Thank you to everyone who participated in the “Grateful in 5 Words” Challenge. This has been a blast! We have 11 pieces published (not including mine), and they will be featured on the homepage until Saturday, July 22, 2023.
Stay tuned for the next challenge in September!
Originally published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.
Well, should you have taken that blue pill?
Single, Black, independent bi-women hear voices, too.
Beatrice is a 36-year-old charge nurse in the OR for St. Agnes Memorial Hospital in Blue Lake Falls County. She is a sufferer of migraines, a prisoner to insomnia, and a magnet for bowed-leg men who don’t know any better.
On the eve of her fifth anniversary of work, she began reminiscing about Mike. Mike with the double-dimpled cheeks, endless credit line, and badass walk. But . . . he was a stranger to commitment.
Why is it Mike?! Why would she think about him after the way he left things between them?
He still has two bags of clothing and a pair of shoes in my closet! The nerve of that man! He was supposed to come and get this shit months ago.
She looks around her somber bedroom for clues. Did he leave anything else? No. Just his voice.
And his voice, along with that of Charlie and Omaira’s, seemed to play hopscotch in her mind multiple times per day.
Charlie scooped her heart right from her chest, licked the pain away that surrounded it, and added more. Intentionally or unintentionally, she still isn’t sure.
Omaira had been a woman she met through a mutual friend (let’s call her Sydnee), who thought she would like to try something different. And “different” was perfect for her for five years.
Until it wasn’t. Omaira gave Beatrice one last orgasm before stealing her vintage jewelry, three pairs of costly heels, and the spare key to her car. The car — she had taken to a local chop shop. Easy money.
She wouldn’t find out Omaira had been battling kleptomania until weeks later. She spins the thought of it around in her head once again.
How does one spend five years with someone and still not know them?!
She hated this quality of hers; the knowing and unknowing of things she so casually continued to do. She wanted to hear something else. Anything other than their voices.
Needless to say, these were people she shouldn’t be thinking about, but she was. And isn’t that how love is sometimes?
It sneaks up on us in one of its best disguises, lures us in, carves out a piece of our heart, and then exits stage left — leaving us limp-lipped and unamused.
The alarm clock screeches. It is 06:00 AM. Another night without sleep. Another night without rest.
Originally published in Prism & Pen via Medium.
A Collaborative Effort with BJ Dawson
We, the oppressed are still chained — still
bound to the walls of the majority.
If we breathe the wrong way, a shot to
the lungs while we’re blinking could be
our demise.
Yet . . . they tell us we are free.
If we were free, we’d be able to roam
the streets in our skin — black as night,
beautiful as a half-moon, without fear.
They plummet in our direction — bullets with
no names, claiming our souls one at
a time. And if that’s not enough, we are being
stripped of our bones while we’re already
bare — naked as a newborn, cooing in
the dark, crying to be held — yearning to be loved.
The Powers That Be see no wrong in their ways.
They’re going about business as usual
while we pull at the air disappearing
from our sight.
One by one, rights are being struck down — laws
put in place to keep us in place, and pockets
are being laced with almighty dollars to keep
the loud ones quiet.
Soon we will be wombless, wounded, wound up,
and worked into the plan they have
to be rid of us . . .
And then, what?
And then, nothing.
Split from the bone,
the many, now the one
lone splinter flees this madness
seeking silence, solace, solitude;
a peace, apart from malicious eyes;
the swarming hornets of untended,
weaponized trauma,
wielding perverse justice as
both heirloom and cudgel,
endlessly frustrated by
never striking flush with it.
They lash out in all directions — targeting
the Other with retribution — both of the
self-proclaimed divine and the
self-indulgent, profane type — never pausing
long enough to reflect, to witness that
there is no They, nor is there an Other;
there is, has been, and will only ever be Us.
Many claim to follow someone named Jesus,
who tried telling us exactly this
before being killed for it.
We, the oppressed are still chained — still
bound by rusted yoke of crumbling society
failing to see how the tie that binds also limits
their own roaming; existentially tragic
how we diminish our horizons
by diminishing fractions of life
over the whole,
all while labeling this farce Justice.
But someone says, “Have faith.
Have hope. Remain open to
the possibilities of change,” and
we all stand on tired feet, shuffling
to distant places, wondering when
that “Change” will ever come.
©2023 Tremaine L. Loadholt and Barry Dawson Jr., IV
This isn’t our first rodeo. We’ve been collaborating with one another since the early 2000s. Here are a couple of our other pieces. Thank you for reading.
©2023 Tremaine L. Loadholt and Barry Dawson, Jr., IV originally published in A Cornered Gurl
Two more of our collaborations:
Dead Roses & Understanding the Power of “No”
Ed tossed the remote control to the far right end of the couch after flipping channels for the twentieth time. He slid back in his reclining massage chair, pressed the button to activate the slow pulse on his lumbar spine, and sank into the peacefulness of the night.
Sadie had been gone since Tuesday, and it was Friday. She decided to visit her big sister, Sweetie. She hadn’t seen her in four years.
The WWE’s intro sounded throughout the entire living room. He blinked his eyes a few times to keep from falling asleep. Although he never missed an episode, he struggled tonight to stay awake.
Working the second shift at the power plant was starting to wear on his middle-aged bones. Years ago, he could pull a double, parade around town until 3 in the morning, and still wake up to get another day going at work.
Those days are long gone now. Everything hurts. Even his fingernails. But money’s got to be made.
He silently berated himself for tossing the remote to the far right of the couch. The chair had gotten comfortable and he didn’t want to get up.
He smacked his weary lips, placed two fingers in his mouth, and whistled for his oldest child to come downstairs.
The young one appeared; doe-eyed and slightly aggravated.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Edward Sloane Parker, Jr., reach on over there on that couch and get your daddy the remote control, will you.”
It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement — a cool command. Ed, Jr. shuffled past his dad, leaned over hastily, scooped up the remote, and tossed it in his dad’s lap.
“That it?”
“Yeah, son. That’ll do me.”
The night air crept into the cracks of their old Victorian home, Ed settled into the grip of the reclining massage chair, pressed the volume up button on the remote, and closed his eyes.
“I’ll just rest them for a few. I won’t even miss the main event,” he whispered to the thin air.
When Ed woke up, the sun was beaming down on his beady eyes and the kids were racing downstairs to the kitchen to make breakfast.
He missed the main event. He missed the whole damn show.
Originally published in Hinged.press via Medium.
I’m posting this here as well, as I typically do with ACG challenges.
Hello, beautiful people! Welcome to the fourth challenge since A Cornered Gurl’s relaunch. What do I have in store for you for this challenge? Ah, a sharing of just how grateful we are, even in the midst of this turmoil and grief and age of endless bad news . . . there are still things for which to be grateful.
And how will we do this? Oh, you beautiful human beings, you . . . we will express ourselves by using 5 words only.
adjective
1. warmly or deeply appreciative of kindness or benefits received; thankful:
2. expressing or actuated by gratitude:
3. pleasing to the mind or senses; agreeable; welcome:
The challenge: Writers will share something (or some things) for which they are grateful. It can be anyone and anything, just describe it poetically — in verse by using 5 words only. Are you up for this challenge?
Note: This is a challenge — a challenge in brevity. Please do not submit a series of 5-word grateful responses to me in one post. Think outside the box, people. Use 5 words only in one set.
Nature’s kiss gives
me hope.
•Request to be added as a writer by emailing me at acorneredgurl[AT]gmail[DOT]com with “Please Add Me” as the subject line and please include the link to your Medium profile.
Don’t want to be a writer in A Cornered Gurl — simply comment with your response in this challenge post, or create your own post to your profile or in another publication, however, please use the tags, “Challenge” and “Grateful.”
The challenge will run from Friday, July 07, 2023, until 6:00 PM Monday, July 17, 2023 (with publishing days as Friday, Sunday, and Monday based on ACG’s publishing schedule). Please have “5 Words: Tell me what you’re grateful for” as the subtitle for your submission. CHALLENGE SUBMISSION BEGINS NOW!
It’s time to use our creative minds and share something or some things for which we are grateful; remember, use only 5 words!
Originally published as a newsletter in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.
A Cornered Gurl 
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