Lost Love Letters

by Cheryl Shireman

Or give with the expectation of getting

  To strive for honesty

  The foundation of all virtues

  In all your doings

  Blessings on you,

  And on this special day,

  Baby girl.

  Sarah Woodbury

  With two historian parents, Sarah couldn’t help but develop an interest in the past. She went on to get more than enough education herself (in anthropology) and began writing fiction when the stories in her head overflowed and demanded she let them out. Her interest in Wales stems from her own ancestry and the year she lived in England when she fell in love with the country, language, and people. She even convinced her husband to give all four of their children Welsh names. She makes her home in Oregon.

  Find Sarah online at sarahwoodbury.com

  Gerry McCullough

  Darling Davy,

  I know you will never read this letter, because I’ll be far too embarrassed ever to send it to you. I hope you know who I am. I’m in the fourth form. I realise, because you are in sixth form, you don’t know much about me, but we acted together in the school play recently.

  I was the maid who said, ‘This way, sir.’

  I think you’re very sexy. I’ve thought that for a long time.

  Yesterday I saw you on the bus going into town. You didn’t know I was there. You were sitting a couple of places in front of me with a girl with fair hair.

  Okay, I admit she was very pretty. She was smiling at you, and you were smiling at her, in a way which made me feel as if a knife was going through my heart. I know our English teacher, Fergie, would say that was the cliché to end all clichés, but it’s the truth that that was how it felt.

  But only a few days ago you smiled at me, and winked, in just the same way. Maybe you ‘do that to all the girls,’ to use yet another cliché. I thought it was just for me. What a fool I am.

  Davy, if you were only seeing that girl in a temporary way, I’d love to go out with you any time you wanted me. We could go to the theatre together. After all, we both love acting. I don’t suppose she cares about that.

  Sorry, I’m being catty. Maybe she has as much in common with you as I have.

  I wrote this poem about you last night. I do know it never happened. It is about an imaginary now, and also about how things might be in the future, if it never works out for us.

  You might like it.

  The Journey

  You sat beside me on the bus from school.

  You gazed at me, and smiled, and held my hand.

  We drove on down the highway, gained the land

  Of sweet delight, plumbed the enchanted pool,

  Dived to the depths of water clear and cool,

  Then ran along the rim of golden sand,

  Tasting the magic that we knew was banned,

  The singing spring that brimmed our senses full.

  What was your name? Your face, how did it look?

  How strangely it’s been lost along the way;

  And lost, the wild land that belonged to us.

  Harsh memory drives me to a long shut book.

  I’d give my life, and every mundane day

  To sit again beside you on the bus.

  I wonder if some day when we are both a lot older I’ll find this letter among my papers, and the poem, and think that the last verse has come true, and that I can’t even remember your face. I don’t think so right now. But maybe it will be true then.

  Davy, I wonder if you know how sexy you are, and what an effect you have on teenage girls like me? I know lots of my friends feel the same way – we all talk about you a lot. Maybe you’ll never know this.

  I realise I won’t ever post this letter. And I don’t suppose any of my friends will let you know how they feel either.

  It’s sort of sad that you may never know how very attractive you are.

  My sister is coming upstairs. I can hear her just below, in the bathroom. So I must turn the light out now.

  Darling Davy, I do love you so very, very much!

  All my love,

  Gerry

  (Gerry McCullough, in case you don’t know.)

  Gerry McCullough

  Gerry McCullough, born and brought up in North Belfast, is an award winning short story writer, with a distinguished reputation. She has had over fifty short stories published, broadcast, or collected in anthologies. In 2005 her story Primroses won the Cuirt Award (Galway Arts Festival) and she has won, been short listed, and been commended in a number of other competitions since. Gerry lives just outside Bangor, not too far from Belfast. She is married to singer-songwriter and radio presenter Raymond McCullough, and has four children. Gerry’s first novel, Belfast Girls, was published by Night Publishing in 2010 and is currently at Number 1 in Women’s Literary Fiction. Danger Danger, her second Irish romantic thriller, published by Precious Oil Publications, is fast catching up on Belfast Girls, as is her new collection of 12 Irish short stories, The Seanachie: Tales of Old Seamus.

  Find Gerry online at gerrymccullough.com

  Tonya Kappes

  My Eddy,

  I don’t know if you know this, but every year on our anniversary I post on all my social-media sites “happy anniversary to the man who saved my life.” It never fails that after I post my status, I get a lot of people asking me how you saved my life.

  I’ve never commented back, just stuck with the message. Recently when our anniversary rolled around and I posted the message, it made me wonder if you really understood how you really did save my life.

  We were both divorced and raising our boys when our boys met at the private school where I was the director. Our paths never crossed at school because you dropped the boys off before I got there and you picked them up after I had left for the day. My day consisted of running the school, working a part-time job as a child therapist, being a single mom, and finishing up my master’s degree at the local University. I had very little time for a social life. Not to mention that what little time I did have for a social life, which was when my son was at his father’s, I spent in bed.

  On the days my son was gone to his dad’s, I didn’t have to put on a smiling face and pretend how happy I was. In fact, I was the complete opposite. I was so severely depressed. But you didn’t know . . .or did you?

  There was a shift in my life when you called me at the school asking me if my son could come to your house to play with your sons. You said that you tried to catch me at work, but I was always gone before you got there.

  Without any hesitation I agreed to the play date. You see, it was my son’s first play date and I wanted him to be happy.

  Of course I paced and held the phone in between the twenty times that I called to check on him only for you to ask me if he could spend the night. My heart sank. Happiness did not fill my heart as it did when you had asked him to come play. Loneliness filled my soul.

  Sadness crept in like a cold, leaving me yet alone with my depression of living in the shadow of a broken marriage, living away from the town I had grown up in, away from family, and friends.

  Minutes later, after I had agreed he could spend the night, I was on my way to your house with a bag full of clothes and a little blue toothbrush.

  I will never forget the craziness going on in your home. Crazy full of love. Crazy full of happy boys. Crazy full of food! And a big crazy messy house! You asked me to stay for a while.

  It was a fun night. The boys played outside while you and I sat on your porch talking about life. I had never had a relationship with a man where he truly understood me. I will never forget the smile on your face that night.

  I went home. Home to the darkness, quietness, and loneliness, only to remember that tomorrow (Saturday) my son would be gone to his dad’s for the night. That would make two nights in a row that I would be without him.

  Depression. Did you know?

  I spent the next day in bed until there was a knock at my door and you were standing on the other side with two precious litt
le boys wanting to know if I’d like to go get an ice cream. You said it was the boys idea. That ice cream turned my life around.

  Our boys’ play dates turned into grown-up dates. The boys got closer and we got closer. If our boys weren’t at my house, they were at your house. Every morning I found a cup of coffee on my front porch and a hand-written letter waiting for me. Your notes encouraged me to get through the day. Instead of going to bed depressed, I started to go to bed wondering if I was going to find a coffee and another encouraging note from you. You never failed me.

  I put our boys on the bus for their first day of kindergarten and now we are in their high school days where, to this day, I still put them on the bus every morning.

  On our wedding day, in front of everyone, we had a blended family ceremony where we vowed to our children that we would show them what a real family was. A real marriage between two people that love each other unconditionally. We have built a home that our boys call home. A place where we laugh, love, and enjoy. Our love shines through the boys’ happiness.

  Anyone that reads this and knows me will be shocked when they read that I was depressed. I put on that happy face no matter what life throws me, even though my insides were killing me. I never thought that I would have ever found a man like you. You saw that I needed to be rescued and you did it. I can’t help but think that I have filled the void that you and your boys needed.

  I am eternally grateful to you. You have given me the dream life I have always wanted. Three great boys that call us mom and dad in a loving unconditional environment. You encouraged me to become a writer and supported me as I transitioned into a full-time author.

  The first time I came to your house, you asked me to stay for a while. . . did you mean forever? Because forever is what you got!

  When I hear people say that too much ice cream is bad for your health, I simply smile, shake my head and tell them, “ice cream saved my life.”

  Xo

  TK

  P.S. I still love my morning coffee and love notes. They still get me through the day.

  **Author note: Tonya refers to her husband as My Eddy and he always refers to her as TK.

  Tonya Kappes

  Tonya is an Amazon Movers and Shakers, and International bestselling author. She writes humorous cozy mystery and women’s fiction that involves quirky characters in quirky situations.

  Splitsville.com, the first novel in the Olivia Davis Mystery Series, is a double finalist in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards in the Mystery and Humorous Categories.

  Carpe Bead ‘em is a finalist in Amazon’s eFestival of Words in the Women’s Fiction Category.

  She travels to various writers groups giving workshops on marketing and promoting no matter where you are in your career or what journey you take in publication.

  Find Tonya online at tonyakappes.com

  Donna Fasano

  Dear Jake,

  You were my first. My very first. I wasn't your first; her name was Kelly, a beautiful, vivacious blonde whom you never forgot. I'm a redhead, and we're known for being full of fun and laughter. But even years into our relationship, your head would turn and your steady gaze would follow any blonde who happened by. I noticed, knew there was nothing I could do, so I learned to live with it.

  When I think about the day we met, I have to laugh. Like a gorgeous, golden dandelion, you sprang into the perfectly manicured, emerald lawn of my life. I didn't want you. Not at all. It's not that I didn't like you, of course. Oh, no. It's that I wasn't ready to settle down. I wasn't ready for the responsibility, or for what I saw as the burden of routine you would need and expect. You see, I enjoyed my freedom. I guess you could say I still had wild oats to sow. Yes, I'm saying it... it wasn't you, it was me. I've never made such a confession to another living being. But I've learned to be humble—a lesson you patiently taught me over the course of our long and wonderful love affair.

  I hope you can forgive my initial reluctance to make you a part of my life. If it's any consolation, I want you to know that it took mere hours for you to steal the heart right out of my chest. I fell for you, Jake. I fell hard and fast. Whether it was those deep brown eyes or the undying devotion you offered from the start, I cannot say, but you swiftly became the love of my life. And it was a forever love.

  You brought me unbounded joy, and it didn't matter if I was ill or having a bad day or just plain grumpy, you were a steady source of love and comfort and companionship. You were my beautiful man, my handsome baby, my good, good boy. No other border collie could compare to my Jake, not in a million, jillion years.

  Thank you for your loyalty. Thank you for your easy-going nature. Thank you for the protection, and for being there each and every time I opened the front door. Thank you for the many life lessons you taught me. I loved your silky black and white coat, your expressive eyes, your bushy tail that wagged at the sight of me, and your loving, happy-go-lucky personality.

  I loved you then. I love you still. And I miss you terribly.

  One of my saddest, bleakest memories is our final visit to the vet. You fought the good fight, Jake. You tried valiantly to stay with me for as long as you could. But the seizures that wracked your body were just too painful, and finally we were both forced to surrender. It was an honor for me to spend those last moments with you, and I will never forget the soulful look we shared when our gazes met and held just before you closed your eyes forever. My heart broke, my tears streamed, and I thought my grief would never heal.

  Jake, I imagine you racing across the wide open meadows of heaven, chasing birds and squirrels and windblown leaves... and I smile. Thank you for coming into my life, for expanding my heart with a love as big as the sky, a love I would otherwise have never known.

  I will never forget you,

  Donna

  Donna Fasano

  Donna Fasano is an award-winning, bestselling author of romance and women’s fiction novels whose books have sold 3.6 million copies worldwide.

  Find Donna online at DonnaFasano.com

  Karin Cox

  Dear Foetus,

  That’s not really the name I would have chosen for you, you know. It sounds a little austere, too clinical, and it rhymes with Cletus. But that is what the doctor calls you, when she’s not busy calling you a Blighted Ovum. It’s what is written on my medical chart, and it’s what the sonographer told me when the room filled with silence, when the absence of sound was the absence of just a tiny flicker of green-blue light on a screen—your missing foetal heartbeat that should have been there, shining like a little torch, hammering like tiny galloping hooves against my uterine wall.

  The silence was eventually broken by a voice pitched to an impossibly hopeful timbre. “Perhaps your dates are wrong. It could be that it’s too early. Are you sure you’re this far along? It’s not uncommon for a foetal heartbeat to go undetected if it’s before six weeks. I think your doctor will tell you to come back in a few weeks. We’ll check again then.” Much nodding and sad smiling.

  But I wasn’t, Angel—which is what I call you in my heart—I was more than six weeks. You had graduated from embryo to foetus, and you had been with me for nearly double the technician’s shaky assessment, or had you? You were small for your age, not yet a bean, not yet a bug. Not yet a peanut: our fond name for your sister at that age. Not yet a human being, I am told. But I had felt you in those first joys of pregnancy: the burrowing of implantation, the burgeoning breasts, the belly, the greasy nausea of hormonal changes, the blood swelling to fill my veins. Then bleeding out in troubling, scarlet reminders of ephemeral life.

  “Rest,” I was told. “Stay off your feet. Don’t carry heavy things.” But, it did not matter. Now I carry secrets and shames guilty as a grave. Perhaps I picked up your sister one too many times. (She’s a big girl now. You’d like her, although she sometimes tries to sit on the cat and would probably do the same to you). Maybe I should have said no to that bumpy Boxing Day boat ride, with a silent passenger now forever mute
d. Maybe I wasn’t cautious enough. Maybe this is retribution for deeds done long before your time, Angel. Or maybe, as they tell me, there was something wrong with you. Maybe you were not shaped right to fit this world, your chromosomes misaligned, your tiny soul too soft to sift the rights and wrongs of existence.

  But I knew, in that moment of your fledgling foetal heart’s silence and the technician’s rapid-fire reassurances, that you, too, were lost to me. And I thought then that cherubim are always seen in pairs. I am glad that you are not alone in the ether of your existence.

  I delivered you two weeks later, in the still hours of the morning on the day the doctor had scheduled me another hopeful ultrasound. Not in the bright-light humming faux intimacy of a busy delivery ward, your father at my side, your toddler sister clutching a teddy for you that she *might* reluctantly part with at your birth. But in a toilet bowl filling with your blood and mine, clutching my stomach, not expecting the knife-twist of contractions this time around, not expecting to see my body’s miscreant beginnings of your birth. Placenta, gestational sac, foetal pole, foetus, miscarriage, spontaneous abortion—all words drawn slowly from the mouth, and from the body. Women’s business. Mothers’ business. And doctors’. Fathers’ business too, although no one talks of that. And sisters’. Aunts and uncles’. Grandparents’. They all knew, of course. How to keep it hidden over Christmas? How to avoid ham, or fancy cheese, or leftovers, or, in Australia, rare steak and beer. How to eschew wine and merriment, or retire at 8:30 pm exhausted from a day of unwrapping presents. No, they all knew. And now, they all feel your absence. Less keenly perhaps, but still they know you are lost to them. A memory of congratulations.

  My hair is dull again now, Angel. My womb, a tomb. My stomach is as empty as my heart. And yet, I can feel, nestled where you once burrowed, something else: some tiny, heartless hope. You are lost to me, Angel—you and others—and yet I thank you all for being mine for a time. For teaching me how fragile, how precious, how miraculous is life. How necessary is love. How sadly sweet, remembrance. How powerful, choice. And how irrepressible, hope. So hold hands for me and sing to me the silent shushing whispers of the womb, and I shall sing back to you that we are here, and that we are waiting, and that we still have hope.