Writer’s Block is RVA Magazine’s series highlighting contemporary writers working in Richmond and across the Commonwealth. Each week, we feature original poems, short stories, or essays. Just real voices writing right now.
This week, we’re featuring two poems by Cameron Ritter. His work leans into observation and dialogue, pulling from everyday moments that feel familiar but slightly off when you sit with them. There’s a dry humor running through both pieces, along with a sense of distance from the systems and spaces they move through.
If you’d like to be featured, send your work to hello@rvamag.com with the subject line “Writer’s Block.”
STARTUP #2
by Cameron Ritter
His name was Pat
and he lived alone
in his four-bedroom house
with two palm trees out front.
He bought an Airstream trailer
and paid the company
to rip out the interior
and install desks, high-speed wifi,
a refrigerator.
I met him there
for our 9am interview.
“So it’s trucking?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Hell no.”
“Then what?”
“I want nothing to do with hiring people.”
“You might hire me.”
“Software. It’s software as a service. They call it SAAS.”
He invited me inside the trailer.
A framed diploma from MIT hung on the wall.
He reached into the fridge
and drank from a tall glass.
“Coldbrew… want some?”
I said yes.
He sat across from me,
making tiny computations before he spoke.
“Trucking,” he said, “is ass because to double revenue
means to double headcount.”
“We can’t have that,” I said.
He gulped his coldbrew.
I realized he was wearing sandals,
t-shirt, gym shorts.
My boss, perhaps.
“Uber,” he said, “is a great business.”
“Their driver nearly killed me once.”
“Uber employs zero drivers.”
“His name was Terrance and he had a glock beneath the seat.”
“That’s why we won’t hire bodies.”
“SAAS.”
“Exactly.”
My coldbrew had melted into the ice cubes.
It was half-full
when I drove home.
Despite all that,
I got a call from Pat two days later:
start on Monday?
YOUTH
by Cameron Ritter
We sat on a curb drinking Heineken
next to the Trevi Fountain.
“What is it?” I said.
“A tourist trap built by gypsies.”
“Aliens built it.”
“No—the Vatican operates it.”
“Horse shit.”
“It’s designed to distract you while gypsies grab a wallet
from your ass pocket.”
“I want someone to grab my ass.”
We couldn’t agree.
Stefano rolled up with a cigarello
between his lips.
He attended the international school
and had a different girlfriend each week.
“Maya sent me an address,” he said. “Come.”
“Is she from Iran?”
“I bet ya’ll she’s Egyptian.”
“No, no. I bet she’s Portuguese.”
The four of us stood up.
“I’ll ask her,” Stefano said,
“when we get there.”
We finished our Heinekens
and flung the bottles
into the Trevi Fountain.
Old as shit, we agreed.
Main photo by R. Anthony Harris
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