an introduction...

Hello Writers Rising!
Allow me to introduce myself to the group and tell you a little about myself. Katherine signed me up today as a contributor, and requested my first post be a little about who I am.

I started my own Blog (http://currentripple.blogspot.com/) earlier this year as a way of achieving 2 things. One, to add some structure to my love of writing, and two, to combine that love with my passion for photography.
I have loved to sit and write since my high school days, where regular English class assignments allowed me the opportunity to breath life onto a page. Where others dreaded the essays, I welcomed them with eager anticipation. Coupling my writing with photography has had me make the leap to digital format, broadening my boundaries of creativity.

I write from the heart, with the bulk of my work as non-fiction, usually when the words urge me to put fingertips to keys and let them flow onto the screen. Like many of you I am sure, this urgent need to write almost overtakes me and I have to stop whatever I am doing at that moment, and let the words come. I never force the issue, if I don't feel connected, I don't write.
I try to keep everything on a positive plane, with heartfelt, deep soulful feeling.

I work in the publishing industry for a family owned chain of Community Newspapers, though in our IT department working with, and training our office personnel.

I look forward to this journey with all of you.
Ryan

Fritzy's World

Fritzy. She wandered into our apartment complex in New Delhi some weeks ago and decided to make it her home. Many of us residents took care of her - feeding her and loving her. She was mostly white with some patches of golden brown painted across her back. A splatter of light brown gave character to her otherwise large and pointy ears that looked a little big for her narrow face. Her eyes were doe-like, beautifully shaped - the kind that could turn every gaze into a soulful plea.

I first met her was when I took Mitraa, our pet dog who we adopted off the streets a year ago, for her evening walk. Fritzy came bounding up to us, her scrawny tail wagging tentatively. Not the overbearing kind, she stopped just short of us to gauge my reaction. Like she was asking for my permission to play with Mitraa.

Mitraa is usually not one who takes very kindly to her fellow brethren on the streets. The feeling is mutual - her fellow brethren don't have a high opinion of her either. They usually dismiss her with a look of disdain and a deep throated growl, while she struggles to break free of the leash and lunge at them. When this happens, the human caught in the crossfire, which often happens to be my Dad or me, is in an unenviable position - barely managing to maintain a grip on the leash and avert an ambush in the making. Mitraa thinks she can take them on single-handedly. We have often tried breaking it to her that she is sorely mistaken on this count.

But with Fritzy, it was different. She and Mitraa took to one another like fish to water. The introductions were tentative. They sniffed each other in all the wrong places. Once that was out of the way, though, they jumped onto each other, frolicked in the mud, pawed one another, and generally made complete monkeys of themselves. Fritzy was all about gentle play. Mitraa, on the other hand, has an exuberant personality. She's more "hands on". Fritzy would begin the duel by nudging Mitraa with her nose. It was like she was saying "come on, don't be a bore - let's play!” Mitraa obviously took Fritzy's jibes very seriously. She would put her paws onto Fritzy's back and give her a little kick. That would get Fritzy all riled up and she would nudge Mitraa back. Then they'd go round and round in circles, chasing one another. Fritzy enjoyed it thoroughly. She loved instigating Mitraa and having her lead the play session.

During these play sessions, however, Mitraa always had her leash on. If that ever came off, she would go running off towards the not-so-friendly stray dogs who sit in the lane parallel to ours. An encounter like that could be dangerous for Mitraa so even though we love all the stray dogs in our complex - we even feed them - we do make sure that Mitraa stays away from them.

That evening, I watched in glee while Fritzy and Mitraa played cat and mouse. A few minutes later, I felt her leash go limp in my hand. Mitraa had wiggled out of her collar! In the next millisecond, here's what happened. I looked at Mitraa, and she looked up at me. Our eyes went big with surprise for different reasons. The glee that shone in her eyes was in stark contrast to the horror writ across mine. Mitraa was quicker than me. Before I could say or do anything, she went charging away with Fritzy. Fritzy couldn't believe her good fortune. She finally had the dog all to herself without the human in tow. I knew, though, that if Mitraa saw the other stray dogs, she would get into a fight and would probably not come out alive. I went running after Mitraa and Fritzy, screaming Mitraa's name. She saw me run towards her and thought this was a game so she began running even faster in the opposite direction. Fritzy was on a high - this was way too much excitement for her all of a sudden.

As both of them ran, they suddenly veered towards the left and were gone. When I reached the spot, I realized that they had run into the neighbor's garden. The gate was left ajar, so I quickly closed and bolted the gate from outside. Fritzy and Mitraa were all over each other in the garden.

Meanwhile, the neighbor's dog - a sausage dog - waddled out the main door, curious about the commotion in his garden. He had barely appeared on the porch, when Mitraa and Fritzy pounced on him. They had found a new, albeit unwilling, playmate. The commotion got even louder, and the neighbors - humans this time - came running out into the garden and screamed when they saw their dog being manhandled by two street dogs.

Unable to bear this anymore, I opened the gate and went dashing in. I managed to get my arms around Mitraa. You can imagine the neighbor’s horror when they saw a man run into their garden unannounced. In the ensuing melee, however, I accidentally left the garden gate open and sausage dog thought it a perfect time to take an evening stroll. With Mitraa in my arms, and Fritzy - in a state of hyper-ventilation - trotting behind me, I went running after sausage dog. I had nearly caught up with him, when he stopped in his tracks and looked back at me over his left shoulder. He gave me a disgusted look that said "I'm not a menace like your street dog. I can handle myself perfectly well in the outdoors." I did not attempt to question his conviction. By then, the human neighbors had arrived and sausage dog was in safe hands.

Mitraa slept like a log that night, and Fritzy looked dizzy with excitement even the next day.

Some days ago, we got to know that Fritzy passed away. She was hit by a speeding car when she wandered onto the road outside. She had mustered every last bit of strength to crawl back inside the gate, and that's where she breathed her last. No one was around when this happened. By the time we were alerted, it was too late. 

When I heard the news, my eyes welled up with tears. I hugged Mitraa real tight - hoping that some of the extra love would somehow be sent over to Fritzy.

Just that morning, Dad had seen Fritzy galloping around the park with Blackie, another gentle stray dog who had become her constant companion.

These days, whenever I drive through the gate and park my car, I feel a heaviness come over me. I miss seeing beautiful Fritzy come bounding up to me, her tail wagging. I miss looking into her pleading eyes, giving her a rub on the head, and watching the pleading turn to pure contentment.

I look over my shoulder and see Blackie sitting beside the entrance to the park, his head resting between his front paws. It looks to me like he patiently waits for his playmate to return.

(Photograph courtesy Michelle Lohutko)

Article also posted on my blog.

Tom

Tom

Tom watched as the horizon bobbed up and down, as the world slowly drifted past. Life, he thought, didn’t get much better than this.

What more could a boy ever want than a day like today? Some days were bad, some good, but today? Well today was amazing.

Tiredness pulled on the boy’s eyelids, making them oh so heavy, but there was no way they were closing right now, not a chance.

There was someone to go and see; someone to cuddle.

As Tom rode his dad’s shoulders, he rested his chin upon the balding head and clung on tightly around his solid neck.

The strong shoulders felt safe, felt warm.

Earlier they had played football together, and Dad had let him win again – but not without some light fowls and blatant cheating, which always made Tom laugh until his ribs ached.

Tom’s dad had taken him to McDonalds for dinner – a rare treat, and he’d even allowed him pudding. Since when was anyone ever allowed pudding in McDonalds?

The man had just smiled warmly and sat there watching him eat.

Silent.

Thinking.

Worrying.

The greying man had done a lot of worrying recently.

But then the phone call came.

That brilliant, wonderful phone call.

It was Tom’s mum, calling from the hospital.

The results were in – she had beaten it!

The Cancer was gone!

Everything was new, everything was different. Dad jumped up, and with tears in his eyes gave the boy the biggest, strongest bear hug he’d ever had, before popping to the counter and ordering himself an apple pie.

This was a special occasion after all!

And now, as the light faded in the distance Tom sighed. They were on the way to get her; they were heading to the hospital to bring her home.

But not before Tom passed on that bear hug to his mum.

Some things were too good not to share.

.......................................................................................................................

Also posted at www.Glenslife.com by me – Glen.

Stand for Peace

Writers Who Stand for Peace and Against Injustice

I stand in support of the LGBTT Community. Gay Pride Parade June 5, 2011. Condado, Puerto Rico.

On May 5, 1992 my mother Susan Pittmann and her lesbian partner Christine Puckett were murdered by their neighbor James Brooks. Newspapers in Detroit and Huron Township, Michigan reported that the double homicide was the culmination of an ongoing battle over property lines. My mother was fifty-five, healthy and vibrant with positive ideas about the future. Christine was thirty-nine, energetic and busy raising her teenage son. Brooks was slow to reflect and quick to anger. He became enraged when he saw my mother and Christine publicly expressing affection. By erecting a privacy fence between these two rural properties, Mom and Christine intended to bring a peaceful resolution to Brooks’ complaints. However, it became clear that he was enraged about their gay relationship, and that not seeing them together was not enough. He vigorously complained to neighbors where he found support for his rage, and he formulated his murder plan.

From police reports, it’s clear that he shot Christine first from the side door of his house and then as he walked over to view her body that was face down in the grass, he lifted his gun and shot her in the back. I imagine just before he pulled the trigger, he thought the words he told the police later, “It had to be done”. My mother was on the kitchen phone with the emergency operator reporting that Brooks had threatened their lives when Christine was first shot. She immediately dropped the telephone, ran outside and stood in front of Brooks, weaponless. I imagine she asked him why he did it, and in answer, he shot her just below the heart. Brooks’ determined discriminatory attitude has troubled me ever since. How did he become so certain about his decision to murder my mother and Christine? After the deaths, I watched in astonishment as the actual motivation for the crime was determined to be a property dispute instead of a hate crime. Newspapers reported exaggerated stories casting my mother and Christine in a harsh light, which apparently had nothing to do with their sexual preference.

I was shocked to see my mother, a dynamic loving people-person characterized as a temperamental abuser of animals while Brooks was portrayed as an elderly man who was pushed to the limits of tolerance by his unreasonable neighbors. Neighbors reported that he was upset about my mother’s Pit-bull trespassing onto his property. No one explained that my mother’s dog, Ms. Pitt, was an elderly overweight, exhausted and non-territorial dog that was given a daily dose of thyroid medication just to stay alert. No mention was made of her activism within the gay community, and that she and Christine were founding members of the Affirmations Gay and Lesbian Community Center in Downriver-Detroit. No mention was made that she was a loving mother of five children and devoted grandmother to eight. No mention was made about how much we would continue to miss her for the rest of our lives.

After reading these news reports, I quickly understood that Brooks had not acted alone. In fact, it was a narrow-minded society that provided ammunition for this crime. It was only the gay community that stood strong and honestly told the truth about these murders. They loudly proclaimed that this double homicide was not a neighborhood feud but a hate crime.  As a continued tribute to the gay community, I am honored at Marianne K. Martin’s request to write the forward of her latest novel, The Indelible Heart. This novel extends some of the plot threads related to my mother and Christine that appeared in Martin’s first novel Love in Balance and succeeds in giving a personal face to the events surrounding the murders. Though it is a work of fiction, the narrative highlights how in fact, the gay community rallied together to fight homophobia and violence in response to this shocking crime. I encourage people to read this profoundly moving novel and realize that it is our duty as members of society to stand together and continue a united struggle against intolerance and violence.

Cynthia Pittmann

Brian Alexander is making a documentary on Mom and Chris' story, and the LGBT community in the Detroit Metropolitan area in the early 90s. You can visit the new website http://pittmannpuckett.com to find out more about it. He contacted singer/songwriter Susan Hendrick and asked her to share her talents, which resulted in the moving music video, "Fight 2 B Whole." You can view it below, or click on the link at the Pittmann/Puckett website or plan to watch it during the closing credits of the film.

The Awakening – The Denial

My boy is growing up, actually in many ways he HAS grown up already.

My little boy whom I held in one hand has recently turned 14 is now taller than me and stands at 6ft 1 inch and weighs in at around the 105kg. He has more stubble on his face than I did when I turned 20 and his voice has changed to better match his stature.

My little boy who used to look at me for all the answers and used to believe that I was the source of all knowledge now has his own independent opinion and now believes that I understand little of his world and generation and that suddenly I know nothing.

My little boy who used to stand close to me to feel safe and protected now either walks 10 paces in front or behind me for independence or he stands next to me to intimidate my threats and to protect me ( and his mother ).

Suddenly the world has changed …

“ Hello, my name is Andrew Swansson and I am an obsessive parent who doesn’t want to let go ! ”

I used to think it was so scary being a parent, being 100% responsible for such a defenceless bundle of love and happiness. Being responsible for ensuring that he was always clothed, fed, educated, encouraged, loved and protected. Protected against a cruel world filled with cruel nasty children and a society that has become disengaged and cynical, a world filled with monsters that lurk in the shadows of society.

But now I realise that the scariest thing about being a parent is that one day you won’t be responsible for any of the above. That while your love and support is still appreciated, it’s not their only source and there for not in such high demand.

I was given some words of wisdom when Dylan was conceived and I have never forgotten the words although I can’t remember the source .. “ Always love, protect and encourage your child, for they do not belong to you and are not your possession, they are but on lone to you for a very short time ”

We only ever had the one child, Dylan. His mother would have loved to have a tribe of kids but after seeing Dylan in all his perfection and seeing the toll and effect of bringing him into this world paid by his mother, I honestly never really thought of having another. While there were times I dreamt of having another and maybe having a little daddy’s girl I was never game to tempt fate as Dylan was so perfect in so many ways I was convinced that no one on the face of this earth could be so blessed and so lucky twice in a row.

I am a gambler by nature but that was one roll of the dice I could never bring myself to take.

As I have mentioned in previous blogs, I knew the millisecond that Dylan was conceived, I was tapped on the shoulder by my guide ( God or by whatever name you call them ) and told congratulations you are the proud parents of a happy and healthy son.

I believe that Dylan is a gift from above in so many ways, I believe he has a purpose on this earth that none of us know or understand. I believe that his mother and I were meant to meet and our life journey was to deliver Dylan to this world. It was our life’s journey to protect him and to prepare him for the day that he would walk his own path and write his own story.

A day fast approaching and for which I now find myself totally unprepared for !

( Also posted on my home Blog " The Soap Box Truth "

Writing writing

I'm writing work things and papers and lecture notes and reflections but I'm not writing writing.

Writing involves sitting still, with hands and mind working together. Writing writing is sitting still with me, with hands and mind working together with my internal compass. Writing writing orients me in the right direction in the same way that migrating birds are directed by something internal. Writing gets me where I set my mind to go, but writing writing brings me back to where I am.

I Have A Sister

I have a sister named Kelly. She is my younger sister. She is my first memory.


My mother lays my newborn sister on her back on my parents bed. I am laying on my stomach, head resting in hands, repeatedly criss-crossing my bent legs with excitement. I am positioned at the top of her head, nose buried in her tiny wisps of hair. She smells like freshly baked sugar cookies to my three year old nose and I cannot stop myself from repeatedly kissing her head. When she looks at me and smiles, my heart races and I report this amazing feat with the typical toddler glee of a new big sister. My mother says she is too little to smile yet and it was gas. I know better. I know I made my sister smile and it sinks deep within my heart.



There have been fifty years between that memory and today. Fifty years of growing up and immaturity, laughing and crying, fighting and defending, standing and stooping. Fifty years that seemed like a hundred on some days and only a few moments on others. Fifty years.



Fourteen years ago, Kelly was diagnosed with Hemangiopericytoma. An extremely rare cancer. So rare in fact, the best doctors in California misdiagnosed it as a benign brain tumor. It wasn’t until ten years later, they finally realized what it actually was. The news was not good. They had only seen minimal cases due to it’s rarity and no one had survived past ten years. There was really no known treatment that could change that. Or so they said.



My older sister Char and I jumped online and researched Hemangiopericytoma, hospitals that dealt with it and doctors who specialized in killing it. We found MDAnderson. So, for the last four years we have met in Houston every three months. There have been major surgeries, clinical trials, tears, fears and laughter. Oh Lord, has there ever been laughter.



Last week, I flew to Houston to meet my sister Kelly at MDAnderson. She had a bad feeling about this trip. She kept saying it every time I called beforehand. I did what I am known for doing. I made light of it, changed the subject, made her laugh.



I called Kelly last night on my way home from work. I wanted to know if she had heard anything yet on the test results. She had. I knew before I even asked. I knew. I knew in Houston. I told my brother-in-law when we were walking over to get Kelly from her MRI.



“David, something just isn’t right. Maybe I’m just tired and I can’t put my finger on it but something doesn’t seem right.”



I made David promise not to tell Kelly what I had said as if that would make it go away.



Last night on my drive home from work, I called Kelly like I almost always do.





“Hey Kel, how ya feeling?”



“Fine.”



“What’s wrong?”



The radiation in March had worked well on her spine. The brain tumor had grown but not drastically. She could have a seventh brain surgery to remove the tumor…again. That was the good news she said.



“ Weinberg said my lungs are bad. They couldn’t handle a surgery.”



“What? Your lungs are bad? Your lungs aren’t bad.”



“Marla, the tests say my lungs and liver are bad.”



“Ok, so what are they going to do. How are they going to fix this?”



“Three more months of chemo, then back for results. If that doesn’t work, there’s nothing more they can do.”



I rarely cry. It’s the hand my sister dealt me awhile back. Everyone was always crying over her and she did not want me crying. She wanted me to make everyone smile again. So I did. For the last fourteen years. Until last night.



I screamed at my baby sister on the phone last night. I pulled my car over to the side of the road and I screamed through burning, hot tears.



“You cannot leave me here alone! You cannot! I can’t do this without you!”



“Marla, you’re not helping.”



“I don’t care, you can’t leave me here. I can’t talk to you right now.”



We both hung up without another word.



I dreamt about Kelly last night. It was a dream about something that had happened in Houston last week. We were in the hotel room getting ready for one of her appointments. She was having trouble with her right hand and said she thought one of the doctors was probably right. She believed she would be paralyzed and unable to write one day.



“Whatever Kelly. You never could write anyway.”



Kelly started to cry and said, “You just don’t want to hear the truth.”

I dreamt about that conversation last night. I dreamt about how I felt punched in the stomach at her words because they were true. I saw myself in the dream doing what I had done in reality.



As I stood next to her wheelchair with my arms wrapped around her, I buried my nose in her red hair and kissed the top of her head repeatedly.