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.

The Morelli Bros. (Chapter I, Part V)

Posted on February 23, 2015 by R. Richardsson

Time has a funny way of distorting for those who find themselves trapped in a disaster, suffering from a loss, or experiencing unbearable pain. Seconds stretch into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days, and days into eternities untold. Survivors later recount every detail as if waking from a frozen world where they’d had time to record every minute bit of information available.

So it was for young Mario Morelli, the oldest of two brothers who, before this moment, had been nothing more than a couple of plumbers carrying on their family business. At the moment the brick crumbled from the corner of the building, he heard, more than felt, something bursting up from the concrete below him. He held onto a majority of the brick, still clutching to it for dear life, while the rest rained down on his face and flew around him into the darkness which had swallowed two before him.

He cringed as something ricocheted off of the ground and into the side of his face, tearing a long gash that begun just behind his right jawbone, crossed over his nose, and ended over his left eye. Seconds later, though he could only watch from behind the shroud of slow-motion now covering his senses, his arms pulled in to cover his newly wounded face.

The darkness reached hungrily for him, and a part of him even heard it sigh contentedly as it’s cold embrace wrapped around his legs while pulling him in. Like a beast of myth, the darkness swallowed Mario in one gulp.

To his relief, the darkness wasn’t as complete as it had looked from the outside. There was as much visibility as one would expect on a foggy night, near a large body of water. Though only a few feet were visible around him, he at least had the comfort of knowing that he would see what was coming in the end.

Through herculean effort, he managed to tuck himself into as ball, pulling his limbs as close to his body as possible, as he prepared for the blow that was sure to come. He could feel his body accelerating as it was drawn by the unseen force into whatever hell awaited him. The ground whipped by in a blur beneath him, and the darkness crept in. His gut told him that he was farther above the ground than when he had started, though now it was impossible to tell, except that he had just passed a window that could have been a few, or several, feet above ground.

“Mama mia,” he exclaimed in falsetto. His voice cracked near the end, and before he could even take in another breath, he was no longer in motion.

Debris floated in the air around him, as it, too, was halted as suddenly as he. As he drew a shaky breath, the ground below exploded as a large, green pipe extended-

“What-”

-several feet-

“…the-”

-into the-

“…f-”

air, and just as suddenly, sucked him, and the debris around him, into the darkness below.

Trespasser (Part XII)

Posted on February 23, 2015 by R. Richardsson

“Rowan! Get your ass up here!”

John released the trigger on his welding torch until the flame was a small blue remnant of its former glory. After a few well practised twists, he shut off the gas flow and the flame was gone. Quickly, because his boss was the kind of person you didn’t keep waiting, he stripped off his face guard and hurried to the foreman’s office.

“You have a phone call, John,” he was told as he entered, which was followed by; “Every second spent on that thing is money lost,” as he picked up the receiver.

“Yes sir,” he answered. “I’ll make it quick.”

“Marsha,” he asked. “What have I told you about calling me at work?”

“John,” Davie Robinson answered. “I’m sorry to call you here, but I’ll make this quick.”

“No, it’s okay buddy. What’s this about?”

“It’s about your daughter,” the other answered. John glanced restlessly over to his boss, whose eyes had remained fixed on him from the moment he had entered. “Can you come over after work?”

“I’m pulling doubles today, I won’t be off till late…”

“That’s okay. Just let yourself in the back.”

“What’s all this about? Can’t it wait until tomorrow,” he asked.

“It’s about Vanessa,” Davie replied impatiently. “This can’t wait John. Even now, she’s…”

“She’s what,” he answered nervously.

He didn’t get to hear what his neighbor said, however, because his boss’d had enough. He’d only caught a couple of words, because his focus was now on his foreman. The latter had stood up and was closing the distance between himself and the phone’s base.

“I have to go,” John said quickly, “I’m needed on the-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence, because at that very moment, his boss pressed the disconnect button and ended their connection.

“I’m not paying you to act out ‘Gossip Girls’, he spat as he stepped just inches away from John. “While you’re up here chatting it up with your girlfriend, you’re holding up my other workers down the line!”

“It was my wife, sir,” he stuttered.

“Don’t give me that shit, Rowan. Unless your wife is an old black man, which I’m fairly certain she’s not and you have something you want to tell me?” He paused, waiting for John to answer. When the other shook his head from side to side, only then did he continue. “Get your ass back on the floor. You’re working extra tonight. Oh, and in the future there will be no personal calls on company time.”

“Yes sir,” John answered softly.

“What?!”

“YES SIR,” he yelled.

“Get the fuck out of my office,” his boss grumbled. John wasted no time complying, and as the door closed behind him, his foreman left him with one final piece of ‘wisdom’. “…worthless piece of shit…” were the words that chased him back to his workstation.

His blood boiled. On one hand, he knew that his friend wouldn’t call him unless something was seriously wrong. On the other, how dare that son of a bitch talk to him that way!? He had poured himself into his job for fifteen years, all of which he had never been late, missed any days, or had a complaint about his quality.

With twelve hours left until he’d finished both shifts, and whatever was being tacked on at the end, It was going to be a long day indeed.