About R. Richardsson

Author and father of four, I dream of a day when my livelihood is my writing. My breakout work is with the 'Ballad of John Rizzerio' trilogy; the story of a vampire hunter who, through a tragic turn of events, loses everything he holds dear. It will take more than a few prayers to bring him back from the the brink of despair in time to defend humanity. I enjoy working with the Horror Genre, but will soon be spending a lot of time with Medieval Fantasy. I enjoy both genres and will always have one foot in the door of the other, depending on my project. All of my work is fiction, and will remain this way, with the exception of an up and coming memoir. If you want to follow my progress, feel free to like my FB page, follow me @Cryptic_Dude or add me to your circle on G+ as well!

Another Time, Another Place

Posted on July 5, 2015 by R. Richardsson

I find myself feeling a little nostalgic this evening. As I sit out on the patio, listening to my neighborhood celebrate this nation’s independence, I can’t help but reflect to an experience I had while traveling abroad.

In the winter months of 1997, and for all the wrong reasons, I found myself in the Dutch community of Nijverdal, just an hour and a half east(ish) of Amsterdam. While I would like to say that I was there for myself, it was for matters of the heart that had put me so far away from home.

I don’t believe I made a mistake in going there. Okay, sure. Maybe I was a little out of my element. No. That’s not exactly correct. I was a LOT out of my element. At that time of my life, I had very little direction in life, other than where my heart led me. Unfortunately, the heart knew not what was best for me. That was something I had to discover on my own.

I was terribly alone in a place where I only knew one other person who spoke my language. Fortunately, I found shelter with a family who rented out a room for people such as myself.

I would like to say that I went out often, that I explored this strange new land, but if I did, I might be telling a taller tale that I am used to sharing. No. The truth is much more boring than I’ve ever admitted. Most days, when I wasn’t desperately seeking her companionship, I sat alone in my room, staring out a window, and wondering just how the hell I had gotten myself into this situation.

My hosts were kind, if not understanding. I think they knew why I was there, but they encouraged me to get out and explore when we weren’t together. Of course there were some days when I did just that. They weren’t many, but I did the best I could, given what I was prepared for. I did walk from one end of the community to the next. I explored few local places to eat, walked through a market just to see the differences in food, and I even found a pub(?) in which I stopped to have a drink from time to time.

Every morning they laid out an impressive spread for breakfast. I could never eat everything they had for me, but I enjoyed trying foods I wasn’t used to having. You could ask me to recount them, but sadly, I’ve lost most of those memories to the things I’d thought more important at the time. It’s weird how memory works. I can recall enjoying strange pastries, having a poached egg for the first time, and many different kinds of crackers and jams, but I can’t, for the life of me, tell you their names.

Never-the-less, it was a magical time. There aren’t very many people in my life who can say that they have had such an experience. Most have barely ventured outside of my home state, let alone into another country, and I am thankful for having been there when I did.

Tonight finds me comparing the differences between our communities and how we celebrate the holiday, and I am a little saddened at what I’m discovering.

Tonight, two-hundred and thirty-nine years after the fact, we continue to celebrate the day that the thirteen colonies declared their independence. It represents our freedom as a country, from another whose ideals we no longer wished to uphold.

It’s a night that should feel as important to us, as a people, as does the sanctity of our flag. But, I have to wonder how many of the people around me are truly thankful for what we celebrate. How many people have paused to reflect on why they are outside launching hundreds of dollars worth of colorful explosives into the air. Is it really about this day? Or has it only become about who has the better fireworks display? Have they, just once, thought about the struggles our forefathers had to overcome? Or are they simply concerned about drinking beer, eating good food, and the company they keep?

I have a very specific reason for asking these questions, you see.

I’m sitting out here, desperately searching through the trees and power lines for those pretty colors, but I am not feeling any of the magic that I did in Nijverdal. (But more on that in a minute!)

The air smells of sulfur and burnt paper. All around me, explosions interrupt the night with varying degrees of loudness, and the sky flashes as fuses reach the small amounts of gunpowder in each device. Sirens sound in the distance as emergency vehicles rush off to help some unfortunate fool who wasn’t careful enough not to blow off their fingers. There are screams in the distance, punctuating every firework. Some are from children not accustomed to the sound, while others are that of adults arguing over something trivial.

Perhaps my heart isn’t in it this year? Maybe I’ve been bitten by the humbug? I can’t help but sit here, close my eyes, and for the lack of displays in the sky, imagine I am on the edge of a war zone.

There is no sense of joy in this night. The colors in the sky are too far and few between for me to enjoy, and even the sounds seem a bit off to me this year. We, as a community, are failing at what should be the greatest celebration of the year!

It’s nothing like New Year’s Eve of ’97-’98, but then again, I don’t think anything will ever come close achieving that level of greatness in my eyes.

I’d had made no special plans for that night, except to turn in a bit early. I also had no clue as to what was in store for me!

Shortly after sundown, one of my gracious hosts knocked on my door and beckoned me to follow.

“Come! Come,” she said with a smile on her face.

How could I refuse? Her good cheer was infectious, and I have to admit that I was curious as to what was about to happen. She took me by the hand and all but dragged me down the stairs, out the front door, and to a lawn chair, where I would be teleported into another world!

The whole community was buzzing with activity! I was no fool. I had seen such preparations being made a hundred times before, but never had I seen so many people getting involved! Every family in the neighborhood was busy setting up tables, securing launch stations, and laying out the most impressive cache of fireworks I had ever seen!

I can’t even imagine how much money was launched into the sky that night, but for me, it wasn’t about just that. People wandered up and down the block, pausing to shake a hand and offer a warm greeting. Children laughed, played, and brought smiles to everyone around them. It was as close to heaven I think that a person could be on this mortal coil.

The night stretched on for hours. HOURS! The mood never lessened, and after the children went inside, strong drinks only helped to enforce the good cheer. All of these people, so happy to send out the old and bring in the new. It was absolutely amazing!

Yes, the air was thick with smoke and the smell of sulfur, but it was also as bright as day. There was a multitude of colors above me, before me, and all around me, that had it been a tangible substance, I might have drowned in it. If home and heaven were the same place, I knew that I had finally arrived.

It’s hard to imagine the feeling I experienced that night, but if I was to try to explain it to you, I’d be remiss to capture it in words. I’d like to think that I must have been a lot like those children from The Sandlot, when Benny hit the home run. Was it a home run? I think, only because nobody had their eyes on the ball.

Have I felt that way since?

Not in the way that you’d imagine. Any sense of community I’ve ever felt was left behind. I’ve never known my neighbors in the way that they knew each other, nor have I felt the trust or open hearts they shared with this foreigner.

The differences in our communities aren’t subtle, by any means.

There, everyone knew each other’s names. They celebrated their holidays with passion, and the day after? The day after, they ALL worked together to clean their streets and properties of all litter from the night before! By lunch, there was no evidence that thousands of dollars worth of fireworks had been blown to kingdom come.

Here, most people use today as an excuse to not go to work. As I have already mentioned, it’s a day used for cooking food, drinking large amounts of alcohol, and comparing their cache size, by seeing who can shoot off the load the fastest.

Okay, maybe that’s a little crude, but how many cries of “Happy Fourth of July,” have you heard tonight? Okay, how many have you heard past your initial greetings?

“Hey Joe, happy 4th of July!”

“Oh, hey Phil! Happy 4th to you too, man!”

And that’s usually it, right? Or, maybe you even close the evening with the same four words, but what I want to know is; “Do you use them as you eat, drink, and make merry?”

I’m not the most political person I know. In fact, I’m the farthest one can be from politics, but on this day I have two-hundred and six patriotic bones in my body. I’m thankful for the insight those men had so long ago, in signing that Declaration, and I think often of the men and women who continue to fight for the freedom we’re supposed to be celebrating.

Does every action need to be weighted with the reason we’re doing these things today? No. Only your thoughts. Because, ‘Murika, am I right?

I don’t know if I’ll ever find that level of awe I experienced that night, but I will always carry it in my heart.

Before I came in tonight, I shouted; “Happy Fourth of July!” I know I am the only one to do so, for even the person who responded wasn’t able to return in kind. Do you want to know what he said?

I think it was; “Hey! Shut the fuck up over there!”

*sigh*

Trespasser (Part XX)

Posted on July 1, 2015 by R. Richardsson

“I don’t know, John. The whole thing seems pretty suspicious to me.”

Marsha stood behind her husband as the two watched through their picture window. Her arms were wrapped around his midsection, hugging him tightly as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Outside, and just a few houses down, two police cars still sat in front of the Robinson house. They lit up the entire street with spinning lights of blue and red.

“I mean, why would he be up on the roof in the middle of the night? I thought that his arthritis wouldn’t let him climb on ladders anymore?”

He sighed, shaking his head from side to side as he did. There was no explanation for why his friend would be on the roof. The last time that he had felt the need to be up there, he had come over and asked if he could do it for him.

“It wouldn’t,” he answered softly. His words were choked, and it took every ounce of control that he had to keep from losing it himself. Like most of the residents on their street, he had known Davie for most of his life. They were about as close of friends as two could be, without being blood, and there wasn’t much that he didn’t know about the other.

There was a soft knock from the side of the garage door, and when John looked up, there stood his long-time neighbor; Davie Robinson. He was bundled heavily against the bitter cold, but the look in his eyes showed he drew no comfort from the extra warmth. He could see the pain in them, poorly masked by the smile he wore on his face, just as he could see it in the way he carried his hands; curled and close to his body.

“John! Cold as shit today, huh?”

“It’s fucking miserable,” he answered, returning his friend’s smile. “Care to step in for a few? Maybe have a shot of Bourbon to warm your bones?”

Davie looked once over his shoulder before answering; “Sure, I think I have time fer that,” he said. “But just as long as ya don’t tell the missus!”

“Deal,” he laughed. As Davie warmed up by the space heater, he walked over to the cabinet where he stored his liquor. A moment later, he returned with a glass for each of them, three-quarters of the way full. After a friendly clink of their glasses, both downed their drinks and set the empty container on the counter.

“So, how is the missus doing?”

“Ain’t happy unless she bitchin’ bout somethin,” Davie countered playfully, then; “Oh, she doin’ fine, as always. Keepin’ busy.”

“That’s good, that’s good. What about you? How are you holding up?”

“Not one of my better days,” he answered with a sigh. “Actually, that’s why I’m here. You mind helping me with somethin’?”

It had been just last winter when they had shared that drink together. Davie had come to ask if John would help him with his Christmas lights. It had taken a couple of hours, give or take another break in the garage, but he had been the only one on the roof that day. Davie’s rheumatoid arthritis had been so bad that it was all he could do to even pick up a hammer.

The continued to stand before the window, long after the police had gone, drawing comfort from each other. Neither of them noticed that there was a shadow out-of-place across the street. They didn’t see the dark figure as it blended further into the shadows, nor did they observe it climb the same stairs that Davie had climbed not too long before.

Trespasser (Part XIX)

Posted on June 26, 2015 by R. Richardsson

It was probably a mistake that he had come to be here. He wasn’t the man that he had been twenty years ago; full of youth and free from pain. If the home’s new owner were to come home earlier than he had expected, there would be no explaining why, or how, he came to be inside.

The floor creaked beneath his feet, and even though he had been inside this house many times in the past, it had changed into something completely foreign to him. Where there had been memorabilia from the war was now empty space. Dust collected on the wall where pictures had once been, rectangular reminders that someone had once cared enough to hang something there.

His breathing was slow and uneven. Fear crept into his bones as he stood in this place where he no longer had any business being. It was his home now, if you could call it that. There was nothing here to suggest that anyone even lived in it at all. Only two rooms showed any indication that someone had recently been in them.

The living room, where an old war veteran once proudly shelved his many achievements, where he often shared a beer with his friends, and where he was known to host the occasional football party, was now void of all items save two; an old Victorian chair, and an equally decrepit end table. The latter rocked on wobbly legs.

Both were positioned before the large picture window that faced toward the community. From here, one could see every house down the street.

“Of course you can,” Davie mused silently. His eyes had fallen on the binoculars that rested on the small table. He had seen many pairs of such devices before, but nothing quite like the ones before him. They were black, compact, and could be worn around the head by use of an adjustable band. There were switches on the side, and when he held the lens before his eyes, he discovered that one activated a night vision feature, while the other illuminated everything in red.

Carefully, he returned them to where they originally lay before moving on.

The only other room that appeared to have been used was the wash room. Several rolls of toilet paper were stacked inside the linen closet, toiletries were carelessly tossed upon the counter, and a single towel hung over the shower door. Aside from the fact that this person invested more in toilet paper, than he did in food, he might almost be normal.

Davie was turning to leave with something caught his eye.

At the end of the counter, on the floor, and between it and the toilet, was a small wicker basket. At first, he might have mistaken it for a fancy trash can, if not for the pictures that were laying inside. He couldn’t quite make out who the subject was in the top picture, but it appeared to have been professionally taken.

“Of course it was,” he growled as he remembered the other morning, watching as he snapped pictures of Vanessa, unaware that someone was watching his every move as well. He stepped into the small room and leaned forward to get a better look.

He sucked in his breath with a hiss as he realized that the picture was, indeed, taken of his neighbor’s daughter. His heart began to pound in anger, causing his blood pressure to rise, and his vision narrowed on the image before him. As he lifted it with shaky hands, the thought occurred to him that he was going to kill this little pervert.

The thought never had a chance to finish; at that exact moment, something heavy came down on the back of his skull, and everything went black.