Richenda Gould

I Am a Compulsive Reader

By admin | Writing
I am a compulsive reader. I think about it all the time. When I’m on the subway, when I’m doing math homework. When I’m supposed to be sleeping, when my body is busy but my mind is not. I always have a book with me. When I don’t, I feel a fluttering of panic. How am I supposed to get through the next five minutes—two hours—fifteen seconds without something to read? Hell, a menu will do. I’ll even take a phone book, especially if it has ads. I could reread Joe’s Crab Shack and Shrimp ten times over before realizing that there was nothing really interesting about it. License plates are more generous fodder than an empty room

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

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

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