My Friend, My Love, My Creation

Posted on March 16, 2015 by R. Richardsson

Most times, new characters are born rather beautifully. They come with rich back-stories and have a deep family history. They speak to me for hours about who they are, where they live, what they do for a living, etc. Other times, they burst forth kicking and screaming.

They’re wearing straight-jackets and slamming themselves madly against my psyche. They’re roughly cut from raw emotion, they know very little about who they are, where they came from, or who their families are. The only thing they know is their desire to have the same chance at life as the aforementioned.

While I do so enjoy the company of my more ‘fleshed’ out characters, mainly because they are familiar to me, like family or good friends, I find myself oddly drawn to these new beings. They want the same things that we all have, that which has come so easily to their cousins; a life of their own. They are like children, in a way. They don’t know what’s behind them, nor do they have a clue what’s ahead of them. They must learn, through my guidance, of course, what they like or do not like.

Sometimes I can control the process. Sometimes, I can even help form them into something appropriate enough to tell a story about. This isn’t always the case, however, and any writer can tell you that it isn’t always going to be a good thing.

You’re not always going to have a ‘good’ character. Every so often, as I am helping this character come to life, we discover that he or she isn’t so savory a person. Maybe said character is a villain? Or maybe, something much, much, worse. I don’t always like telling the story of these characters, but again, as a writer I don’t always have a choice. They desire a chance at life. They demand that their story be heard. And as a storyteller, I am compelled to share.

Perhaps what awaits in the end is poetic? Or, perhaps not. It isn’t for me to decide. You see, much like the character types I have described, so too do the stories exist as well. Some lay in wait, ready to pounce my thoughts without a moment’s notice. Other times, they are a rough gem that needs worked into something you may or may not appreciate.

Just as is the case of the character, some stories may be beautiful designs that inspire you to continue turning the page. Others might be an atrocious train-wreck that forces you to turn the pages until you reach the end. This isn’t to say that they aren’t very good.

It’s a tricky subject; horror.

What one person may consider good, might be another’s kryptonite. I may have written the most descriptive decapitation in such a way that you have never seen before, but what may make one jump out of his/her seat in excitement, might have another turning their head in disgust.

Such is life.

By now, I hope that my readers have come to expect a certain style to my writing. You’ve survived the first two tales of John Rizzerio and are eagerly waiting the finale, or you have been keeping up with my webseries and are looking for the next post to appear. You know that I don’t always pull the punches.

Some of my characters may seem like somebody you could run into on the street. Others, a friendly neighbor or work acquaintance. Then there are those, like the protagonists of ‘She Has A Pretty Face Though’, and ‘The Box’, who each have their own issues to resolve. In the end, was their story worth it? Was it poetic, or did you enjoy following their journey?

Of course, you’ll have your own opinions that I would LOVE to hear! But, in the end, I will still continue to tell the stories as they demand to be told, in their own entireties. While I depend upon you, my faithful readers, to help guide me down the path of your interests, I hope that you continue to stick with me as I share with you my creations. They are a labor of love, a part of myself in much the same way that my children are, and it gives me great pleasure to be able to introduce you to them.

They are family, after all.

The Morelli Bros. (Chapter I, Part VI)

Posted on March 13, 2015 by R. Richardsson

It was his sense of sound that returned first. Even before he felt it on his skin, the grass and leaves sighed as a warm breeze brushed past them. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirruped playfully, calling out to whomever would listen to its song. What darkness had once surrounded him was gone, chased away by the natural light of the sun.

“How long was I out,” he wondered.

His body ached, bruised from the rubble that had battered him in the alley. Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting position, balled his hands into fists, and ground them into his eyes as he attempted to chase away the cobwebs.

When he opened his eyes, the light stabbed into them like red-hot daggers. His vision was blurry, but what he could see was nothing short of confusing. A sea of green surrounded him, undulating softly to and fro in the wind. His head barely poked over the tips of the soft blades of grass, which he could now identify by its fresh smell, something he hadn’t experienced since he was a boy.

“Luigi!”

As his vision swam into focus, he could see that he was indeed in the middle of the richest pasture he had ever laid eyes upon. The grass was deep emerald, and as he rose to his feet, he discovered that it reached nearly to his waist. Though the ground around his immediate area was flat, he soon learned that he was between two lines of hills that sharply rose and fell to either side of him.

“Luigi,” he hollered again as a sinking feeling began to grow inside of him. The last thing he remembered, before being swallowed by the darkness, was the look in his brother’s eyes as he slipped away. It was the fear of a man who know he was going to die.

He turned, and what he saw next stopped him in his tracks. Suddenly, the desperation was pushed aside, the need to find his sibling, forgotten. For, before him was something that in all his years as a plumber, had never existed until this moment.

Mario Morelli, son of Rocco and a master of his trade in his own right, was staring into the five foot diameter opening of a green steel pipe. There was only a few feet in before it dropped off into the ground, but it was the sign over the opening that gave him more cause for concern. In bold letters, in a font he didn’t recognize, was a word he could easily read.

EARTH

“…unngh…”

He didn’t have long to ponder the implications, for behind him, something was shambling toward him.

Trespasser (Part XIII)

Posted on March 13, 2015 by R. Richardsson

From high above the first floor of the foundry, the whistle signaled the end of the shift. As he had done much earlier in the day, he cut the supply of gas to his torch before removing his face guard and setting it aside. Every muscle in his body screamed for relief. It had been seven hours since his last break, a break which was long overdue. The foreman, having found someone less competent at their job to bitch at, had forgotten to remind him of his extra time and he hadn’t the inclination to remind him.

Despite the interruption, he had still managed to meet his quota for both shifts, and then some. Even though his mind continued to return to the phone call, he had completed his work with experience that was backed by decades of expertise.

“What did Davie mean, there was a problem with Vanessa? If something was wrong, why didn’t Marsha just call him? And for that matter, just where in the hell was she while this, whatever it was, was going on?”

All were questions that would have to wait, at least for another hour. Before he could return to Bryer Street, a trip to the locker room, a brief shower and change of clothes, and an hour drive lay ahead of him.

“John,” a voice he recognized as that of the second shift foreman called out, “can I talk to you for a second?”

“Yes sir,” he answered with a sigh, and then under his breath; “…now what?”

“Hey listen. I know you’ve been here for eighteen hours already, but I’m gonna need you to make sure the tanks are full before you leave.”

“Can’t you have someone else do it,” he spouted off. “I don’t have much left in MY tank. Besides, my next shift starts in a few hours, and, I could use the rest.”

He looked down at the smaller, younger, man with tired contempt. He could tell, by the way he shifted from one foot to the other, that he was acting on the words of the man before him, following through on the promise that he had briefly entertained the idea of escaping.

“Oh fuck it already!”

John threw his hands in the air, resigning to the task before him, before shouldering his way past the very miserable messenger.

“I’ll fill your goddamn tanks! I’ll replace the goddamn rods. And then, after than, I’m going the fuck home. Now, do you have a problem with that,” he growled after suddenly spinning around.

“N-not at all,” the younger man sputtered. “I’m sorry John,” he offered miserably. “I really am.”

“Fuck you,” was the only response he felt fit to offer.

When he returned to his workstation, he placed both of his palms against his forehead and pulled his hands down over his face in exasperation. “If we’d only gotten into the Union, this shit would never have happened,” he muttered unhappily.

It was hard work, and at times he thought he wasn’t going to be able to finish the task, but an hour and a half later found him at the other end of a shower, pulling on the last of his outside clothes, and gathering his things together to leave. It wasn’t until he looked at his watch, which now read 2:01am, that he remembered his friend’s cryptic request.

“Shit,” he spat. He hoped that it was just an old man’s worry, that whatever the news was, was only a neighborly concern. He didn’t have the energy for anything else.