Topics | Prayer | The Sun Magazine #3


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Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

The Whiskey Robe

On the screened-in porch of my in-laws’ house in central Massachusetts, I am reading a book. Sipping from the tumbler in my hand helps fight the unseasonable chill in the June air. The ice cubes are shrinking, diluting the alcohol, and clinking every time I raise the glass to my lips.

By Matthew M. Quick December 2007


I have been driven many times to my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go.

Abraham Lincoln

April 2007
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories


There were strange hands on me. Some were small and cold; others seemed large and rough and smelled of sawdust and cinnamon. It was my third time at the new church, but I’d seen nothing like this before. The hands belonged to male church elders, who were encircling me in front of the entire congregation.

By Christopher Locke April 2007
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Free Spirits

I have walked the few blocks down to the pond on campus tonight because I read in the paper that some Buddhists from the local sangha are going to free the souls of a lot of people who were bombed at Hiroshima.

By Linda McCullough Moore April 2007
Readers Write


A hundred-dollar bill, lemon cookies and a Wink soda, J.D. Salinger’s Franny and Zooey

By Our Readers April 2007
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

When They Get To The Corner

Back home Nimbus curls up beside Cirrus on the sofa. Norma heads out to the garden to do some weeding. I put on a fresh pot of coffee and open the Sunday newspaper. I’m still on page one when the phone rings. It’s my daughter Sara. There’s something she needs to tell me, she says, her voice a little unsteady. She pauses. It’s about Mara.

By Sy Safransky July 2004

The Life Of Alice Peters, As Told By Herself, The Blessed Alice Peters

Please don’t interpret this record as an indication that I lack modesty. Rather I wish to provide documentation that my life was holy, that I deserve to be canonized, and that my grave must become a shrine where the devout will gather with wheelchairs and crutches to hold candlelight vigils, chant in fourteen different languages, and pray for a disembodied me, in full glory and shining robes, to come and heal their hearts. Because after abandoning my body, this earthly inconvenience, I will grow in reputation as the patron saint of heartache.

By Debbie Urbanski December 2003