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  • ContactRida 4:07 am on April 8, 2014 Permalink | Reply

    oh your words… 

    your words bathe me in orgasmic ecstasy
    part my willing thighs with verse
    moisten my hidden treasure with metrics
    you penetrate the deepest with your poetry
    my back arches
    i moan YOUR name
    i am insatiable
    for every word you forge
    speak to me tonight
    make me

    photo credit: contactrida


  • ContactRida 6:31 am on March 6, 2014 Permalink | Reply

    Evil rode upon a pale horse. 

    Six six six seared into flesh.

    Nonbelievers left behind must endure Tribulation.

    Hell on earth. Now all believe.


    Photo credit: http://fc08.deviantart.net/fs50/f/2009/291/1/9/Pale_Rider___Spiral_by_uilliam444888.jpg

    Post inspired by: http://adamickes.wordpress.com/2014/03/05/six-on-the-sixth-prompt-march/

  • ContactRida 7:35 am on March 5, 2014 Permalink | Reply

    i am telling you i’m not going 

    She played her favorite song by Jennifer Holliday for the last time. How could he tell her to get out of his life? “You’re obsessive! You’re suffocating me! You’re crazy!” he viciously screamed at her. “You weren’t at work. Where were you? Cheryl wasn’t there either.” she hurled back in his face. “I have never lied to you, never cheated on you. You don’t know what love is, do you?” he asked but she could tell he didn’t want to hear her answer.

    She lunged at him with such a fury, she startled him and he fell backward. She leapt forward and grabbed the glass Eiffel Tower. “I promise to love you forever,” he said when he gave her the tower. They were going to spend their honeymoon in Paris after they were married. But he kept pushing back the date, said there was no hurry. She loved him, so she waited, and waited.

    The edge of the Eiffel Tower caught his temple with a horrid precision. She let go of it but it stayed wedged into his skull. He stared at her. Tears streamed from his eyes, then the blood came. It seemed to caress his face. He tried to get up but he only managed to tumble the paintings and plants. She looked down at him. He was very still. His face was not contorted. He looked like he was sleeping with his eyes open.

    “I can fix this,” she whispered to him as she lovingly kissed his blood stained lips. She rushed to the kitchen and flung open the cabinet doors beneath the sink. He was always so orderly, she loved that about him. The lighter fluid was right where he always left it. She grabbed it and began squeezing the clear stream all over the furniture and carpet. She forced the last bit of fluid over the front door. She wanted no interruptions.

    She lit an incense and placed the kitchen knife block over the unlit end. When the embers fell they would seal their bond. She  slowly searched through her Ipod for Jennifer Holliday. She found it and the music filled the room. She removed the throw from the  sofa and placed it over her head as if it was a veil. She laid beside him and embraced him. “I do,” she softly said as she laid her head gently upon his shoulder. The tunes consumed the room, as did the smoke and flames.

    What remains is charred, broken and boarded up. An eerie reminder of the depths of a woman’s madness and a man’s promised love. Judgment was cast so easily but those among us who assign blame to her have never loved with an all consuming passion. True passion is an insidious virus that mutates the heart, the mind and the soul. True passion burns brightly, its flames eternal.

    2010-01-01 00.00.00-53




    • hemmingplay 12:37 pm on March 5, 2014 Permalink | Reply

      This was well-written, but that final paragraph stopped me. It reads as though you’re saying murder is understandable, that it was at least partly his fault because he was pulling back? Passion excuses all things? Feelings trump thinking? It could be that he was pulling back because she was obviously derranged. I don’t see a reason to make excuses for her behavior, even though she died, too.

      • ContactRida 5:17 am on March 6, 2014 Permalink | Reply

        thank you for your reply. that was the whole point, seeing through the eyes of the killer, not the victim. the song that many people love is sorta creepy and stalky, which is why i chose it.

  • ContactRida 8:34 am on February 27, 2014 Permalink | Reply

    Daily Prompt: Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) 

    her sweetest dream continues to haunt her every so often. the dream is always the same: a beautiful man with dark piercing eyes who slyly tries to get her attention. he follows her like a lost puppy. he hangs on her every word. he makes himself indispensable. he is so amored. she eventually melts under his charms. their hands touch, they casually brush against one another while walking, he reaches for something near her as she suddenly moves near him. they accidentally brush lips. they gaze deeply into each others eyes. the whole world is blurred around them with a cosmic pulsation, vibration. this vibration consumes them. they yearn to be a part of the universe and a part of the other. they embrace fingers, move closer together, try to absorb the purity of the moment. a bed, a field, a plush surface appears. they gently float there. clouds it feels like. there but not there. she feels his weight, feels his heat, his fire. her heart races as her thighs part for him. she aches to feel him deep inside of her. she weeps for him. the more she begs for his touch, the more he fades like a mist. she screams for him, pleads, but he vanishes. she wakes with tears in her eyes, longing for that eternal love that has never come…



    photo credit: http://lotzofwallpapers.com/i/holding-hands/holding-hands-wallpaper.jpg

  • ContactRida 3:05 am on February 7, 2014 Permalink | Reply


    She always had a way with numbers. 14,741,926. She knew the exact number of bricks creating the archways into the stadium. She had a slight headache. “Probably didn’t hydrate enough,” she thought as she sipped her cola. 14,741,926. She read somewhere that π contains all of the numbers we will ever use in our lifetime. All of our addresses. All of our test scores. All of our anniversary dates. All of our heart beats. And when the numbers are converted to letters, π contains all of the words we will ever see, read, utter or dream. Pretty amazing. “Geek much?” she chuckled to herself. She loved numbers. Numbers came to her easier than words sometimes. Most times. 14,741,926. This Friday night game was going to be the most awesome. She knew he was going to propose to her. His sister gave her a head’s up. “What’s that expression? Chicks before dicks?” as she thought that, soda nearly shot from her nose. She looked around. No one saw her. 14,741,926. Her headache was not going away and the cola wasn’t helping. She was close to the archway. So many people. She was not a fan of crowds, somewhat phobic, hated the hive-like noise of thousands of voices.fort-point-archesThen she saw him. He was yelling something and frantically waving a large, white teddy bear in the air, one of those gaudy kinds you win at a back woods carnival. It had red polka dots. “God, I love you so much,” she whispered aloud to him. She couldn’t wait to pretend to be surprised about the ring. She winced. Her head was pounding now. 14,741,926. She was sweating. She never had a migraine but this clearly was one. She tried to smile and wave back to him. 14,741,926. As she stepped further into the archways, she felt a staggering wave of hot pain piercing through the back of her head and straight through her right eye. Thick sweat was burning her eyes, clouding her vision. She dropped her cola. The archways seemed so far now but she could almost make out what he was yelling through the crowd, “time,” she didn’t understand, she wasn’t late. A thick darkness filled the archways consuming all sound and air. She felt her body convulse as she collapsed to the ground. “I’m having a seizure,” she thought, as her body seized up again, and again. She arched her neck and tried to call for him, but there was only a dark presence  in the archway. Now it was moving quickly and steadily towards her. “Time?” the surgeon called. “19:26,” the nurse replied. “Time of death, 2014, July 4, 1900 hours 26 minutes. Let’s try to save the other gun shot victims,” the surgeon solemnly uttered as he pulled the mask from his mouth. 14,741,926. She always had a way with numbers.


    photo credit: Cheri Lucas Rowlands

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