The Morelli Bros. (Chapter 1, Part I)

Posted on July 29, 2014 by R. Richardsson

Lightning split the sky apart with the precision of a skilled surgeon, illuminating the surrounding area for only a fraction of a second before vanishing as fast it had come. Seconds later the silence was shattered by the force of the molecules returning to the place they were so suddenly removed from. Windows rattled as the thunder rolled on, though not many noticed it at this late hour.

Even this deep in the Bronx, most of it’s residents were fast asleep, while those remaining souls who weren’t sought out what protective cover they could find. In most cases, the eyes that looked out from the shadows were cold and apathetic. They belonged to those poor souls who had lost everything, that’d had nothing for years and had given up all hope.

They were the hungry ones. They wanted what they didn’t have, but had nothing to offer in return. They were the forgotten. They had lost their homes, their families and friends, and have been out of the system for more years than they were ever in it. They were the hated. They were looked down upon because of their social status. People were afraid to look in their direction twice, and only at a glance if they must.

They weren’t many, but they were more than most cared to admit to knowing about. The city refused to acknowledge they were there, instead focusing on more important things such as building parks for the children, or recognizing public officials for all the hard work they’ve done for the city. And, for the most part, everyone bought into the propaganda.

The media directly influenced the public opinion by providing it only with stories that would create positive feelings. Images of the city’s darker side were purposely edited to further the illusion being created and life continued as it had for as long as any could remember.

Awake and ever watchful, however, were two sets of eyes peering out from the safety of their red and green B-300 Dodge van. Though the sun would not be coming up for another two hours, there was much to be done if they were going to tackle the day head on.

“It’s-a gonna be a wet one day, eh Mario,” the younger of the two asked.

“Yeah,” the elder answered somberly.

His mood was dark this morning. He had been looking through their savings, a meager pittance of thirty dollars, and was facing a rather difficult decision; they could either put the money into their gas tank and go without food today, or they could have a good breakfast and risk not being able to make their rounds.

“Did you remember to call the uniform supplier,” he asked his younger brother.

The other nodded as a smile lifted his rather bushy mustache.

“They should be ready by lunch,” he gushed.

“That’s-a good Luigi,” he replied. “Maybe our luck will turn around?”

It was only speculation, but there was much riding on the decision to invest in these uniforms. They had given up over two weeks of the hard earned cash in order to not only buy matching garments, but to have a sign made for their van as well. If this didn’t work out for them, they faced another decision that neither one of them wanted to make. They would have to give up their trade.

From Hiatus to the Trenches

Posted on July 8, 2014 by R. Richardsson

Having been away from writing for far too long, I am finally finding myself returning to a place where I am most comfortable; buried up to my neck in a quagmire full of words and bad intentions.

The last three weeks have been a whirlwind of emotions in our home which began with my wife undergoing a rather painful surgical procedure that she is still soldiering through. My free time, what little of it I have, was redirected towards organizing the troops and getting things done around the house while she recovered.

Barely a week out from under the knife, we lost a beloved member of the family, on her side. Sadly, we knew that that it was only a matter of time, but in reality there is no preparing for the inevitability of death. It’s never how you think it will be. When it happens, you don’t just skip to the burial. There are an endless parade of arrangements that have to be made before you get to this point, not just for the recently deceased, but in getting the extended family together for the final farewell.

Every breath you take is a struggle against the sadness and despair of realizing that you will have to learn to cope, to live, without the one you lost and it feels as if every second will last an eternity.

Finally, the last calls have been made. Events have been set into motion and just when you think that you are going to be able to live your trembling chin up once more, you realize that it’s upon you to begin removing the final details of your loved one’s life. Clothes, pictures, knick-knacks and every little thing that helped define this person must now be sorted, divided, donated and/or thrown away.

Fortunately, this is the point of transition. This is when you pass the point of “he/she was just talking to me “x” amount of time ago” to “he/she is really gone…” The pain returns, spreading over your entire being like frozen napalm and once again you lose yourself in the sea of melancholy that has settled around you.

As a horror writer, I was able to look at the whole process a little more objectively than everyone else. Yes, I was affected by the loss of this person whom I had come to know over the last thirteen years. I will greatly miss the ribbing and brutal honesty she imparted upon everyone around her. It was part of her charm, and she will be missed.

But as often as I find myself writing about death, I don’t often think of what happens between the point of being alive and being buried.

With my trilogy, there were a couple of difficult losses to deal with. But, for the sake of time (not my own, but because the characters were working against it), it has yet to be dealt with.

I have been home for a few days now and my thoughts are abuzz with ideas. Unfortunately, these ideas involve my recent experiences and incorporating them into my characters during a few moments of their downtime. I say unfortunate because this means I will have to rewrite some passages in order to give them these traits.

It feels necessary, considering the hell they’ve been through together.

So here I float, in a stinking quagmire of dark emotions and words that need to be sorted, shuffled like a deck of cards and inserted into the final installment of J.R.’s Ballad. I know not how long this will take. Compounded with the editing and rewrites I have yet to finish, it certainly looks like a daunting task!

But I am hard at work my friends. I am home, in spirit and in body and have returned to John’s tale for this final battle of words.

Posts toward my webseries may come a little less frequently, I admit it HAS been awhile since concluding the intro to my latest, but they shall not be forgotten. I have two posts uploaded that will need some final edits, and I expect to publish them with-in the next few days.

R. Richardsson

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.