting married soon, and my fiancé? You know the one. You creep them out. Having you around just complicates things. You understand.

I’ll always remember you though. I need you to know, that I know that you were never imaginary, like they say you are, not to me. Not ever to me. I hope we can still be friends, but I need you to go now to wherever it is friends like you go when kids like me grow up. Believe me it’s better this way. At least that’s what my therapist tells me.

~kat

For Mind Love Misery’s Menagerie Sunday Writing Prompt: Break Ups.


Dear Mr. Rogers

For Sunday Writing Prompt #227 “Letters to Characters”: The challenge: write a letter to a character from a book or movie as if they were a real person. The character can be one that you love, hate, or love to hate. Offer them advice, question their life decisions, criticize or berate them, profess your love to them the choice is yours!

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Fred McFeeley Rogers – March 20, 1928 – February 27, 2003

Dear Mr. Rogers,

I’m sorry to interrupt your eternal bliss. I’m sure you are resting peacefully in your own beautiful corner of heaven enjoying the rewards of your stellar time on earth. Don’t get me wrong, you deserve it, but we need you!

Our neighborhoods are not beautiful right now. People are afraid to come out, locking their doors and shuttering their windows. They’re talking about building walls and they’re burning down bridges. I’ve witnessed that with my own eyes. And people are mean Mr. Rogers. So mean. It’s really scary.

Now, I know what you are probably thinking,”Look for the helpers.” I can even hear you saying it in your soft comforting voice. The thing is…the thing is…I have to tell you Mr. Rogers it’s getting harder and harder to find them. The helpers. But what’s even worse, horrible in fact, is that the monsters are now stalking us in the very places where the helpers hang out. Fun places, sacred spaces, the halls of our government! They are everywhere.

I’m not sure how it works, but I’m sure if anyone can figure it out, you can. I’m afraid if you come back the old fashioned way, as a baby, there might not be anything left by the time you are old enough to help. If it’s possible, maybe you can split yourself into several parts and possess a few of us. You won’t have to do anything except whisper in our ears and stir our souls. We’ll do the work.

And you can use me if you want. I don’t mind. But I don’t think I can do it alone. I have a few friends. I think they’d be willing to help too. Especially if I told them it is you.

Think about it Mr. Rogers. We need you more than ever. Some people say you were just a character on a kid’s show. But I have always believed you were the real deal. I would never impose upon your eternity if it were not really important. It is really important.

Sincerely,

Kat


To the Homeless…NaPoWriMo 2017 #16


To the Homeless…

I wonder where you spend your nights
when everyone is tucked in tight.
Are you still wandering the streets
with no safe place to lay your head;
a cardboard box to call your bed?
Dark shadows looming while you sleep,
beneath the moon and stars above;
were you someone, were you loved?
You’re not invisible to me.

~kat
(NaPoWriMo 2017 #16 – for the prompt: write a “letter”, a Nove Otto Poem – nine-lines with 8 syllables per line (isosyllabic)/rhyme scheme: aacbbcddc.


The Letter – Part 2

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The Letter – Part 2

(If you would like to read Part 1, here is a link: The Letter ….and…because so many of you asked for it, there is a Part 3…Click HERE.)

I woke to the plunk, plop, plink of the leaky faucet in the kitchen sink. My back and neck ached from having fallen asleep on the floor. The skin on my face was tight, sticky from dried tears.

It felt like a horrible nightmare, except for the crumpled letter still clenched in my hand. I smoothed the wrinkles, wiped the crust from my eyes and read the words again…

Dear Annie and Tom,

You are two of the most amazing people I know. For whatever reason, fate chose not to bless you with children, yet me, who would make a terrible mother, with this beautiful baby girl. 

You know I can’t begin to give her the life she deserves. But you two…how wonderful her life would be if you could find it in your heart to take her as your very own. 

I promise from this day forward to be simply Auntie June.   

I’ve spoken to an attorney who will draw up the papers so we can make it official. 

Just one favor is all I ask. May we name her Grace? She will always be Grace to me.

Love Forever,

June

My eyes burned as I fought back tears. I had cried enough this past week. To think losing Mom was the worst thing I could imagine.

“Mom…if you are listening somewhere, you should know, this damn letter will never change who you and daddy are to me. Never.”

But things had changed. I had always believed that I looked like my Aunt June because she was mom’s sister. We had similar tastes and mannerisms. It was all starting to make sense now.

June had pursued a career as an interior designer. She had been featured in popular magazines, commissioned by celebrities, and had her own textile line as well as a chain of retail specialty emporiums. June even hosted her own syndicated radio program. Never married, she had done alright for herself.

Things would be different now that I knew the truth. How could they not be? Sweet, fun Auntie June had now become the mother who couldn’t be bothered by the inconvenience of a child. To think I admired her all these years. I honestly don’t know how I feel about her now. “Numb” is a good word for it. How does someone give up their own child?

“Get a grip, Grace. You’ve got to finish what you came here to do.”

But what am I going to say? How am I going to act when she comes over today to help me pack? I wish I hadn’t invited her. I don’t need this. Maybe I should call and cancel.

I pulled myself up from the floor and started a pot of strong coffee. While it was brewing I took a quick shower, changed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and tied my hair up off my face.

Always prompt, June arrived at exactly 9 am, carrying a box of fresh pastries.

“Hello Grace dear, how are you doing this morning? Were you able to get any sleep last night?”

“Well, Aunt June, it was a rough night. I started packing up the kitchen.” Knowing was making me crazy. “I’m keeping Granny’s silver flatware and tea set.”

“Oh, those are definitely keepers, Grace. They’ve been in our family for almost a century.”

“And Mom’s recipes. I’m thinking about compiling them into a book.”

“Wonderful idea, Grace. I’ll definitely want a copy of that. Would you like a danish?”

I was never one for beating around the bush, “And you’ll never guess what else I found…a letter to Mom and Daddy…” I said, searching her face.

“What letter is that, Grace?” June looked away.

“You know the one, June. You wrote it, in fact.”

“I did?”

“Yes.” June glanced back at me. I looked straight into her blue eyes…the same blue with dark violet edges as mine.

Her face flushed. I could tell she knew.

“I think I’ll head into the parlor with a box and some packing paper. Quite a few family treasures in the parlor you know. You keep working in the kitchen, Grace. We can break at noon and head downtown to the diner for lunch. Is that okay with you?”

And just like that, I knew I had another family member to bury this week. Not literally of course. Some secrets are best kept…secret, I suppose. But how I wished we could have talked about it. Maybe one day.

kat ~ 7 March 2016

This short story is Part 2 of “The Letter”, both in response to Ronovan Writes Friday Fiction Challenge. This week’s prompt is: “A Lie is Told”

  • See if you can come in at more than a Word Count of 600. Control your word usage. (SUGGESTED)
  • Using the prompt of ‘A lie is told’ create a scene. This scene can be about what happens because of the lie, or how it makes the person lying feel, or anything you can come up with. If a series is being written, like some are doing, this lie can come back later to haunt the liar. (REQUIRED)

 


The Letter


It was a nice funeral. Well, if any funeral could be considered nice, it was that…nice.

I forced a smile for each person who filed by to pay their respects. Like a dull needle skipping clumsily across a broken record, they repeated the same words.

“So sorry dear.”

“Call us if you need anything.”

“Come see us.”

“Your mother was the best…or the sweetest…or a lovely woman…or a good friend.”

She was. All those things and more. I remember thinking that she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And she had the voice of an angel, singing me to sleep each night as she tucked me in “all snug like a bug in a rug”. Mom taught me how to read and how to cook and how to shave my legs.

Just two years before we had buried Daddy, the first man I ever loved. He taught me how to swim and ride a bike. He took me fishing for blue gills, and hung an old tire swing from the towering oak tree in the front yard. Daddy spent many nights helping me with homework, and he was there too, to hold me when some silly boy had broken my heart. How I wish he was here now to hold me. How I wish both of them were still here.

I only had three days to get the house ready for auction. Three days to sift through a lifetime of memories and to pack the things I would keep.

I started in the kitchen, boxing up granny’s silver and tea service. On the top shelf of the cabinet was mom’s recipe box. Pages of handwritten, oil-stained sheets of tattered paper were a treasure to me.

As I thumbed through the recipes I found a sealed envelope. My name was printed on front in mom’s handwriting.

My hands trembled as I slid my finger under the flap. The paper inside was faded. “When had mom written this?”

I unfolded the page. “Whose handwriting is this?” I thought. It wasn’t Mom’s or Daddy’s. I flashed a glance to the bottom of the page.

“Aunt June? Why would she be writing a letter to me?”

My eyes raced to the top of the page, ‘Dear Annie and Tom…’ Mom? Daddy? Why would Aunt June write you a letter with my name on the envelope?”

I dropped to the floor, hot tears burning my eyes, as I read Aunt June’s words…her secret…mom and daddy’s lie…my truth.

kat – 23 February 2016

A story for this week’s Ronovan Writes Friday Fiction Prompt: You’ve just been handed a message that makes you drop to the floor, trembling uncontrollably.

To read other stories or enter your own, click HERE.


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