Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen

Archive for April, 2013|Monthly archive page

My friend

In Guest stories, Stories, secrets & dreams on April 25, 2013 at 7:12 pm

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I would like to be able to write a letter to my friend Danny who died in 1989. I’d like him to know that I missed him, that he was good for me. That I missed talking about books with him. I envied him too, because he almost always completed the N.Y. Times Sunday crossword puzzle. Danny was funny too. We were at an A.A. meeting together one time and this woman speaker kept using “at this or that point in time” rather than “then.” I knew that annoyed him. After the speaker was through, the meeting was open to discussion. When it came Danny’s turn to comment he said he thought she would never stop using “at that or this point in time.” She then said, “At this point in time I don’t intend to stop using it.” I burst out laughing. I’d like him to know that I didn’t go to his wake because I wanted to remember him as he was when he was alive. That I didn’t send flowers but donated money to a soup kitchen in memory of him — I think he would approve of that. Danny was in my corner, he was my friend.

By T.C.

Photo credit: tommusic

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The Worst Advice I Ever Got

In Guest stories on April 19, 2013 at 1:41 pm

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The worst advice I ever got was that life, according to society, had to be categorized into only male and female segments. And they are the only ones that can couple or communicate to the world.

Since working with Momentum, an agency dealing with HIV and homelessness, I have come to grips that life consists of many varying people. Some are straight, some are gay, and some are transgender!

If people learn not to judge others and accept others for who they are, we would have a better world.

by Ken Johnson

Photo credit: Klikkonthis

On the Bench

In Prose, Stories, secrets & dreams on April 11, 2013 at 8:01 pm

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She sat near the end of the park where the iron railing encompassing it kept the hard concrete of the sidewalk at bay.  She could be alone there on the green bench because its proximity to trash cans, its frequent collections of pigeon droppings and the exhaust of idling buses along the avenue kept people away.  She came there early with a calico cloth bag which she propped on her lap, her feet close together as if a scolded child, wisps of her graying hair falling across her face in rebellion at the scattered bobby pins that sought to hold it.

She sat there quietly seemingly idling away the hours but was in fact scratching the far reaches of her mind, the faulty recollections, the rise and fall of raw and untamed emotions, to wonder how it was that it had come to this.

Some days she spent hours in the somewhat torturous reflection desperate to have her life reveal itself to her.  Absently, she fingered the worn and chipped leather straps of her bag, or tugged her floral skirt lower over her plump calves.  She would reach periodically into her bag pulling out a banana gone dark and bruised from the hidden warmth of the bag’s cloth or for the squirreled away nuts and raisins believing such nourishment would fortify her to slowly edge away from this sullen paralysis towards a life of some sort.

Ruth was a compact woman whose middle age had rendered her body an uninteresting rectangle-a once narrow waist now giving way to the expansion which left her waist and hips of the same dimensions formless and at a loss for curves.  Her thinning skin made the blush of splintered blood vessels more visible through its translucence.  She felt, though, that she had accommodated these bodily alterations fairly well, often in fact with self-deprecating humor.  But she faltered at the purpose of her life: at its seeming irrelevance.  A life of little consequence now that she had left the vibrant arena of fighting for justice in the belly of this often sordid city.

And having left it, why?  Why did this happen?  Had she in fact chosen it?  Ruth sometimes felt that it had happened when she wasn’t looking.  That she slipped away from it all accidentally, not precisely of her own choosing but neither willing now, for reasons she could not understand, to re-enter the fray.

And so she sat day after day deliberating over who she was and who she had been.  There seemed no entertaining the idea of another choice.  There seemed to her as she nibbled on the last of the peanuts, sparing a few for the grey squirrel plumping up for winter, that she could only walk back in this shifting vesper light to her home and wait for the next day to find her way again to the waiting bench.

by Annie Q.

Falling

In Prose, Stories, secrets & dreams, Uncategorized, Who, where, how? on April 4, 2013 at 4:31 pm

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Oh, wow, I am falling.  Free and unencumbered through outer space.  This is not the way it’s supposed to be.  I should be in a capsule or the space shuttle, but I am falling through the air on my own.  I can’t believe I can breathe; I hope I don’t run out of air before I get to the ground.  What have I gotten myself into?

The perspective from up here is so different than when I am in a plane.  I can see so much more of the world below as I fall – the stars, the planets, the continents, the oceans, the clouds.

How long is this going to take?  What will happen when I reach the earth?  Will I hit hard and splatter into a bloody mess?  I hope not.  Then this will all be for naught and there will be no sharing this experience with the world.  I am falling, I am falling.

God, get me out of here!

by Lois Skaretka