Richenda Gould

The First Time She Wore Pink

By admin | Writing
The first time that she wore pink, Nobody recognized her. She was the tough girl, The rough girl, The badass, Do Not Touch Me girl

This Kid

By admin | Writing
There’s a whole room full of kids. There’s a whole school full of ‘em. They’re all kinda different, and they’ve all got stuff in common. Each is a unique individual, and all together, they make up this complicated whole termed a high school. These are their stories, better than even they could tell them. Because they don’t know how; Underneath it all, they’re still just kids

The Old Man and the Fly

By admin | Writing
The old man stared torpidly into the distance, his head held at an odd angle. Perhaps not really held so much as left there to hang. He didn’t appear to have the strength to hold it up. His body and face were sunken; the emaciation of the old, and his head could hold on to only a few stray hairs, whispy like cirrus clouds. Dolefully he stared, unmoved from where he had been abandoned by the nurse in his wheelchair

Crooners of July

By admin | Writing
Baby, they’re crooning. They’re crooning to me over the AM radio with its static coming in like waves in this hot, humid air. I’m leaning in my window, just taking it in as the heat takes the life outta me. I’m sweating but I’m cool, cuz I got crooners, singing it like sugar

The City of Hushed Voices

By admin | Writing
The city of hushed voices. Where the wooshing of cars driving between the great columns of steel and glass buildings is all that’s heard on the street. Where all you see when you look into buildings, and cars, and eyes, is the reflection of the brighter lights outside. Where people walk by with their heads down; they never meet each other’s gazes. They’re too afraid to

The Housewife

By admin | Writing
The children mumble sleepily; snoozily. She’s just put them down, in the middle of the afternoon, but the heavy curtains make the rooms dark and heavy. Both doorways face each other across the hallway, each close with the smells of small children. She, Karen, can see into the boys’ room from here. It’s thick and warm, set to the rhythm of air escaping and filling soft pink lips