Riddhi Mehta - A Letter to My Child

Dear Child,

You are not yet a part of my world. You are not yet a part of this world. Yet I know you. I know you as a reflection of myself. I know you as I know me. I know you as I am a reflection of my mother and her mother before her. I know you as I am a reflection of my father and his mother.

I know you dear child-for you are my reflection. My reflection-yet to be reflected.

Know this dear child; I love you no matter what. Know this dear child; you don't have to be the best of the smartest or the fastest for my love.

I do not expect you to live up to the expectations-others or my own.

I do expect you to respect the expectations of others.

Yet dear child-reflect at what you do... for what you do is a reflection of you.

Yet none of this matters!

You don't exist. Your reflection doesn't exist.

But I reflect upon this. So it matters to me and not to the faint reflection of you.

Best regards,

Your mother's reflection

Katie McMahon - Letter to a Girl I Used to Know

Dear girl I used to know:

You should never put blood on paper because blood browns, and that can look pretty gross. If anyone ever saw it, they would think something was wrong with you.

It is horrifying for people to look at things written in blood. Just use a pen or a pencil. People look at that and they think it's more normal, so they go on reading. Anything you are writing in that blood is going to seem crazy and questionable.

If you like how it looks, I don't know what to say to you. I guess I will just remind you that it's not going to look like that in five years, or even five days for that matter.

Even if you don't think anyone will ever see it, someone will see it after you're dead, or you might show it to someone when you're drunk or feeling desperate. People will think that you carry disease. You could be writing, "I love sunshine. The world is so beautiful," but people won't care. They will just see the blood and some of them might even throw up in their mouths.

Why don't you just step outside? There are people and things bleeding all around you and not using their blood to write on anything. Some of these people fear bleeding too much, and they go to a hospital or use strips of elastic to stop the blood from emptying out of their bodies. This could be you, too.

I know what you're thinking: "But the sun is out there." I know you might not believe this, but scientists are saying that a little bit of sunshine is good for everyone. It may even make you want to write with things that aren't so permanent, like writing on the sand with sticks or writing in the fog on the car window. Plus, they have this lotion that you can put all over your body that will block the sun away. Just keep your eyes closed.

From,

somebody who writes with pens, pencils, and laptop keyboards

Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.

Anonymous - Phillip

Phillip,

Yesterday was your day and I didn't even think about you. I didn't whisper "Happy You-know-what", or wonder what it would be like if things were different. I only think about how you are in me when you come out because I'm angry, even though you are there every time I take a step. It's a testament to genetics, because I have never seen you walk, but I will always have your gait. I have your ghost in my feet and I hate it, and when people ask, I explain it away; how I have a weird little step in my walk “just like my biological father", and then I hope that they don't ask me anything else about you, because it is a very long story, and I grow tired of retelling it.

I do have your temper sometimes. I never experienced your fury firsthand, but when I was a teenager and I would get so angry, mom would always point it out to me. "You're just like him when you act like this." She didn’t even have to use your name; I knew. I hated to hear her compare me to you. I don’t think I’ve ever told her that. How much it hurt to resemble someone that hurt her, even while I hurt her myself.

When I remember you, it’s only to hate having any of you in me. How can you still hide inside of me when I know nothing about you? I’ve never seen your face, and I don’t dare to look for photos of you. I don’t want to see you in my face when it was hard enough to accept that you are somewhere in my heart, living through little quirks, despite how you never cared to be around when you were alive.

I lie; I do know of your token visits; I just don’t know if you meant them. Mom told me you stopped by grandmother’s to see me a few times when I was growing up, and you would bring your new wife’s son. He and I would play together, and you would watch me but not say much to me at all. I know it was too long ago for me to be able to remember it, but if I try hard enough, I can see this scene like it’s from an old movie; it looks like faded film on a summer day. You stand by mom and watch me and your boy from the orchard fence, and you and her barely say anything, besides her bragging on me, and you just stand solemn and stare. I wonder what you really thought when you would watch me. I don’t know enough about you to guess, and when I try, I know I’m just putting my thoughts in your head and my words in your mouth, but I can’t help it, and do it anyways. When I think in your head I am so proud to have a healthy, beautiful, kind, and intelligent young boy, and excited to think of the man you would one day be. I would see myself in the little things you do. I would see myself in the way you walk, and in your face. I wouldn't know how to express it, but I would know that things would be better for you without me around, and I would hope to talk to you one day and explain why I did the things I did, and why I made the choices I made. I wouldn’t know what was growing inside of me. I wouldn’t know I would never be able to tell you any of these things. It would grow inside of me until I was not the same man, and one day I would leave you in the span of a gasping breath, and without a second thought.

A man doesn't always want to be a father, and I understand that, but a real man will be one anyways. I know you never had a chance, and I know I need to forgive you, and maybe I will some day when I am a father, and when things like having a son and a wife to be there for aren’t so black and white, I'll be able to put it to rest, but for now, besides this one time, I do my very best to forget you.

Yesterday was your day, Phillip. "Happy You-know-what" to you.

Emily Idzior - Letter to the Moon

Dear Moon,

I’m sitting in a coffee shop sipping iced pomegranate oolong tea, what are you up to? I see you are starting to rise in the reflection in the window next to me. How are you doing? You seem cold but I know you must have a warm core in there somewhere. No matter what science says.

I’m wondering, I’m wondering if you could tell me why I always say the wrong thing. You hang there listening and never say anything at all. You must have learned something about us after all these years looking. What am I saying, you’re not God. You’re not even a god. You’re the moon. The glorious bright beautiful big round moon. I’m over you. I’m over the moon for the moon.

Dear Moon. I write you letters and you never reply. Why couldn’t there be a real man sitting on your surface reading my words, writing a response? I’d climb a ladder to meet him. To meet you. You’re famous. You’re famous the way no one on Earth could be famous. Famous in a way even the Earth could not be famous.

I want to get drunk and drive to the middle of the desert and hug you. I want to get drunk and slink into an observatory and watch you sleep. Or wake. Watch you change your makeup, change your seasons. The moon is always female so I assume you wear makeup but forgive me if you do not.

What do you look at, perched like a bird, suspended in space? You must see me. Or someone who looks like me. Do I look pathetic, grasping at the air like a lunatic? I’m a lunatic. I’m obsessed with you. Why don’t you see me? I want love like any other human. You must want love. You must want warmth. Some blue. Some white. A little wind, a little water, a little bit of electricity under your surface.

Oh, Moon. I’ve done it again, haven’t I? All talk and no listen. Listen, Moon, whatever you need to say you say it. I’m here waiting. I’m waiting for the phone call. For you to tell me what’s going on in that big satellite above me. To tell me what you see. What you hear. What you wish you could unhear. I’ll say the wrong thing, I promise. I’ll say all the wrong things and you’ll wish you never called me. But that’s okay, just this one time I want to pretend to be good at this.

Listen, darling, I have to go but call me won’t you? Call me some night, tell the wolves to find me. Tell the prairie to call for me. Tell the ocean to call my name. Tell the whales to sing out to me. I’ll be there.

For now, loving you,

me.

Emily Idzior can be found on her tumblr (http://unravelher.tumblr.com), twitter (@ylimejane), and, rarely, Blogspot (http://ylimejane.blogspot.com). She and her husband reside in Michigan with 2 kitties.

Mary - An Open Letter to the Universe

Dear Universe,

How are you? I know you’ve had a lot to deal with lately, what with the parade of natural disasters spiraling across the globe and of course things like global warming and the melting of the polar ice caps and all of that. And as a whole, you’ve been very good to me—no major complaints. However, I do have one question: Why must you keep stealing my friends?

I’m a natural people-person. I have a tendency towards co-dependency, to be honest, so I’ve always had at least one best friend. But lately, universe, you’ve been a little haphazard. First you set each of my friends from high school on our own paths. Totally necessary, I understand. We had to learn to grow up. Then you gave me some amazing friends in college, only to have us all move apart—as far as California, Hawaii and Australia. Okay…Seeing the world, I got it. And now, living on my own in a new place for the third time in so many years, my close friends are so consumed in their romantic relationships that they no longer understand how to manage their platonic ones. Hello? How is that fair? Do you realize that I’m on my own here?

I’m a GOOD friend, Universe. I bake cookies and cupcakes for birthdays, or just because. I host weekly dinner parties. I make handmade cards for holidays and buy real Christmas gifts. I write poems and make hand-paper-turkeys for your refrigerator. I write letters and send postcards when we’re far apart, and I send thoughtful texts and emails even when we’re not. I am loyal. I am dependable. I am adventurous, and spontaneous and creative. I am everything a best friend should be, and yet you continually challenge my ability to hold on to a quality friendship for more than a few years.

Is it me, universe? Am I not worthy of a confidant? I feel pretty worthless, to be honest. You keep stripping me of my comfort blankets. I lay awake at night, texting people who don’t give a shit about me, because I’ve lost the ability to connect with the ones who do. On long drives I reminisce about the times when I had my choice of people to call and pass the time with good conversation. Remember that, universe? Remember the friends that I cared about so much that I would overcome my dislike of talking on the phone? Remember the friends that would make time slip away from me as we sunk deeper into thought?

I remember.

I remember the feeling of living with the security of tight-knit friendships. Wearing them like a safety vest, sure that if my boat were ever to capsize, I would keep my head above water. You wanted that safety vest back, didn’t you? You wanted me struggle, to tread water fiercely just to keep breathing. You wanted me to get tired, to give up.

What kind of cruel universe wants that?

I’m not asking for world peace—I know it will never happen. I’m not asking to be beautiful, or famous, or rich. All I’m asking for is a new best friend. Someone to ground me to reality. Someone to give me the assurance that I mean something, to someone—to help me feel like I have a place here.

I feel like, in the scheme of the universe, that’s not such a difficult request.

Think it over, and get back to me.

Sincerely,

Mary

Mary is a somewhat recent college grad who still hasn't quite figured out where she wants to live or what she wants to do with her practically meaningless degree. She is currently settled in the cornfields of Northern Illinois and spends her time dreaming of a world where she could get paid to write and drink coffee all day.

Scott Joel Gizicki - Letter to My Brother on the Eve of His Wedding

Dearest Brother,

Watch those cold feet

You may slip down the aisle!

How I am so proud of you

Proud of the grown man you have become

And so proud of myself

I took care of you, Little Brother

Yes, I am one hour and 17 minutes older

Yet still wiser

We came from the same womb

On the same night

It was mother who so bravely

Pushed us out that tunnel into a brave world

A brave world

All in all, my love is growing stronger for you

I find your actions foolish, however

How I miss the smell of your hair

In the morning

I taught you all about women

I don’t take all the credit

You taught me about man

The only man I long to be with

I want to drink your skin

Feel the pulsating of your blood

Deep within my safe haven

I hear your voice every time I shower

“I must listen to Little Brother,” I say.

I tell the nurse to quiet down

I say no more

Do change your mind

Do come back

Do come

With every limb

With every muscle

I quake and long

For you.

Sincerely,

Older Sister

Scott Joel Gizicki is just another one of those new Los Angeles residents that acts and enjoys writing as well. After being born and raised in Detroit, he finally made it 3,000 miles to the city he's always wanted to live in this past August. He hopes he can stand out from the crowd; at least a little bit.

Debra Crosslin - Pissed Off Letter

Have you ever been enraged and pissed off at some asshole that is suppose to be your friend, co-worker, boss, lover, family member and so on?

That person was rude, obnoxious or just fucked-up. Their uncalled for opinion embarrasssed the shit out of you. You may even comtemplate murder, revenge, pay back time sweetie! ...even though you may love or respect them. In the end my suggestion is to write them an angry letter and afterward simply throw it away. I guarantee you'll feel better.

As an example: some complete asshole outright lied about you in front of some splendid company and totally ruined your happiness.

READY!

Dear jerk-off idiot,

You are mean and nasty. (good start). When you were born the doctor slapped your mother and declared the baby as the devil child.

I have seen pictures of you in condom ads stating, "Do not let this happen to you. May cause unecessary, life long pain and suffering."

Next, in the police station you are pictured as the FBI's most wanted, along with an ugly profile and an evil smashed in face. Warning: Wears many diguises and is dangerous and armed. Beware! Wanted dead or alive. A zillion dollar reward for information leading to the capture and conviction of this monster.

As a revenge I would love to capture and tortue you. Something worse then washboarding. Mmmm... tie you up and handcuff you to a small uncomfortable boat in Disneyland at the "It's a Small World" exhibit forever.

Or simply cut your tongue off with a very, very dull knife and leave you for dead.

Get the picture? Sign it and read it over a few times. Laughing with errie delight. Then destroy the letter.

Next time you see this asshole just thinking about it will put you at ease.

Please send all evil ideas to me. Not about me, but about your asshole companion.

Josh Grimmer - Camp Granada

Hello mother, hello father.

Camp Granada is not as fun as the brochure would lead you to believe. First of all, the weather isn't great. I mean, sure, rain happens, but this stuff is corrosive. It ate through my clothes. I spend my days huddles under sheets of corrugated tin, hoping to escape the elements, and even then I have to make sure to avoid the poison ivy.

The food is awful. I've been throwing up for days now. I'm caked in what I know must be vomit, but I cannot identify the source, seeing as I haven't eaten at all. I have no idea what this all could be from. I thought about escaping. The forest is full of bears. The lake is full of alligators.

The staff is almost as bad as the environs. The counselors and waitstaff are constantly fighting for reasons that nobody has bothered to explain. The head coach just sits around and reads James Joyce to us all day. And despite the fact that it's a danger to everyone at the camp, the kid who I share a bunk with has malaria and the counselors won't just send him home. Thank God I insisted on getting that intramuscular quinine shot before coming.

I need you to come get me, please. Please. I'm willing to meet any demands you set. No more messes or noise, even when other boys come over. I'll even kiss that wretched aunt of mine, Bertha. I'm not kidding. Please. I am your son. I am broken and deadened. Save me.

Love,

Your son, the nut,
Allan

PS: Please send my deepest regrets to the family of Jeffrey Hardy. He was a good guy who just ended up in a bad situation.

Josh Grimmer lives in North Hollywood with his wife and cat. He used to run this blog, but now he only sorta runs this blog. Let him know what you think about his dumb bullshit at http://twitter.com/JoshGrimmer