My Thoughts, or, Strewn Along The Side Of The Road

Posted on August 10, 2013 by R. Richardsson

I write fiction because there is nothing in the pages of my books that will ever hurt a person. You won’t come across any of my denizens of darkness, nor will your soul ever be in peril. What I produce through my stories are special effects that are seen through my words. My imagery, if my descriptions are written well enough, become your fantasy and I truly hope you are as immersed in each page as if you were there.

I draw inspiration from many sources.

Having grown up on such classics as Elvira’s Movie Macabre and Ray Adam’s Friday Fright night. I have watched the work of Boris Karloff, studied the great Vincent Price and delved deep into hundreds of ‘B’ movies over the decades, and in doing so, I’ve discovered a place where I truly belong; no longer behind the story, watching, but on the other side, creating.

There is no greater inspiration, however, than from the world around us.

Music. Nature. The Discovery Channel. WIBW NEWS. CNN. War. Politics…

The true horror lies in the world around us. Only, most of us are numb to the atrocities that we see every day. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not preaching. I don’t have statistical facts in front of me. I only have my own experience, based on several years of activity with those around me.

Think about it. How many people do you know who are passionate with a cause; whether politics, war, (or peace), our rights as citizens and as people, religion, against (or for) GMO foods…

Are you surrounded by your brethren of beliefs? Or, are you one in a few?

My personal experience; I personally know one person who is passionate about his beliefs in religion, government and about his (as well as our) basic rights. He is the only person I have had constant contact with, from a large group of people, who isn’t numb.

Everyone else is what we would consider as ‘just a normal person, like you or me.’

Have you heard that phrase?

These are the people you know that talk about their family, their homes, cars and hobbies. These are the guys and gals who you make small talk with around the water cooler, about anything and nothing at all. They smile at you in greeting. They wave goodbye. They could be your family, they might be your friends and you know that you can always count on them to be ‘there’ in your everyday routine.

These others? They follow current news, but, they aren’t passionate with it. When you sit down with them, they might talk your entire break away about one or two issues. They believe in what they are sharing with you and they either trust you enough TO share, or they don’t really care what you think and are going to push their ideals at or onto you.

Okay, that’s a whole other discussion there, but I won’t get into that for now. What I want to express is my thoughts on how these people aren’t numb to the horrors around us. They see it. They embrace it and they want you to know about it. Kind of a little like what I’m doing here. I, however, don’t want you to follow anything with this, other than a simple idea.

For me, there’s nothing scarier than the world around us. It’s tangible. It’s real, and it’s a sonofabitch.

There’s no margin for error. There is no forgiveness for what is done. We can only live in the best way that we know how and try to make the world a better place, the best way we know how. (And the problem with that, is that there is no common agreement as to how we should go about it. Everyone has their own ideas, whether its an individual pressing his/her ideals, or a group pushing theirs, there is no one practice we all follow.)

Robberies, theft, murder on any count, religious fanaticism, political fanaticism, terrorism, car-jackings, home invasions, fatal accidents, (or non-fatal, but paralyzing accidents…

The list goes on. I’m sure you might have thought of some things of your own as you were reading this.

The world is chocked FULL of horror.

I draw a lot of inspiration from the previous works of others, but my stories would have no emotion in them if it was only about this character doing that mission. The real world is full enough sadness and sorrow that if I can draw just enough of it into my work, THIS, is where I believe the frights are made.

My faithful reader will know what I’m talking about here. It’s not about rewriting stories that have already been done. No, it’s about creating something new that will live on in your dreams and nightmares. It’s about putting an emotion into you, the reader, that will bring you to laughter or tears. (Or, if I do it right; screams, late, late at night!)

I love to write, yes, but I love to tell a story even more. And a good story is memorable. A great story is immortal.

Will you remember me, if I recreate the same old shtick that has reused over the years? I will remember you, if YOU do!

If you know me in person; you know that I don’t have a strong passion for politics. I could care less. If we’ve sat together over a cup of coffee, you know that I’m not going to shake my finger at you for a few swears and suggest more time at church. That’s not my thing. I won’t talk about our rights, unless I believe enough in what you’re saying to agree.

But this doesn’t mean I don’t care either. It affects me when children go missing. I’m saddened when I hear about ‘x’ number of people who were killed while doing something that should be safe; such as going to a movie. I’m frustrated when I see so many things going wrong around us, but my heart isn’t in trying to change these things by actions alone.

My love lies in writing and this is how I choose to express myself. I write fiction, but I hope to do so well enough to channel real emotion into my creations. It’s that spark of life that makes a writer into an author (and yes, I know how that looks. Maybe someday I’ll share my thoughts on the difference between the two…if you’re interested.)

*deep breath*

What a long and seemingly directionless rant. If you find yourself here, I thank you. I had a purpose when I started. I believe I followed through with it to the end. And, I truly hope you enjoyed/hated/don’t care enough of this post to have reached this point.

Because any of the three means that my work is still being read, and as you might or might not know; if my work continues to be read, then I can call it a job well done.

(coming soon; She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXV) & The Box (Part VII)

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXIV)

Posted on August 4, 2013 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!

———

“Hey Scott,” Arnie said in greeting. “Is it alright if I sit here?”

Scott was sitting at a small table on the second level of the library. He had picked this spot because it was near the periodicals and was normally secluded, but somehow luck just wasn’t going to be with him this afternoon. Though he had his books spread out over the table, Arnie seemed content to fill in the piece of the pie he had left bare.

“I guess,” he answered with a sigh.

Arnold plopped down in the chair across from him and steepled his fingers, studying him. Scott looked up from his book, slowly, when he felt the other’s eyes upon him.

“What?”

“Nothing! You look different, is all.”

Arnie smiled and pushed his glasses higher up his nose.

“Why don’t you take a picture then? Write a book or something, shit, but quit staring at me. What’s your problem anyway?”

“I thought maybe you could use someone to talk to.”

“And what makes you think that I want to talk to you, Arnold? Does this look like the kind of place that someone goes to when they want to have a friendly little chat? For that matter, when did we suddenly become friends?”

Arnold continued to remain unfazed by the obvious hints he left for him and he was losing his patience. He had chosen this spot as a place where he could recharge his mental batteries. This is where he came to study, to enjoy a new book and to prepare himself for the labors of having to deal with people during the second half of the day. What he didn’t want to do was spend it with someone who was beneath him, in the long line of bullied victims.

“Why do you care so much about how I’m feeling all the sudden?”

“People are talking, Scott, and I AM concerned. I know what it’s like to not have any friends. I’ve been doing this for years, but you… You’ve gotten yourself into something that’s on an entirely different level.”

“I don’t really give a rat’s ass WHAT people are saying, Arnie, I never have. So, you’re like the king turd when it comes to not having friends or something? You may not have noticed, but I don’t exactly have any friends myself.”

Arnold looked at him with something that was a bit more like pity than he was comfortable with and he began to feel something clawing at him from the inside. The ‘other’ was suckling on his his rage, growing stronger from the pure emotion that was pumping in his veins and he viciously ground his teeth together as he fought to keep ‘him’ at bay.

Arnie sighed, rather sadly, and lowered his hands to the table.

“We’re not too different, you and I…”

“…more so then you’ll ever know…”

“…just trying to offer you friendship, when everybody else only offers disdain.”

He had missed some of what Arnie said, when the ‘other’ spoke, but it didn’t make that much of a difference. He was able to fill in what was missing. A part of him wanted to accept the offer on the table, but at the same time, another part of him was reminded of what had happened in his kitchen.

Images of Tippy flashed through his thoughts; of him standing outside with a shovel, burying her beneath the Maple tree. He was reminded of the night when he had fantasized about killing his sister, and, of how he had thought it was real. His heart ached as he battled with memories of his most recent visit to Lucy’s house.

She had been so sweet at first. She had payed for their first date, and afterwards, gone down on him in the car. It was the first time he had ever been with a girl, in any capacity, and it had felt so good that he was instantly trapped in her web. She continued to do things to, and for, him over the next several days. Until…

”You’re going to learn something about me, Scott…”

With Lucy, he had found himself with a whole new set of problems. Friendship? He barely had enough to offer himself anymore, let alone to give to someone new.

“I don’t think so,” he finally admitted.

Arnie shrugged, a gesture which was innocent enough but strummed dangerously on his last nerve, and stood up to leave.

“If you won’t accept MY friendship, Scott, when all I am offering is someone you can talk to…” He let the thought trail off and looked at him for a few minutes longer, as if waiting for him to suddenly change his mind.

“Just so you know,” he said as he was leaving, “the offer’s always on the table.”

“About fucking time,” the ‘other’ said as he leapt to the front of his consciousness, “I thought we were going to have to push him over the railing in order to shut him up!”

Scott succumbed to the will of the ‘other’, who had become considerably stronger over the last few weeks, and it would be hours before he would escape from his dark prison.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXIII)

Posted on August 3, 2013 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!

———

“Oh my God,” he screamed. “What have I done?”

The kitchen had suddenly become filled with a cacophony of high pitched screams, so loud that his ears rang. The sound emanated from just inches before him, at his feet, from the terrified dog now trapped between the bottom of the door and the floor. Her hind legs had been broken in no less than two places. When the door had sucked them out from under her, there had been several miniature explosions as the bones shattered.

The madman in his mind had retreated, for now, and he was left alone to share the terror that she was experiencing.

“Ohgodohgodohgodpleasebequiet,” he machine gunned out. The words flew over his lips, a futile prayer for the horrible action he had just committed. There was going to be no answer from above, nor was there going to be one from within either. He was alone and he was going to pay for what he had done.

“Shut up, goddamn you, I need to think,” he shouted.

The sound of his voice only spurred the poor creature on, however, as she began jerking her upper body into pantomime sit-ups. He looked on in horror as blood began to pool out from the injury in her right leg, mixing with the original reason for her pawing at the door in the first place. His nose burned from the smell, and his stomach lurched.

From somewhere outside, he could hear someone calling in the distance;

“Hello?” and “It sounds like someone’s killing her!” wafted into his range of hearing. His heart jumped into his throat, a portal which had only moments ago threatened to become the emergency exit from his stomach, and he dropped to his knees before her. Tippy snarled, nipping madly as he moved his hands closer, and was silenced when he closed them around her muzzle.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed as he clamped down tighter, restricting her airway, “there’s no other way!”

Her eyes began to bulge as she realized what he was doing, and her struggles increased as she fought against him. Another stream of urine shot out from…

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden blow to the back of his head.

“I SAID,” Lucy said with emphasis, “PLEASE get me a drink from the KITCHEN!” She paused, taking a deep breath and glaring at him beneath her furrowed brow. “You’re going to learn something about me, Scott. I don’t like to repeat myself. And, if you want to keep getting ‘it’, then you are going to have to get the hang of things around here.”

Resigned, he jumped up and walked quickly to her kitchen.

It was going to be a long night.