Denishea Young 

“I am riding a book. It is going to be awesome!”

“Really, you are riding a book?”

“Yes, riding”

“Don’t you mean writing?”

“Yeah... that is what I said, riding.”

“Noooo you said Riding which is different from Writing.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Ra Ra Riding is what you do on a bike. You ride a bike. Wr Wr Writing is what you do to create a document or paper.”

“Yes, I know that, but they sound the same to me.”

“Well trust me there is a distinction.”

“Trust You!”

“Yeah, trust me!”

“I don’t even know YOU!”

“While that might be true, trust and believe what I say is still sincere.”

“Yeah, well, my mom won’t think so! Mom!!!” Turning to see for whom the boy bellowed, he saw a slim and poised woman who no doubt had a proper education.

“Mom, this man says that riding is different from riding!” 

“How peculiar!” said the woman, turning to look at the man she examined him from head to toe. “Whatever do you mean there is a difference between riding and riding?”

Tipping his hat, he explained “Well my dear there is indeed a distinct difference between riding and writing. One is done on a bike and the other with pen and paper.”

“Ah ha... yess... well while the word may indeed have two different meanings, they are both pronounced the same are they not?”

“In point of fact madam...” before he could finish his statement she continued.

“There is no real difference between riding and riding. And while I find this conversation positively titillating, we must be on our way. Now darling son of mine grab your pack. This is our stop. We mustn’t be late on our way to Chilcotin-Cariboo; And what have I told you about talking to strangers!”

“But Ma! I wasn’t talking to ‘em no how. I was....”

Astonished at the turn of events Paul Prime Pierre could only shake his head in bewilderment. Turning to the man beside him he looked for affirmation. “You know there is a distinction between riding and writing, right?”

Nodding his head enthusiastically the man confirmed, “Right mate Riding and Riding!” and turned back to his paper.

Paul sighed and turned to look out the window as the train continued rumbling down its tracks writing its own stories or is it riding?