A few posts back I wrote about driving over that bridge from which a woman had jumped to her death. This morning, in the writing workshop I facilitate, I steered one of the writers towards this blog. Said I'd like her to check it out ( Like a book from a library ) .

She emailed me a while ago. Said she'd perused Fence Post. She liked the Red Sox piece. Wasn't crazy about the rap stuff. My story about driving over the bridge, out of the blue and into the fog. That was hard to read, she said. It hit close to home.

Terry ( Yes, another Terry. They seem to be all over the place. Jacksonville, Lakeville, upstate New York and Narragansett ) said she knew the woman who jumped from the bridge. She was a friend and a neighbor.

That's what I call a Rhode Island story. One that has someone crossing a bridge. One making it over the bridge. One not making it. And the one making it over is the one who's nervous crossing bridges. That would be me.

One and a half degrees of separation. Someone knowing someone who knows someone. Or something. Yeah. That's a Rhode Island story.

Terry brought a book to class. The Beloit Fiction Journal. Spring 2007 edition. She wanted me to see it. Her son Ehren's short story was among those in the book. I asked Terry of I could borrow the book and return it to her next week.

She said yes and I did that. Brought the book home and opened it up this evening. Found, between two of its pages a letter from the literary journal's editor-in-chief.

Part of the letter reads: " Your story was one of thirteen selected from a pool of more than 600. Your story was read and re-read - often aloud - by our editorial group. We chose to publish it, because of the pleasure we had reading it. "

That's another Rhode Island story.