Updates from October, 2013 Toggle Comment Threads | Keyboard Shortcuts

  • ContactRida 7:25 am on October 31, 2013 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: Dear Abby, ,   

    dear abby 

    For this week’s writing challenge, channel your inner Abigail Von Buren. Experiment with the question and answer format. Taking inspiration from a question you’ve been asked recently, whether in conversation with a friend or sent in from a reader, don your best counselor hat and share your expertise.”


    Dear Abby,

    I’ve been in therapy for 4 months now. I’m in therapy because I was sexually assaulted 6 months ago. I wasn’t raped or viciously beaten, just groped. It happened at a clinic. For extra money, I would sometimes be a lab rat for clinical trials. For this one trial, on the day of sign-up, they said the clinic needed to perform breast exams as part of the physical, since it was a trial for birth control. There was a male nurse doing the exams on women with no one in the room with them. I should have said I wanted a female nurse, but I didn’t. When my name was called, I said I wanted a female present. It took them 10 minutes to find someone. When he examined me, it just didn’t feel right. I had breast exams before and I never had those feelings. What made me really know something was wrong is when he took my hand, without asking me, and pressed it against my breast, showing me how to perform self exams. There were no gowns or sheets, so I had to just pull up my shirt. When he was done, he kept talking to me and didn’t tell me to pull down my shirt. I had to ask if I could pull down my shirt. I went home that day and felt physically ill. I slept in my bra and a heavy t-shirt. I didn’t even want to look at myself. I filed a complaint with the clinic, but they said their review board found nothing inappropriate happened. I went to the police, but they said there was nothing they could do since I had no evidence. I called a lawyer and she said my case would have little to no chance of winning. I also filed a complaint with the nursing licensing board, but all they did was note that my complaint was filed.

    I can’t sleep. I lost weight. I hate people looking at me. TV shows I used to love, I now hate because they are too sexually graphic for me. I can’t stand being anywhere near a medical building; those florescent white lights make me anxious. I hate taking a shower. I hate looking in a mirror. My breasts don’t feel like they are connected to me anymore. I have violent thoughts now about killing every man I see. I’m always angry and always tense. I feel like I’m on the outside of myself, looking at me interact with people. I pretend nothing is wrong but on the inside, I am numb and I just want to disappear. And I feel really horrible about myself because there are women who have actually been brutally raped, and I can’t get over just having my breasts groped. Please help me get over this. I just want to go back to who I was before.

    Can’t stop hurting-

    Dear Can’t Stop Hurting,

    I am going to say this three times because I need you to truly hear me: I believe you. I believe you. I believe you. Something DID happen to you. Please do not diminish your experience by saying you were just groped. You were sexually assaulted and for you, it was a vicious attack against your body, against your spirit, against your soul. You don’t need to show physical wounds to be sexually assaulted. What you are experiencing, which I’m sure your therapist has discussed with you, is PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. This is not something you can ‘get over’ in six months. But you can get through it. It may take years. It may even take a lifetime. But you CAN get through it.

    Know that you did nothing wrong. That is one of the hardest parts for survivors of sexual assault: thinking that they are to blame. The system failed you, and for that I am deeply sorry. You are very strong for pursuing justice for yourself through all of those different avenues. Unfortunately, sometimes bad guys get away. But you were brave for speaking out and there is now a record on file of that nurse’s vile actions.

    What you are experiencing now with your emotions is normal. There is no wrong or right way to feel. Your emotions will run the gamut. Your therapist will be able to help navigate you through that emotional firestorm. One very important thing you need to do, is allow yourself to grieve for the person you once were. You suffered a traumatic loss that day; part of you died. But you can be reborn, like the mighty Phoenix and rise from the ashes strong, healthy, beautiful and whole again. The journey will be long and arduous, but I promise, if you continue with therapy and continue sharing your story, there will come a day when you hurt less. And less, and less. Then there will come a time when the good days greatly out number the bad days; and you will not only have survived, but you will thrive. I believe in you. Please, believe in yourself.

    With much love and faith,


    • tdawneightyone 9:32 am on October 31, 2013 Permalink | Reply

      I’ve never thought about the idea of grieving the person you once were. That is a powerful therapeutic tool.

      • ContactRida 5:41 pm on October 31, 2013 Permalink | Reply

        thank you. i was in therapy at the time The Brave One came out, http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0476964/

        i thought i was ‘over it’ but after the film ended i went into the bathroom and could not stop sobbing. i wanted ‘me’ back. it was the turning point in my therapy. when i could accept that the old me had died and it was ok to mourn her and miss her, i was able to finally breathe. trying to hold onto her and resuscitate her was keeping me trapped in the trauma. i had to let her go. several years later, i still miss me, i will always miss her. i will write more about ‘her’ in posts to come. thank you again for connecting to my words.

  • ContactRida 3:16 am on October 30, 2013 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: devil, halloween, prayers   

    your soul to keep 

    there is a bedtime tale i have heard

    about always saying your prayers.

    begging the lord your soul to keep

    from those dark forces we fear.


    the tale tells of one young girl

    who boasted she wasn’t scared

    of anything that would go bump in the night.

    “tall tales,” she said. “I don’t care for prayers.”


    then one crisp night, when all alone

    and in the sky, brightly shined, the moon,

    she was unaware of something evil

    hatching from its cocoon.


    with music playing and in her bed

    she closed her eyes and felt the beat,

    fully unaware that there was lurking

    a darkness only prayers could defeat.


    through an unlocked window it slithered

    with ease and precision towards its prey.

    its insatiable lust  for the sweet taste of warm blood

    that would soon come flowing its way.


    its hand on the banister, its feet on the stairs,

    toward her, it silently crept.

    how could she know that something foul

    would soon be upon her while she slept.


    now in her room and by her side,

    it salivated on its feast.

    its claw like hand, clinching her mouth,

    she awakes and sees the beast.


    tears filled her eyes, terror consumed her soul.

    “please god, please change my fate,”

    but it waved its finger and shook its head,

    it grinned, “sweet child, you are too late.”


    the moonlight caressed the blade in the air,

    it seemed to sparkle as it fell.

    carving every inch of her flesh,

    oh the horror, that moon could tell.


    one breath from death, it snatched

    out her eyes and swallowed each one whole.

    her final exhale was its grand release,

    for it had devoured her precious soul.


    into the darkness it returned,

    in the shadow it waits, ever so patiently,

    for all those who dare to tempt their fate,

    for all those who don’t believe.


    heed this tale, and recite your prayers each night,

    or what befalls you may be appalling,

    for you never see the eyes of the devil

    until for yours, he comes calling.

    • mindofchristopher2013 6:12 am on October 30, 2013 Permalink | Reply

      3am is the witching hour. Great poem for Halloween Eve!

      • ContactRida 12:30 am on October 31, 2013 Permalink | Reply

        i did not know 3am was the witching hour. i was inspired by you. you mentioned Walking Dead and all i could think about were Walkers:)

      • ContactRida 12:31 am on October 31, 2013 Permalink | Reply

        thank you. it freaked me out a little too when i read it out loud:)

      • ContactRida 12:32 am on October 31, 2013 Permalink | Reply

        oh. and thank you for liking it.

    • ContactRida 3:26 am on October 30, 2013 Permalink | Reply

      after writing this, i read it out loud. i heard something tumble above me. i live alone on the top floor of a highrise. only air conditioning units and elevator equipment is above me. it sounded like a body leaping and rolling toward my terrace. i quickly walked to my patio glass door, slid it shut and locked it. for your safety, do not recite this out loud at 3am in the morning. do not recite it out loud period. be safe. say your prayers.

  • ContactRida 2:19 am on October 29, 2013 Permalink | Reply

    i write for no one 

    I write for no one.

    I write for just myself.

    If you do not like what you read,

    Please place it back on the shelf.

    And with speed, upon such placement,

    I shall file it under, “go fuck yourself”.


    I write for no one.

    The thoughts come as they please.

    They spill unfiltered from my head,

    Not meant to anger or to tease.

    Been at it only two weeks now.

    “Really?” I know; hard to believe.


    I write for no one.

    Such secrets each line reveals.

    Telling you who I am,

    Not trying to conceal

    That deep inside of my soul,

    I have never healed.


    I write for no one.

    Such hurdles do I place.

    Trying to finish the perfect piece,

    As if it were some race.

    But with each word I pen,

    Some loneliness is erased.


    I write for no one.

    These words you read are true.

    I write to experience bliss,

    In all its magnificent hues.

    I write  to share what’s in my heart.

    I write, my love, for you.



  • ContactRida 12:25 am on October 29, 2013 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: Ghetto   

    Being broke: The sacrifice most stay at home moms only complain about to their best friend. 

    something different this way comes… [in response to a blog]:

    …to answer your question: yes. it does make you shallow. but the beauty of your introspection cancels it out. your post was funny (in the been-there-done-that sort of way) and heartwarming. know that i’ve lived that way my whole life and only splurge when i have a surplus. and as always, something comes along to make me regret the splurge. but this is my life. and this is your life. a second income would be a very good idea (even considering the logistics: child care, new resume, interviews, etc). sorry, but you just don’t have ghetto DNA. accept it. i do have the ghetto gene. i live for cheap wine! i go out of my way to wait for sales at the wine and spirit shop down the street. i just bought 12 bottles of Purex,(not at the wine shop) 50oz @ $1.99 each, plus 5 cents discount for each shoprite canvas bag i used. i live alone, no kids. so what the fuck do i need with 12 bottles of detergent! but i have the money now, so i buy what i need in case something happens, (so what exactly could happen that would require me to have a Kuwaiti-sized barrel of detergent? i don’t know, but i’m prepared in case the dirty clothes & towels apocalypse occurs) and i don’t even own a coffee-maker, or a blender, or a juicer, or electric can opener. i don’t own a set of matching or complete set of pots and pans. and furniture. please. i have a sofa, a small dining table and a bed, oh, and the rest is hand me downs. and i can never be embarrassed because i don’t invite people over (gee, that’s surprising). and i have never had a mani or a pedi, not that i can’t afford it (the very thought of some stranger (who is probably a trafficked human) touching my fingers and toes just grosses me the fuck out, especially knowing that they probably didn’t sterilize their equipment; helloooooo hepatitis). and the list goes on (seriously. i had to edit a lot out). there are so many things that a normal household (or normal woman) has, that i have never acquired and have never had a strong desire for. but that is the hidden blessing of growing up poor, you learn to do without. if you know what it is like to Have, then when you Have Not, life can be just agonizing. if having certain things bring a smile to your face, or comfort to your soul, then you should get off of the fence and find any way necessary to get those things back. so return to the work force, if for any other reason, to stop having to buy generic cereal (yuck. i’m black and even i don’t buy that crap. that’s too ghetto for even me:) and by the way, i’ve used up all of my creative energy writing you (not really, but no one has to know that), so i’m reblogging you, so i don’t have to stay up til 7am again writing the ‘perfect story’. i’d rather spend the night reading other people’s blogs and responding. thank you for sharing. and if i’ve totally freaked you out, that’s ok, it’s what i do best.


    Recently, I have been seriously considering going back in to the workforce. I don’t simply say, “go back to work” because believe me, as a stay at home Mom, I already work 24-7.  I just don’t receive a paycheck for it.  I gave up a pretty healthy pay check in order to stay at home with the kids.  I know it may sound selfish to focus on what I gave up but what a Mother and her children gain is talked about over and over again.  What we lose isn’t because we feel guilty.  So for this post, I have flipped guilt the middle finger.

    I have a love/hate relationship with Thursdays.  Thursdays are pay day.  When the bills that absolutely have to be paid are paid, I stare at what’s left and get that “I fucking hate this” feeling in my stomach.   I wonder on a daily basis where has my mind gone and what the hell…

    View original post 1,272 more words

  • ContactRida 5:16 am on October 28, 2013 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: Grimm Fairy Tales   

    the three little pigs 

    Once upon a time in a land not so far away,

    There were three forlorn sisters named April, June and May.

    They had long lost their mother, though still they shed secret tears,

    She had taken a wicked fall one day; she toppled down the stairs.

    “You are all grown women now,” father said as mother was laid to rest.

    “I love you each in a special way,” said he would put them to the test.

    Pillar of the community he stood. “Those girls are lucky,” all would think.

    But behind closed doors, oh, what he would do when he would drink.

    April was the youngest and the weakest; she was the first he would visit.

    He would creep into her room at night and whisper, “April, you are exquisite.”

    As his hand slid beneath her gown, he would pant, “Baby girl, baby girl, let me in.”

    Though she protested and cried and pled and prayed, her daddy would always win.

    June was the next he’d visit. She was stronger; she would put up such a fight.

    But as he pinned her small frame to her bed, he would gaze upon her with such delight,

    “Baby girl, baby girl, you can fight me, but you know you can’t possibly win.”

    He gloated, “Struggle and struggle if you must, but you will let me in.”

    May was the smartest and the eldest; she had eyes, she saw her sisters’ plight.

    So with April and June she conspired to bring an end to their father’s visits one night.

    When father came to May, to his surprise, she said, “Oh daddy, I would love to let you in.”

    “I am your one true baby girl; with me daddy, we both can win.”

    As he was on top of May, he shrieked, and grabbed at his head.

    For June leaped from the shadows; she swung a bat. Thud! He was dead.

    As the town laid their esteemed father to rest, April, June and May shed many tears.

    But they were secret tears of joy, for all believed father had toppled down the stairs.

    Heed this story well, my friend. Share it far and share it wide.

    Know that there are many secrets all families keep and hide.

    If you learn one lesson friend, learn this one, forever more,

    Don’t dare to presume to know what goes on behind closed doors.

    • tdawneightyone 10:04 pm on October 28, 2013 Permalink | Reply

      Thank you for speaking against judgement of others and for using such a shameful and taboo topic to do it. Powerful.

  • ContactRida 6:14 am on October 27, 2013 Permalink | Reply

    reported missing (out of view continued) 

    Detective Sophia Miller celebrated her 44th birthday with store brand microwave popcorn and several glasses of red moscato. One divorce and several failed relationships did not sour her on men, but she had had enough. No more blind dates. No more online dating. No more. She sat in bed with the tv on mute, staring at two missing person files. Nicole Papin and Andrea Thomas. Both white females. Both mid-late 20’s and blonde. Nicole graduated from Temple University with honors and a degree in psychology. Unfortunately, she also left college with an unsavory prescription drug habit. From family statements, she burned all of her bridges with failed rehabs, lying and stealing. Her best friend from college reported her missing 14 months ago. Andrea was living out of a car when she had her two children placed in foster care by social services. She did not show for her petition for custody hearing. Her case worker reported her missing 7 months ago. Miller saw a connection. Tenuous, but still a connection. From the statements, both women were getting their lives back on track. Nicole was sober and staying on her best friend’s sofa when she vanished. Andrea had found gainful employment and signed a one year lease for a small two bedroom apartment when she vanished. No one was looking for either of them. It was the same tired story: strapped city budget; no overtime; priority for high-profile cases only.  She laid back on her pillows and stared at the water damaged, pealing popcorn ceiling. “Last seen? Last seen?” she questioned out loud. Neither case was fortunate enough to have working surveillance cameras at their last seen location. Was that dumb luck or something else? Was she grabbing at straws? Her phone started vibrating. “Detective Miller,” she answered. An abandoned Mercedes was discovered in a parking garage. The owner of the vehicle was reported missing.

  • ContactRida 6:02 am on October 26, 2013 Permalink | Reply

    out of view (conclusion) 

    If he could change anything, it would be to have someone to share his thoughts with. “That doesn’t make me weak,” he whispered out loud, almost afraid someone or something could hear him and judge him. He stood naked in the center of his warehouse studio condo. He purchased it for a steal in 2009. He bought it specifically because it faced a brick wall and had a private entrance. “The owner is very eager to negotiate price since this unit does not have a view and is in the middle of renovations.” said the anxious realtor, when she showed him the listing. The unfinished renovations was a bonus to him but he didn’t let on. He loved the feel of the antique wide plank flooring under his bare feet. The realtor said the boards were salvaged from a church built in 1841. He felt that was a sign. A sign he had god’s blessing. His exposed brick walls were covered with large abstract, canvassed art. He had just purchased a new piece. His sixth. This one was very special. He walked over to it; traced his well manicured index finger over the edges. He lifted the painting gently off of the hooks and turned it over. There was a hidden canvas behind the painting. Blank. White. Waiting for his touch. She was special. She was important. She would be missed. He spent months learning her schedule, her habits. She would be predictable. They were all predictable. They all felt sorry for him; wanted to do their good deed for the day, not knowing it would be their last. He leaned the canvas against the wall on the floor. He lost track of time. He had to hurry if he wanted her to see him before she got to work. He grabbed his track pants off of his mattress and put them on. He threw on a heavy white cotton tee. His cross trainers and baseball cap were on the wheelchair seat, along with his black, leather gloves. They were a size too big but they were on sale, so he bought them. When he finished dressing, he sat in the wheelchair. Admired his reflection in the low hanging mirror by the front door. He especially relished his grim reaper tattoo on the side of his neck. He got it a year ago after purchasing his fifth piece of art. He struggled with it being a bit cliche but in the end, he felt it gave him more purpose, more resolve. He closed the door behind him and rolled onto the city street. It was early but it was humid with no breeze. His clothes were starting to stick to him. He had planned seeing her while she entered her office building but as fate had it, running late was a blessing; a sign his path was true. The light turned red and there she sat. In her precious silver Mercedes. He knew every wisp of her Clairol Born Blonde dyed hair; every crease of her salon tanned skin. These were the moments that truly aroused him. Having her see him in her world, before her world became his world. He rolled slowly in front of her car. He slowly turned his head to look in her direction. He wanted her to see his tattoo. “We will be visiting you soon, Toni.” he thought as he rolled out of view.

  • ContactRida 4:23 am on October 25, 2013 Permalink | Reply

    some things just stay broken (pt 2) 

    She walked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. The seat was cold. Fall weather was slowly creeping in and the days were shorter, which meant more time driving at night. She lingered on the seat. Thought about how she didn’t want to go to work that day or any other day for that matter. Trichotillomania. She had Googled it. She had started pulling her hair out by the roots, strand by strand. The doctor prescribed Wellbutrin but it caused violent, incessant coughing. “We’ll start you on the lowest dose of Zoloft and I’ll give you a script for Xanax to take PRN.” The psychiatrist also mentioned that he wanted her to follow-up every 60 days and also see a therapist. While the new meds did not cause any allergic reactions this time, it did not slow down the hair pulling or new eye twitching. She flushed the toilet. Marveled at how easily a mess can be flushed away. Just a little push and a problem can fade away.  She reached for the floss. There was a rapid, flurry of knocks at her apt door. She ignored it. “Probably wrong apt.” she thought. But then she heard her deadbolts unlocking. It didn’t matter that she was only in a thin wife beater and boy shorts panties. She rushed the door, throwing her weight against it slamming it shut. “Miss Merchant? It’s building security and the Philadelphia Police Department. We need to know if you’re ok?”  “I’m fine. Let me put something on.” she blurted. She grabbed her robe hanging in the bathroom and partially opened her apt door. “What’s wrong? Why are you opening my door?” she questioned with a hint of disdain in her voice. “Mam,” one of the officers interrupted. She hated being called mam. To her it meant she was no longer sexually viable; she was an elder to be respected. “Can we come in?”

  • ContactRida 3:20 am on October 24, 2013 Permalink | Reply  

    some things just stay broken… 

    She kicked her leg out of her Coleman sleeping bag. The cell phone vibration had stopped and the obnoxious chime began, forcing her into full wakefulness. If not for her pressing bladder, she would have slept in another 15 minutes. She stood staring at her expensive Ikea queen-sized mattress in contempt. It was barely 2 years old. At first it seemed firmer than the one she had  returned just 60 days after purchase but her nagging lower back pain told another story. When the muscle relaxant provided only partial relief, she decided to try the floor; hence, the sleeping bag. Dark blue polyester outside, paisley red cotton inside. It survived 5 consecutive summers of stream-side camping in the Poconos. It was one of only a few childhood mementos she still had. Still treasured. As a child, her possessions would disappear. Taken to exact punishment (or perhaps revenge, for being born alive). Although she had 2 bachelor degrees and was working on a 2nd masters; she knew she couldn’t form meaningful bonds because she learned at an early age that anything she cared about could be taken from her in an instant. Just because you know what caused the damage, doesn’t mean you can fix it. Some things just stay broken.

  • ContactRida 4:32 pm on October 23, 2013 Permalink | Reply  

    Malcolm Gladwell’s Rejection Letter 

    Writing Hacks

    A  rejection letter to Malcolm Gladwell for a draft of “David and Goliath.” We are publishing the letter because the author suggested some “writing hacks” that would have made the book better. We invite comment from our readers.

    Dear Mr. Gladwell,

    We were pleased to get the manuscript of David and Goliath for consideration at [name of publisher redacted]. We know of your success with previous pop-scholarship books. The title suggests a powerful “high concept” book. And we love—lovelovelove—high-concept books like Salt and Cod and A History of the World in Five Glasses and, yes, The Tipping Point and Blink and Outliers. When you see the title, you instantly get the premise. So we loved your title and what it promised.

    We’re going to have to pass on the manuscript, though. I’d like you to rethink the concept and do more research. Right now, the book is…

    View original post 4,122 more words

  • ContactRida 3:58 am on October 23, 2013 Permalink | Reply

    in my mind 

    What is it that I got when I’m feeling down?

    What is it that gnaws on me when you aint around?

    What is it that aches inside that I can’t get out?

    What is it that screams for you but leaves me with doubt?

    Who is there to go to? Who is there to turn?

    Why can’t things work for me, so many bridges I burn.

    They say with age comes wisdom, but all I feel is numb.

    They say the right one will come along, but all you do is run.


    I cry out to my god, please fill me with light.

    I cry from the deepest part of me, god, please make it right.

    But all I get are whispers, whispers of loss and pain.

    It takes a hold of me, makes me feel insane.

    I need a new distraction, one that will kill time.

    One so powerful, thoughts of you left behind.

    Don’t want to feel this helpless, so out of control.

    When I shut it all out, I’m just left feeling cold.


    I don’t want to chase after you, oh how I obsess.

    But getting you in my site, is what I do best.

    I play it all out, a million times in my mind.

    Why can’t you see you and me? Give it some time.

    I’m calling for you baby, please reach out for me.

    I can’t take this silence, this love is a disease.

    Do you know what you do to me, do you care?

    You twist me all around, can’t take this despair.


    I cry out to my god, please fill me with light.

    I cry from the deepest part of me, god, please make it right.

    But all I get are whispers, whispers of loss and pain.

    It takes a hold of me, makes me feel insane.

    I need a new distraction, one that will kill time.

    One so powerful, thoughts of you left behind.

    Don’t want to feel this helpless, so out of control.

    When I shut it all out, I’m just left feeling cold.


    I want to be the one you pick, the one you choose.

    You calm the stormy waters inside, that is what you do.

    I need to be your sun and moon, but it must come from you.

    You must yearn for me first, that is what you must do.

    But for now all I have of you, is unrequited love.

    It’s dark and it’s cold on this edge. Give me a shove.

    I want to fall forever, don’t throw me a rope.

    For truly the worst feeling for me, is that of hope.


    I cry out to my god, please fill me with light.

    I cry from the deepest part of me, god, please make it right.

    But all I get are whispers, whispers of loss and pain.

    It takes a hold of me, makes me feel insane.

    I need a new distraction, one that will kill time.

    One so powerful, thoughts of you left behind.

    Don’t want to feel this helpless, so out of control.

    When I shut it all out, I’m just left feeling cold.


    © QMK and Work in Progress, 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to QMK and Work in Progress with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

  • ContactRida 4:52 am on October 22, 2013 Permalink | Reply

    out of view 

    A man in a wheelchair crosses the street. There are three lanes of traffic: in the north curb lane a woman in a Mercedes Benz observes, in the center lane a man in a beat-up half-ton pickup truck watches. In the south curb lane, a bike messenger waits for the light to turn.”

    Sandy straddles her bike at the light. She wipes sweat from the corner of her eye with her sun-weathered knuckle, slightly lifting her shades. “Shit!” she thought as she watched the man in the wheelchair cross the street. Seeing his black leather glove grip and release the chrome pushrim of his rear wheel, she realized she left her gloves at the reception counter on her last stop. Now she would have to double back after the next drop. It wasn’t a long ride but the sticky, breeze-less city air made the extra trip irritating. As the light changed, she clenched her handlebars almost as tightly as that man. “His gloves look brand new and a full size too large”, she thought as he rolled out of view.

    “Asshole!” Toni shrieked, as the florist minivan ahead of her slowed down at the yellow light but continued through the jammed intersection leaving her the red light. The sudden stop ejected her meticulously collated presentation to the passenger floor. “Not today” she barked as she watched the man in the wheelchair cross the street. As she reached down to retrieve her papers she stopped. On the side of his pale, thick neck she saw a crisp tattoo of a hooded grim reaper with a sickle. “Is that supposed to mean you cheated death tough guy? You merely placed it on law-away” she snarked out loud. His head turned slightly as she spoke. Had he heard her? It didn’t matter. As the light changed, she was relieved when that tattoo rolled out of view.

    Stopped at the red light, Mike released his grip on the steering wheel. He was listening to Henley’s Last Worthless Evening playing on his radio. He turned the volume up a little as he waited at the light. He painfully thought of his wife as he watched the man in the wheelchair cross the street. In the final stage of her cancer, he would hold her hand and play this song. It seemed to comfort her when the pain meds couldn’t. Looking at the man, he noticed how healthy his legs appeared in the wheelchair. Even though his track pants covered his legs, Mike could see noted definition in his calves and thighs. He knows how the body wastes away when the muscles aren’t used; how clothes eerily cling to the body. “Why does he look so healthy” Mike wondered. As the light changed and Henley crooned on, Mike couldn’t shake the feeling something was off. He drove off slowly, adjusting his rear view mirror to watch the man roll out of view.

    • ContactRida 5:30 am on December 27, 2013 Permalink | Reply

      Reblogged this on Work in Progress….

    • kayepringle 5:10 am on December 27, 2013 Permalink | Reply

      Great post!

    • LaNette Kincaid 1:14 am on October 27, 2013 Permalink | Reply

      Love your blog

    • KENDRA MICHELLE 11:19 pm on October 26, 2013 Permalink | Reply


      • ContactRida 12:17 am on October 27, 2013 Permalink | Reply

        thank you for your comments. get started on writing and share what you have.

    • seweverythingblog 7:00 pm on October 26, 2013 Permalink | Reply

      Nice post! Your post is making me wonder, if this were a part of a larger piece of work which character would you will follow to the end of the story. (This from a non-writer, except for my niche blog 🙂 )
      Congratulations on being freshly pressed.

      • ContactRida 12:23 am on October 27, 2013 Permalink | Reply

        thank you very much. from one non-writer to another, i would follow the darkest character since he is more complex and i like a challenge.

        • mindofchristopher2013 11:28 pm on October 28, 2013 Permalink | Reply

          Nice work! I’m curious to see where you would take this, especially after the observations from Mike in the last perspective.

          • ContactRida 12:30 am on October 29, 2013 Permalink | Reply

            thank you very much. i too am curious to see where i would take it. some place as dark as possible:)

    • Raj 10:54 am on October 26, 2013 Permalink | Reply

      A simple thought in a great way

    • JW 3:47 pm on October 25, 2013 Permalink | Reply

      I really like the three-perspective form of this piece. Each is so different from the other and yet so relatable to the average reader. Nicely done.

      • ContactRida 2:58 am on October 26, 2013 Permalink | Reply

        thank you very much. i pictured each character and created a life for them. it helped me get into their heads to see what they saw.

      • ContactRida 12:26 am on October 27, 2013 Permalink | Reply

        thank you very much.

    • moodsnmoments 3:17 pm on October 25, 2013 Permalink | Reply

      beautiful. congratulations on being freshly pressed.

  • ContactRida 12:05 am on October 21, 2013 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: Philosophy, Relevance   


    i’ve been thinking of my literary relevance lately, or rather i’ve been thinking about it every moment i think about writing. i read other blogs and i see so much energy and thought and vocabulary. there is so much creativity and deeply artistic expression. what exactly do i bring? i bring nothing but literary masturbation (i read that somewhere, it stuck). i think i’m just playing it safe by just writing my thoughts. no one can dispute my thoughts. right? no one can tell me what i feel isn’t real. right? i think i get so much of that criticism and doubt in the real world, that writing is my escape. when i was a child, reading was my escape from my household. my mind was an escape. i often muse to myself that English is my 2nd language; Thought is my first. i think soooooo much. really. all of the time. i can imagine a lifetime with a stranger i see walking in front of my car at a stop sign. in those few seconds he has courted me, ravished me, grown old with me and loved me deeper than the depths of the universe. this is ALL of the time. constant. imagining places, people, things, feelings, sounds, sensations. my fortress built to protect me as a child has become my own prison of sorts in adulthood. i do always make the effort to connect to others. i unconsciously choose that which  (‘that which’. really? yeah. really.) brings me to people, direct contact. but then, ‘I’ arrive with my intuition, my 6th sense, my ‘I see fake people’ and i can’t tolerate the bullshit any longer. i need to be alone. where the incessant flurry of my own thoughts becomes white noise and i am at peace. and i know, (not deep down, but right on the surface) that this is the reason why i can’t form lasting bonds: i prefer the safety and the truth of my own mind to the shit called society.  so… short story long, what i write is relevant because it comes from me. it comes from truth, it comes from pain, it comes from a lifetime of learning and a lifetime of being vulnerable. my relevance comes from a lifetime of doing that which (Yes! that which) scares me the most. failing at times but conquering just the same. so i will continue this unknown journey, without doubt, without reservation, knowing i am relevant. my words have relevance.

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