What Do You See?

Posted on July 23, 2014 by R. Richardsson

When I was much younger, and while I was still in school, an English Professor brought an empty book to share with the class.

It didn’t have a title, nor did it have any art on its cover. When you opened it, there was no Table of Contents and not a word adorned the pages inside. It was as I said, an empty book.

He passed it around and one by one my peers flipped through it.

He hadn’t told us what he was sharing and he asked that we kept our thoughts to ourselves until it returned to his desk.

Because I sat in the back of the class, I was one of the last to get my hands on this new treasure. I watched with interest as some students snickered when they discovered its secrets, and confusion when others grew irritated with the apparent gag they were inspecting.

It seemed like it took an eternity for the book to get to my desk, (actually only five minutes, but I was young and time was different back then) and I could hardly contain my curiosity.

Then the moment had come. Here was the object of so many mixed emotions and reactions and now it was my turn to learn the source of this mystery!

I was nervous. All eyes were on me as I slowly lifted the cover away from the first page. I hadn’t thought anything about the blank cover, I was so used to wrapping my own with paper bags from the local grocery and it was with the eagerness of youth that I looked for the first line of this new story.

“What do you see,” my professor asked. His voice broke the silence, startling all those nearest him and snapping me back to the present. I didn’t realize it at the time, and if I had I might have embarked down this path a lot sooner, but when I looked upon that blank page I saw something that nobody else had seen.

“Nothing. He sees nothing because there’s nothing there,” answered one of my peers for me.

The class murmured in agreement to the young man’s answer and a small number erupted into nervous laughter, but my instructor had enough wit to quell the uprising before it had gone too far.

“Thank you for your opinion Mr. Handke,” he answered calmly, “but let Mr. Noland answer the question.”

I looked up, startled. A bead of sweat formed above my right brow, growing larger and larger until inevitability it was drawn down by the pull of gravity.

I almost didn’t answer. I almost couldn’t!

But the word that jumped to my mind and from my mouth in that next instant was one that I believe it takes a writer to utter.

“Possibilities.”

Trespasser (Part IV)

Posted on July 17, 2014 by R. Richardsson

“-nessa! Vanessa dear! It’s time to come inside!”

Several houses away from her home, Vanessa sat on the memorial bench that had been placed outside of the vacant home at the end of the block. It had been two years since the passing of the resident inside, two years that might as well have been lifetimes to the young girl. She had very little memory of the old man who had once lived inside, but she did remember that he had once crafted wonderful things for his friends.

She also remembered that she had been his friend as well, and while she no longer played with it, the unfinished ballerina continued to ever remind her of the kindness he had shown her and the other children in her community.

“Vaaaanesssa! Come on dear! Your dinner awaits!”

Of all the other children, she was the only one who remembered where her gift had come from. While they were playing the latest expansions of their favorite computer games, she began to follow in the footsteps of the veteran who had once kept a watchful eye over their community. Every free moment of sunlight, whether after school, during the weekends or over breaks, she walked the sidewalks just as he had done in her father’s stories. She stopped and talked to each of her neighbors with a much higher maturity than any of her peers, and often found herself in conversations about the more worldly things in life.

Sometimes she helped out when she could, picking up trash, sweeping the sidewalks or raking up leaves. Over the last two summers, Vanessa Rowen became a familiar and welcome sight among those who lived down Bryer Street way, and everybody loved the little girl whose heart was bigger than most of the other children her age.

“Coming mommy,” she finally hollered in response as she stood up and brushed off dress. Her mother smiled and waved before going back into their house and with one sad look over her shoulder, she pondered the meaning of the “For Sale” sign that now adorned the lawn of ole man Dryden’s house, and the “SOLD” sticker that was plastered over it.

The Morelli Bros. (Prologue, iii.)

Posted on June 22, 2014 by R. Richardsson

They eventually lost their father to alcoholism. That had been the toughest summer of their young lives, for it was then that they learned just how far he had sunk in his depression. Piles of bills were stashed away beneath his mattress or unpaid and forgotten in the dust filled shadows. Collections Services came calling at all hours of the day, all in search of the same thing; coin that neither of the brothers possessed.

Every day became a struggle to not only maintain their meager lifestyle, but in keeping food in their bellies as well. For every dollar they made, they paid two more toward the debts they had inherited and it wasn’t long before their father’s folly caught up to them.

One by one, their customers began moving away from the Morelli Plumbing business and towards more commercially known ones. Despite their knowledge and experience, there wasn’t very much they could do to convince anyone to hire the sons of Rocco Morelli, a man who rarely finished a repair in a timely manner and who was suspected of stealing from his clients.

The Morelli name had become a curse in most homes and only a small handful of people still stood behind them. These were the people whom they had helped the most over the years. The families they had moved from one home to another and those who knew the struggles they’d had in their lives. And in some cases, they were the friends they grew up with, or the families of these friends after the former had moved on.

Eventually, their past caught up with them and they lost their apartment. There were too many tools for them to store in their van, and with heavy hearts they sold whatever they could do without and still continue peddle their trade. The rest was donated to the plumbing supplier whom they had given all of their business.

They washed their clothes a a local laundromat, where they could also freshen up in the restroom as the clothes were being cleaned and they ate as often as their funds allowed, which was at least once a day. It was a poor way to live and they both knew that time was against them. If they didn’t find something better, and soon, they were going to have to begin selling the rest of their tools and take minimum wage jobs in order to survive.

Without a physical address, they had forwarded their mail to a P.O. box, where the bills continued to pour in. Neither could believe the amount of trouble their father could create for them, even beyond the grave! There were bills for unpaid tabs at various bars and gentlemen’s clubs. On top of the bills they owed for their apartment, there were also bills for jobs that had been improperly finished, including one for a septic tank repair that was almost five figures!

They were steadily losing ground, but what they didn’t know was that sometimes you have to reach rock bottom before things begin to turn around. Of all the things that their father had taught them over the years, optimism wasn’t one of them. His secret resentment of the boys didn’t have room for the brighter things in life, things which he knew very little about from the beginning.

Ever the optimists, they had a long way to go before they lost the one thing they had left. Hope.