Where Did I Go?

Posted on January 25, 2014 by R. Richardsson

Out of curiosity, a mood I sometimes find myself in these days, I sometimes Google myself or the things I have written. It’s a habit that started three years ago, when writing was yet wishful thinking and I was focusing on running an online fishing tackle supply, and it has since stuck.

Because I was competing in prices against several commercial names, I would spend hours researching the prices of their products vs. the prices of mine. There were a handful of my products that were unique and I created a small campaign to promote them. While I don’t need to get into the details, I will say that I just happened to find one of my products after doing a search.

As I was wont to do, I searched myself.

Lo and Behold, nearly all of my products popped up in the search! And thus the beginnings of an addiction was born.

No, not the addiction to finding myself online. I can see how you would jump to that conclusion! No, it is an addiction that pushed me to do things which would get me on the Google hot list.

With the business it was all about the products. The more I could find for my business; the more I could make mine to sell, the more I wanted to see if I was ‘searchable’ because of my efforts.

And just like my business, so too has it been for my writing as well.

When I first joined the WordPress experience, I could expect to find my work on the first or second page of a search using my pen name. It wasn’t long before R. Richardsson’s Beneath the Headstone, and the many posts that it contained were the only thing on the first three pages! How very exciting!

I continued to work hard on my posts. I began writing webseries for my site to help further the cause. (Oh, and because I also wanted to have free stories for you to read as well!) And for months, I felt like the King of the hill.

But this has all changed.

I have read that Google has made changes in how its code works, that these changes make it harder for a person to be seen. I completely understand that this is something built to help protect against the many, MANY scams that are out there, but what about the little man? What about the entrepreneur trying to make an honest living? What about the independent writer trying to get his or her name out there?

Maybe I’m thinking about this the wrong way. Or am I?

I know that my work stands on its own. It’s a testament to my efforts and I hope that you have enjoyed reading at least some of the stories I share with you.

I know that my work stands on its own, but it’s disheartening that you can’t find my pen name, either in written form or through images anymore. When I talk about my work with people in passing, if I’ve sparked enough interest in them, they may go and try to find out more about this R. Richardsson character who writes Horror, Paranormal Fiction and Fantasy. When they do, it’s as if I don’t exist. If you search for my website, ‘Beneath The Headstone’, now that’s a different story. At the time of this writing, there were at least three links on the first page alone!

I don’t claim to understand how Google figures its mechanics. I try to use what little SEO knowledge I have to the best of my ability. I don’t spam links to my site on people’s blogs, and when I comment on their own writing, I try to add something meaningful to their work. I promote my work on social media, but I also try to inject a sense of myself into my posts/tweets as well.

I feel like I’m doing all the right things, but as far as Google is concerned, there isn’t a search result where my name rightfully belongs these days? So the question remain; where did I go?

Well the answer is simpler than you think. I’m right here, you see, right where I belong; Beneath The Headstone, in the boneyard of my mind, where all stories are given a second chance at life.

I do so hope that you (continue to) enjoy these little beasties I keep sending your way, because sooner or later, one of them’s going to get you. And when it does, I hope it keeps you awake for many nights to come.

Or at least one. One is good.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXXIV.2)

Posted on January 24, 2014 by R. Richardsson

Disclaimer

The following is one of many installments for a story designed specifically for my blog. While it does step out of my usual genre, there are some things still not suitable for a younger audience. Violent/Graphic descriptions, strong language and sexual situations may be found through different sections. Each entry will tell a small portion of the story during different times and may not directly follow the one prior to it.

This story follows the direct interactions, as well as the deteriorating thoughts of a young man who is struggling not only with the relationships he has with those around him, but with the relationship he has with himself as well.

Finally, all work is strictly fiction and does not reflect the views of the author. Any resemblance to actual person(s) is only a coincidence.

If this isn’t your cup of tea, then avoid these excerpts and hopefully I’ll see you around my other posts and webseries!

———

It took her several minutes before she realized what had startled her from her slumber. In its cradle on the nightstand, her phone continued to drone on without any regard to her comfort. She rolled onto her side and blinked her eyes several times until she was able to read the display on her digital clock.

“Uhg… One twenty-six,” she groaned miserably. She had lost track of how many times the phone had rang since waking her up; was it ten? Twenty? She wasn’t entirely sure, but what she was sure of was that whoever was on the other end of the line had better have a damn good reason for waking her up!

She reached out with her right hand and snatched the handset from the receiver, but when she saw the name on the Caller ID, she paused before pressing the TALK button.

“Misty?”

“Megan! Turn on your TV.”

“What,” she asked with a hint of irritation in her voice. “Do you have any fucking idea what time it is?”

“Just turn it on you skeeve,” the voice pleaded from deep with-in the speaker. As she reached for the remote, she wondered what could have shaken her friend so badly as to wake her with such a strange request. She pointed the remote toward her small twenty-seven inch screen and pressed power.

It was an older model television. While she did have a part-time job, she preferred to increase the size of her wardrobe rather than spend her money on anything other than her cellphone and gas for her car.

“Okay, it’s on,” she dead-panned into the microphone. “Now what.”

“Turn it to the News,” Misty begged. Her voice was thick with emotion and she sounded as if she had been crying.

“Dammit. Can’t you just tell me what’s going on?!”

“It’s Lucy,” she sobbed.

“Scott’s Lucy,” she asked in confusion. Even as she spoke, she was flipping the channel over the All Saints Action News on Channel 6. The screen depicted a reporter standing sideways, looking towards the front of Lucy Winters’ house, where EMT’s could be seen wheeling a gurney out the front door. Several police cars could be seen parked in the street and A.S.P.D.’s finest were combing the scene for evidence.

“Oh my god,” she said breathlessly. The reporter was positioned at least thirty feet away, behind the yellow tape, but she could see that they had pulled the sheet over the face of the victim. It wasn’t hard to discern that the form beneath the sheet was Lucy. She could see a strange shape jutting upwards, beneath the sheet and from the body’s midsection, which was also the source of a growing red stain.

“Oh my god,” she repeated, also in tears at this time.

“I know, right?”

The reporter didn’t have very much in the way of useful information to offer, other than at this time it looked as if she was the victim of a home invasion. Details were being kept tight under wraps while they sought out possible suspects for questioning.

They cried into each other’s ears for several minutes, and it was after several more minutes of silence before either was able to speak.

“She looked HUGE on that stretcher, didn’t she,” Misty finally asked.

“Shut UP,” Megan drawled, followed by a light chuckle.

“Oh, too soon, huh.”

“You’re such a bitch Misty. Seriously.”

It suddenly dawned on her that her brother had gone out earlier that evening.

“Oh shit, Misty. Did they say anything about anyone else being in the house?!”

“No. Why?”

“I think Scott might be over there! Hold on, let me call you back.”

“Uh, okay?”

She had only heard the first half of her friend’s response before tossing the phone onto the other side of her bed. She was up in a flash, flying down the hall to the other side of the house where her brother’s room was. She was conscious of her feet slapping against the wooden floor. She could hear her breath as it whistled in through her nose and blasted out through her mouth. Her heart drummed in her ears, playing a beat of terror more primal than anything she listened to on the radio.

She could see his door, still an impossible twenty feet away, with its ‘Stay Out’ and ‘No Entry’ signs warning her against entry. The hallway stretched about before her as if in a dream, growing longer with every stride. From somewhere in the distance, it may have been downstairs or from a hundred miles away, she heard the sound of a door slamming.

“Scott,” a female voice called from downstairs. It sounded like her mom, but it couldn’t have been her. She was pulling a double shift tonight.

“Scott?!”

“Mom,” she called out in return.

“Megan! Have you seen Scott?” Her voice was getting closer. She was running up the stairs, even as Megan was running down the hall and as she passed by them, she turned and saw her on the landing below. She was out of breath, doubled over with her hands on her knees and gasping for some much needed oxygen.

“Mom,” she said thickly.

“I know honey,” she answered weakly. “He’s not answering his phone.”

Megan turned and closed the distance between the stairs and her brother’s room, sliding to a stop before his door. Her hands were pounding on the wood frame even before she had finished moving, alternating between knocking and trying to turn the knob. The latter effort was useless, however, for he never left the door unlocked.

“Scott, open the fucking door,” she screeched in panic.

Her mother was right behind her and soon joined in her efforts. Both women were in tears. It wasn’t long before each sought out the comfort of the other and they were in each other’s arms, faces buried in the other’s shoulder and crying uncontrollably.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXXIV)

Posted on January 14, 2014 by R. Richardsson

Disclaimer

Finally, all work is strictly fiction and does not reflect the views of the author. Any resemblance to actual person(s) is only a coincidence.

If this isn’t your cup of tea, then avoid these excerpts and hopefully I’ll see you around my other posts and webseries!

———

In the city of All Saints, all was as it should be. Its citizens rested safely behind bolted doors and there was very little movement on the streets. The occasional A.S.P.D vehicle broke through the shadows, inside of which two sets of watchful eyes kept to their promise of peace. Even less frequently, the silence was broken as a startled dog warned against those who would trespass onto its territory. All was as it should be, except in one dark alley which ran parallel to Munson Avenue.

With night falling heavily upon the city’s shoulders, there were few places still filled with human activity. So it was that no-one saw the bloodied figure as he limped slowly between the worn tire tracks. But had there been a single soul nearby, it would have been chased into a week’s worth of nightmares by the ghostly face whose haunted eyes told a tale of something darker than the shadows covering the young man’s tracks.

And though there was only the lone figure passing through the murky depths, there were two very distinct voices arguing amongst themselves.

“It hurts…”

“Leave it in.”

The young man reached down and grasped the wooden handle protruding from his abdomen.

“I can’t take it anymore, I have to take it out.”

“You do, and you die.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.

He began to slowly pull handle away from his body, drawing forth the seven inches of stainless steel so recently sheathed inside of him. Pain flared through every nerve in his stomach as small lightning bolts fired along the highways of his nervous system and into his brain. He groaned and paused, reluctant to continue along his current course of action.

“Don’t,” the other warned.

“Why not,” he pleaded desperately.

“Because, you idiot, we’re not finished yet.”

The young man stumbled weakly to the side and into the wooden fence at his right. His knees began to buckle beneath him, but before he could tumble to the ground, his right hand grasped the weather worn oak and steadied him falling.

“I can’t… I’m so tired.”

But there was no answer. None that anyone would have heard. He continued to stand against the tall privacy fence, one hand wrapped around the wooden handle of the butcher knife while the other continued to hold him up. He stared down the path before him, his eyes seemingly studying the deep ruts worn by years of passage as the minutes slowly ticked by.

The minutes grew into the double digits before he began to move once more, and when he did, there was the beginnings of a smile forming on his expression. And, punctuated by his pale skin with the promise of murder in his eyes, the effect was very sinister indeed.