A Brief Leave of Absence

Posted on February 19, 2015 by R. Richardsson

It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels like a lot longer.

Two weeks ago this Saturday, I pinched a nerve in my left arm/wrist/hand. I’m not exactly sure where the damage was done, only that I have very limited use of my middle, ring, and pinky finger. Not only can I not lift them, but I have not been able to hold more than a couple of pounds, for any longer than a few seconds, before dropping whatever’s in my grasp.

Now, I believe I have been slowly regaining some use of my fingers. I am now able to lift them (maybe) a couple of millimeters each, thus allowing me to return to work on my computer for short periods of time. However, I still have very little feeling in them. Even now, I am having to retrace every other word to correct the errors I cannot help but make. The tendons in my arm ache, my fingers tingle as if between awake and asleep, and even this simplest of tasks has reached a difficulty level that is nearly beyond my ability.

Frustration has set in, along with a few other feelings I have only recently experienced through the eyes of my characters. Pain, helplessness, despair… To have something I have given myself to be limited, taken away from me, it is the ultimate punishment.

Fortunately, thirty dollars has assured I am still capable of working my part-time duties without restriction. This little beaut immobilizes my wrist, thus allowing my hand to act as a support, rather than the equal to its mate.

So. There’s that.

This is the part where I raise my right hand, point my index finger to the sky, and rotate my wrist so that it creates little circles. “WoooOOOooo! Big deal” I say while rolling my eyes.

So it pays for the bills. It does nothing toward relieving this creative pressure that’s become bottlenecked up there. Characters, nay, stories are begging for release!

*sigh*

Two weeks in, and all I get are a few measly millimeters for my efforts? My arm tightens up halfway through a sentence, causing me to pause as it unwinds, and wait for the feeling to return.

Bah.

So be it.

I will be trying to exercise my way back to health, over the next few weeks, so I hope you’ll bear with me in this recovery period. New entries are coming in my webseries. Updates on my books to follow.

Be well my friends, and I’ll try to achieve the same.

Trespasser (Part XI)

Posted on January 20, 2015 by R. Richardsson

Vanessa sat at the edge of her family’s front lawn, not quite in her usual place to play, but far enough from the road that her parents could be comfortable not keeping a close eye on her. As she does every other time she plays outside, she has her dolls and figurines sitting before her. Some are posed as if they are conversing with another, while others have been manipulated to simulate various actions from work, to play.

It’s chilly outside. The sky is overcast, and a light breeze is blowing down from the North, but this doesn’t stop her from playing outside. She’s quite used to the changes in the weather and has prepared adequately by wrapping herself in a warm jacket and scarf.

Behind her, her mother kneels next to some of the many Tulips she’s planted along the front of the house. She doesn’t pay close attention to her; she knows that her daughter will come to her if there is trouble and she has no reason not to trust her judgement, which is why she only looks over her shoulder when she pauses to stretch out her aching legs.

“Mommy,” she asks after one such moment.

“Yes dear?”

“Can we go out for ice cream this afternoon,” she asks with a sweet smile on her face.

“Mm. That sounds like a yummy idea. Perhaps if there’s still time, we will.” She returns her daughter’s smile, briefly reflecting on how well-behaved her little girl has turned out, before going back to the bothersome task of pulling weeds.

Vanessa tilted her head back and watched the clouds for several minutes. Just as she was often found herself lost in the tea parties and other such social gatherings she had with her porcelain, or wooden, friends, she watched as celestial adventures played out before her.

From the West came a fearful dragon, angry that his land had been invaded. He swooped in with wings unfurled, smoke trailing from his nostrils, and claws open for the attack.

Directly above her were the dragon’s victims; a three-legged bunny, a knight with no legs, and about a dozen Furbies. She giggled when the knight hopped onto two of the Furbies, beneath of which the rest stacked onto one another to form make-shift legs.

As the dragon drew ever closer, so did it appear to become larger as well. It grew to over twice the size that it was when it first appeared on the horizon. Fire shone through its eyes like crimson rubies, and its mouth began to widen as it prepared to douse the heroes in fire.

The knight, who was used to the adversities that his condition presented him, refused to back down. With a determined look on his face, or so she assumed, he reached over and grabbed the bunny by the ears. The Furbies, having been attached to him long enough to have gained an understanding of his needs, stepped forward to as he struck a heroic pose. The bunny, also understanding the situation at hand, became slender, stretching out its front legs as a hilt, and its back leg into the point of what would now be the knight’s sword.

It seemed that a great battle was to take place before her very eyes. Man and beast would face the greatest serpent the world had ever seen. Blood would boil. Fur would scorch beneath the rage of the mighty drake. Scales from litter the heavens, causing the Angels to cry. Oh, this would have been a fight for the ages, had not a great magical wind from the north suddenly blown in.

More powerful than either of the mighty combatants, the wind came with a vengeance that neither could have prepared for. It slammed into the knight’s chest, lifting from his furry, many eared, feet, flinging him into the waters to the South. The Dragon, a beast built on the very forges of Hell itself, was struck a grievous wound as the enchanted gusts formed into a spear of ice at the last possible second. The spear sank into the breast of the monster, who in a desperate vie for survival, did the only thing a creature in its situation could; it used magic of its own to teleport itself to safety. Wisps of smoke remained as a subtle reminder of the dragon’s passage…

“Well hello there, Vanessa,” interrupted the voice of her new friend.

“Hi Andy,” she answered with a smile.

“Whatcha looking at,” he inquired curiously.

Several minutes later, he was chuckling behind his hands as she finished her rather animated telling of the story she had just witnessed. “That’s quite the tale you tell, my dear,” he said, bowing with his legs feet crossed at the ankle, and arms outstretched.

“Thank you,” she giggled. “Would you like to play,” she asked seriously.

“Only if it’s okay with your Mom,” he said with a grin.

“Oh sure. She doesn’t mind,” she replied. “Here. You can be Mr. Pickles. Mr. Pickles is late for dinner and…”

Andy sat across from her, taking the offered toy without so much as a complaint, and with-in minutes the two were immersed into a world that was woven from the experience of a hundred such tellings.

Not too far away, a pair of eyes watched suspiciously from the darkened window of a neighbor’s kitchen, eyes which belonged to someone who would soon have something to say about the goings on of their newest resident; Andy From Up The Hill.

Trespasser (Part X)

Posted on January 16, 2015 by R. Richardsson

It had been several long days for Davie Robinson. He knew that he should have picked up the phone and given John a call. As soon as Andy began snapping pictures of the girl, there should have been no hesitation as to what happened next. Had he not been suffering the flu, or had he been twenty years younger, he would have stepped out and taken the camera from the strange little duck that was their new neighbor.

The truth was, he was nothing like the man who had once lived up on the hill. Unlike THAT particular gentleman, when it came to standing up for what was right, Davie was a bit of a coward.

He and his wife came from a time when it was not okay to speak one’s mind. They had been harassed for the color of their skin in those days. Hell, their very lives had been threatened on more than one occasion! No, even after Sammy D. made his stand, even after the black man had been given their equal rights, he simply couldn’t bring himself to take the first step.

“Davie, honey,” Keesha had finally said to him, “why don’t you just give John a call? Talk to the man and let him deal wit him..”

It made perfect sense, of course, but there was even a reason for him not to do that. It was an outdated reason, but he wasn’t in his normal state of mind either. The fever had spiked again, the nausea had returned, and even though his body temperature was dangerously hot, he shivered as if he had just participated in the local Polar Bear’s Challenge.

“It not our place, Keesha,” he argued without conviction. “If they wan’ let they young’un play wit dat white boy, then it be none our biz-ness.”

She had let it go after that, but that thought was in the back of her head. She didn’t have any love for their new neighbor. She suspected that not many of the adults did, and much like her husband, she didn’t like to meddle in the affairs of others. That old ghost of hatred remained in her heart, just as much as it did in his, and it would take something much less innocent than taking a few pictures to spur her into action.

Some time later, after Davie had fallen into a restless sleep on the couch, she went to the kitchen, made a hot cup of tea, and mulled over whether or not she would call Marsha with their concerns. He was right to worry. If it had been their little one, she would have chased him off in a heartbeat.

Tea in hand, she went out to the front porch for some fresh air.