Look, You Just Can’t Make This Up

Posted on March 4, 2014 by R. Richardsson

The shining star of this week has been the completion of the book cover for my upcoming novel; J.R. van Helsing. I’m extremely pleased with the work of my artist, not that I haven’t been before, and am raring to spend some time away from my book to create a book trailer for it! For the last two days, I have been scouring the internet for royalty free goodies that will be a fit for what I have in mind.

Yes, this cover has been the shining star over a week that has had the worst luck my family has seen in quite some time.

You know how they say that bad things happen in threes, right? Yeah… We’re one shy of doubling that.

The first happened when my youngest boy was running through the house with a laundry basket over his head and he ran into one of our largest windows. No, he wasn’t hurt! Thank goodness! But he made very good use of that one second we took our eyes off of him. Quotes to replace it have been in the five hundred-dollar (plus) range.

The second happened that very same night. While washing the dishes from dinner, my oldest dropped a ceramic bowl into the sink, shattering it. Some of the smaller pieces fell into the garbage disposal, unbeknownst to her at the time, and whatever happened when it was next ran has assured that it will run no more. Another hundred dollars in repairs.

A couple of days later, while exiting my van upon returning home from work, I dropped my cell phone. Now… This isn’t anything I haven’t done before. I have it in a protective case to help prevent any damage! However, this time I won the lottery. It landed on the bottom right corner, and for some reason that physics has yet to explain, the screen exploded. Eight hundred-dollar phone, however, my protection plan will replace it. I’m still waiting on it to get to my local sales team. Yes, it’s good news, but my family depends upon me having this communication link.

Last night, as I was on my way home from work, my van became possessed by the spirit of Christine, and tried to defeat me by way of acceleration. For some inexplicable reason, my van began to slowly accelerate and it would not stop! My pedal was not stuck, nor was there anything keeping it down. My brakes still worked. Again, thank goodness, because it could have gotten very ugly, very fast! (No pun intended.)

Finally, and the most painful of this unholy quintuple, I came home to find my wife in tears. At some point between our room and the kitchen, her wedding ring decided that it was Harry Houdini in a past life, that is, if inanimate objects could be animate in a past life!

So. That happened.

I’m not usually the type of guy to air out his woes for the world to see, but this is something I had to get off of my chest. Somewhere along the way, one of us crossed the path of a black cat. We must have broken a mirror. Hell, I’m apt to believe that I’ve roused the ancient wrath of God for crying out loud!

Perhaps by saying it, letting others see this series of unfortunate events, I can break this chain of bad luck. Maybe my words will touch a reader who had been ‘touched’, (in a holy, good luck kind of way and not the creepy kind of way) and some of their good fortune will pay forward to us? Yeah I’m reaching, but a guy can dream, right?

I know there are others less fortunate than we. Some hail from broken homes, others battle with illnesses that no person should have to deal with. Would I give all of my woes for just one? I guess, no. In retrospect material things are just that. Broken or lost items can be fixed or replaced and we’ve had to go without a lot of things over the years, so what’s a few more?

I’m not the most religious man.

But you already knew that, right? Sure you do. I’m willing to bet that you’ve read some of my work by now?

As I was saying; I’m not the most religious man, but I suppose I should feel somewhat honored. They say that ‘He’ never puts more on a person’s shoulders than they can bear. Well, considering the cross we already carry, and now having these five vultures perched upon it, I’m led to believe that ‘He’ must think very highly of us.

Three Sixty-Five, or Thereabouts

Posted on March 4, 2014 by R. Richardsson

I’ve put some serious thought into whether or not I was going to write this post. I wondered if it really mattered in the grand scheme of things. I see these posts all the time and I feel like I should share how much I have grown since creating this blogsite, but I truly wonder. Have I grown? Has utilizing this form of media been beneficial?

I honestly can’t answer these questions myself. I won’t allow my ego to step far enough forward for it to happen. These are questions best left to my friends, my fans and the casual readers who return here from time to time. Rather than spend the next few lines smothering you with things like; “I’ve had so much fun over the last year,” or, “I never would have thought about how good this blog would be for my writing,” I’m going to do something a little different.

I want to thank you.

Thank you for reading my posts. Granted, it’s not very often I write in this form, I do appreciate that you listen when I’m speaking my mind.

Thank you for reading my stories. I’ve had quite a few positive comments on my writing, and have made some very special friends over the course of this journey. I’ve appreciated your insights, I appreciate the wisdom you share and when I’m not buried in deadlines with my books, I vow to spend more time reading your work as well.

Not that I don’t. I try to read the stories, blog posts, reviews, (etc.) each and every day! In the very least, I ‘like’ your work so that you know I stopped by! And, little do you know, I occasionally promote your more interesting pieces on my various social media platforms. >:) It’s just that the growing list of bloggers I follow has created a waterfall of posts for me to sort through each day, and sometimes I only have enough time to read through a dozen of them before having to move on to my next task.

I’ve grown quite the collection in this old burial grounds. I gain new mourners every week. Many of the empty plots have become filled with the stories I’ve resurrected and there are many more waiting for those to come. I may not always show my appreciation immediately, but I make my rounds. A good undertaker always does, doesn’t he? And though some of my plots are rough around the edges, so too do I find the time to clean them up from time to time.

By my count, there are now (as of this post) one hundred and two mourners who have visited or regularly visit. Some of you are quite lively! Others? Others have faded back into the lands of reality, leaving their own blogsites untended and overgrown. I’ve enjoyed meeting each and every one of you, and I look forward to meeting those who venture here in the future. While you may not like some of the creatures I bring to life in these lonely old plots, you can always count on something new to ‘popping’ up from Beneath The Headstone.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XLI)

Posted on February 23, 2014 by R. Richardsson

Disclaimer

The following is one of many installments for a story designed specifically for my blog. While it does step out of my usual genre, there are some things still not suitable for a younger audience. Violent/Graphic descriptions, strong language and sexual situations may be found through different sections. Each entry will tell a small portion of the story during different times and may not directly follow the one prior to it.

This story follows the direct interactions, as well as the deteriorating thoughts of a young man who is struggling not only with the relationships he has with those around him, but with the relationship he has with himself as well.

Finally, all work is strictly fiction and does not reflect the views of the author. Any resemblance to actual person(s) is only a coincidence.

If this isn’t your cup of tea, then avoid these excerpts and hopefully I’ll see you around my other posts and webseries!

———

For the first time in a long time, he slowly opened his own eyes. His vision was out of focus, making everything around him appear only as shapeless blobs, but he could see well enough to know that someone was sitting only a few feet away.

“You should have come talked to me when you still had the chance, Scott.”

Even though the other spoke in a soft whisper, he immediately recognized that the person to save him was also the last person he saw before losing consciousness.

“Arnie…? Where am I?”

The other expelled a long, exasperated breath before answering.

“You’re in a shed Scott. Mr. Patterson’s to be exact.”

“Uhn,” he groaned. “Why the hell am I in here?”

“Uh… Oh! I guess you don’t remember, do you,” the other asked in response. “Right! Well, after you passed out, I sorta dragged you in here.”

“I figured that much out. What I want to know is, why here?”

Even as he finished speaking, his vision fully came into focus. Arnie was only three feet away from him, sitting on an overturned bucket. His hands were laced together between his knees as he looked down at Scott, which immediately struck him as off kilter. Arnold was the nervous type and often wrung his hands when around others. His hands usually alternated between this and pushing his glasses back up his nose. To see him sitting there, watching him so calmly and speaking without so much as a quiver in his voice, didn’t sit right with him at all.

He was lying on a workbench inside of a small, but functional, wooden shed. On one wall hung a wide variety of tools, from those used in basic carpentry to the kind needed for advanced woodworking. Some he recognized, such as hammers and screwdrivers, while others were as foreign to him as another language. At the foot of the opposite wall was a tarp, beneath of which was the shape of what looked like a riding lawnmower. There were several cobwebs hanging in the corners and from the ceiling where generations of spiders had made their homes.

Though it was something that immediately struck his senses as odd, he didn’t think for very long about the calm demeanor of his savior. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of anything other than those who had hurt him the most; Misty for setting him up with that fat psycho, and Tommy for the daily beatings he had given him. Surely Arnie would understand!

As he slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, he noticed that his midsection felt stiff beneath his shirt. With a raised eyebrow, he reached down and using his left hand, lifted it enough to see what the cause of this strange sensation was. When it came into view, he chortled with amusement.

“Duct tape? You fixed me up with…duct tape?!”

It hurt, the pain was very real and now, very there, but he managed to laugh for several seconds before it became too much for him to bear.

“It was the only thing I could think of. I couldn’t exactly take you to the hospital, what with the cops looking for you and all,” Arnie answered.

“Yeah… I guess you’re right. Thanks.”

The other only watched him with an expression that was droll, at best. He seemed to be studying him, as if waiting for his next move.

“You know,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “it isn’t going to be long before they piece it together.”

“What are you talking about,” he asked. There was a small hint of fear in his voice, and rightfully so. If Arnie knew anything about what he had done, it wasn’t very likely that he would be able to carry out his final actions.

Arnie only huffed and looked away from Scott, towards the door leading back out into the world. It would be several long moments before he would answer, which by that time Scott was beginning to wonder if he had heard him.

“I found this,” he finally said, breaking the silence. As Scott watched, the other reached between his feet and lifted the blood-stained knife into view. He was busted! For all he knew, the cops were already on their way!

“What are you going to do,” he asked fearfully. His voice shook with each word, and he felt like he was going to throw up.

“It’s not what I’m going to do, Scott, but what you are going to do next. What I want to know is, why didn’t you just talk to me? I gave you an open invitation back there, at the library. We could have figured some of this out.”

The old familiar rage came back into existence inside of him. It was only a small pilot light for the fires to come, but he could feel it warming him to the core.

“What makes you think I wanted YOUR help,” he asked between gritted teeth. “What makes you think I ever needed it? Besides, what the hell would you have done anyways, Mr. Captain of the Chess team? Rook to Queen four them to death?”

He barked a cold laugh and slipped off of the makeshift bed. His movements were slow and methodical as he was careful not to reopen his wound any further than it already was.

“You must really hate them,” Arnie observed wryly. “There’s absolutely no reason for you to be alive right now.”

“Obviously you’re mistaken,” he answered, ignoring the other’s first remark. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. Yeah you are. Except…”

“What,” he growled, turning to face him.

“I had to drag you on your back Scott. I had to drag you on your back because if I didn’t, your insides would have led anyone looking for you right back to us,” he answered dryly.

Scott only grunted as he walked to the door. Arnold was right. They should have found him on the kitchen floor at Lucy’s house, dead from blood loss.

“How long have I been out?”

“About six hours.”

“Jesus,” Scott muttered as he peered through the crack of the door. It was a miracle that he hadn’t been found at all. As he squinted against the bright light of the sun, he could see the grooves his feet had made when he was brought here.

“It’s not too late you know.”

“For what,” Scott grunted.

“To talk.”

“Damn you’re persistent,” he said. “but I don’t think we’re going to be doing any talking. I need to get home.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. That’s the first place they’re expecting you to go.”

“Yeah? Well, I know something they don’t,” he said with renewed determination.

“Oh?”

But he didn’t answer. Already, his thoughts were focusing on the secret entrance to his father’s den, one that his patriarch had installed after the murders at General Mercy. His father had become paranoid, worried that if their home were to be invaded, there would be no way for them to get out. It would be the perfect way for him to get in without being noticed.