The Box (Part VII)

Posted on August 15, 2013 by R. Richardsson

The sounds were subtle at first, and if he hadn’t been actively searching for any signs of danger, he might have missed them altogether. A series of soft clicks echoed through the tunnels. They were innocent enough at first, and just as he was about to decide that they belonged to an insectile denizen of the underdark, a soft whistle answered.

For the first time since leaving his hearth home, his hands began to shake. His heart pounded so loudly in his chest that he worried the sound would give him away. There wasn’t time to think of such things. Slowly, he removed a small cylindrical object from one of his many hidden pockets and pressed it against the wall. Seconds later, he left the chalk message behind with utter confidence that his companions would easily discern its meaning; Danger!

He hoped that it was enough. It had to be. These creatures were difficult enough to battle when solitary, but he knew that this wouldn’t be the case. There were at least two of the Destrachan stalking him and the gods alone knew how many more were out there!

Having moved very little since replacing the chalk, he lowered his hand onto the pommel of his dagger. The feeling was warm and comforting, for it had been a faithful tool during his travels, but he also knew that it wouldn’t be enough. There was no way that he could take down two of them by himself!

The Destrachan are a legendary race of predators, mostly unknown to those above ground. They’re able to move deceptively quick on their powerful hind legs, at the bottom of which their tri-clawed feet which they can also use for attack. A powerful tail maintains their balance, in their hunched over posture, and is itself a deadly weapon in combat as well. Generations of living below ground have removed the necessity of having eyes, and a large circular mouth dominates the front of their head, inside of which is lined with several rows of razor-sharp teeth. Though they have two power arms to attack with, they are most commonly known to lead into battle with a kinetic attack from the mouth. A weaker version of the Banshee’s wail, this attack not only causes significant damage to their victims, but has been known to outright kill those more susceptible to the sonic attack.

Joeshan drew his dagger from its sheath and despaired that he couldn’t find a way to find the unfair advantage. There would be no sneaking around them, for, unlike most beasts, these were extremely intelligent. While it was true that they hunted for food, they also enjoyed toying with their prey before killing it. He’d even heard rumors that they could understand the common speech of man and delighted in the fear they caused in their victims.

More than their intelligence, their true advantage was with their extraordinary hearing. Their tripartite ears allow for it to adjust to the many different sensitivities of sound, which, in turn, allow them to ‘see’ better than most creatures who rely solely on their eyes.

As he was reflecting on the physiology of his enemy, he failed to notice that the tunnels had fallen silent. His stomach grumbled, but this time it wasn’t from the hunger. He felt sick. They were now upon him, and…

..an inhuman shriek shattered the silence, rending it beneath several waves of power. He didn’t see the attack that slammed into his chest, lifting him into the air and launching him several feet backwards. He couldn’t hear his screams as the Destrachan slowly crept to where he now lay. If he had, it would have sounded something like a woman’s scream, mixed with a pig’s squeal.

The blubbery lips of the monster rippled from the passage of its attack, but more unsettling than the sound from its mouth was the steady clickety-clack of its claws as it drew ever closer.

Stunned by its attack, Joeshan watched helplessly as it approached.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXV)

Posted on August 13, 2013 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!

———

He awoke, covered in complete complete darkness, cold and floating in the nether reaches of his consciousness. He was weak and when he tried to move, only the smallest motion was born of his effort. From somewhere beyond the edge of his hearing, he could just perceive some form of garbled speech. The words were inhuman to his ears, metallic and void of any life. They sounded as if they were spoken from beneath the water, a detail which only added more to his confusion.

“Where am I,” he muttered. His question passing through his lips and only adding to the rising panic from with. Why couldn’t he feel his lips? He reached with his left hand to pinch his right forearm, and nearly succumbed to the feelings he was now experiencing. What had been a natural feeling through the first twenty years of his life, something he had come to expect and had taken advantage of since learning how to do was gone! He was paralyzed!

“Not paralyzed, dumbass, just..set aside.”

It was the voice of the other, except, instead of speaking from the recesses of his mind, it exploded around him like thunder. His will buffeted into him from all directions, and as it did he felt himself becoming smaller and even more insignificant than when he had been when he first awakened.

“But, where am I,” he asked meekly. What he thought of as his voice had become small and childlike. His words, lightly coated with the terror he felt, tumbled out of his being and into the abyss surrounding him, becoming quickly consumed in its shadowy tendrils.

“You’re where you belong, for now. I think it’s time you know what I have had to endure.”

“I… I don’t like it here. Let me out?”

“I don’t think so, Scott. If you want to escape this prison, you will need to dig your way out.”

“But, how?”

“I was very sloppy when I left. You’ll see. Just follow the bread crumbs I’ve left behind.”

He pulsed from the bombardment of the other. ‘He’ had become so strong, so fast! It didn’t make sense, for as foreign as the other was, it has also become a part of him as well. It had come with false promises and dreams, bolstering his own fragile ego, while at the same time sowing a dark seed deep within. The latter he had only recently become aware of, and now, as he hovered before the blossoming fruits of the other’s labor, he felt himself more than willing to sample just a taste…

“It’s never just a taste, Scott,” came the voice of yet another. This voice was both familiar and different at the same time. It was one that he knew he should recognize, as if he had recently spoken with its owner. Unlike the other, however, this one seemed to emanate from the darkness around him.

He shivered violently as a new wave of fear washed over him, pelting him with its raw power and battering his frightened ego even further.

“W-who are you,” he asked in what could have been a whisper, had he lips to articulate his softened words. Though he waited for what seemed like an eternity, there would be no answer to his question.

He could feel the pulsing strength from the seed that had been planted so long ago by his unwelcome passenger. It pulled at him with something like a matronly love, but it was overflowing with things so dark that his mind could barely comprehend them. And, of those things he could sense from it, the dark images which had begun to swim to the surface where some he now wished he could unsee.

This dark seed, which had begun to blossom and was now stretching itself through the reaches of his consciousness, had been fed by his malevolent thoughts; by his uncontrolled actions it had grown into something that he would soon be unable to separate from himself.

Lost to feelings of despair, which had taken ahold of him during the moments he had first come to, Scott began to cry.

My Thoughts, or, Strewn Along The Side Of The Road

Posted on August 10, 2013 by R. Richardsson

I write fiction because there is nothing in the pages of my books that will ever hurt a person. You won’t come across any of my denizens of darkness, nor will your soul ever be in peril. What I produce through my stories are special effects that are seen through my words. My imagery, if my descriptions are written well enough, become your fantasy and I truly hope you are as immersed in each page as if you were there.

I draw inspiration from many sources.

Having grown up on such classics as Elvira’s Movie Macabre and Ray Adam’s Friday Fright night. I have watched the work of Boris Karloff, studied the great Vincent Price and delved deep into hundreds of ‘B’ movies over the decades, and in doing so, I’ve discovered a place where I truly belong; no longer behind the story, watching, but on the other side, creating.

There is no greater inspiration, however, than from the world around us.

Music. Nature. The Discovery Channel. WIBW NEWS. CNN. War. Politics…

The true horror lies in the world around us. Only, most of us are numb to the atrocities that we see every day. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not preaching. I don’t have statistical facts in front of me. I only have my own experience, based on several years of activity with those around me.

Think about it. How many people do you know who are passionate with a cause; whether politics, war, (or peace), our rights as citizens and as people, religion, against (or for) GMO foods…

Are you surrounded by your brethren of beliefs? Or, are you one in a few?

My personal experience; I personally know one person who is passionate about his beliefs in religion, government and about his (as well as our) basic rights. He is the only person I have had constant contact with, from a large group of people, who isn’t numb.

Everyone else is what we would consider as ‘just a normal person, like you or me.’

Have you heard that phrase?

These are the people you know that talk about their family, their homes, cars and hobbies. These are the guys and gals who you make small talk with around the water cooler, about anything and nothing at all. They smile at you in greeting. They wave goodbye. They could be your family, they might be your friends and you know that you can always count on them to be ‘there’ in your everyday routine.

These others? They follow current news, but, they aren’t passionate with it. When you sit down with them, they might talk your entire break away about one or two issues. They believe in what they are sharing with you and they either trust you enough TO share, or they don’t really care what you think and are going to push their ideals at or onto you.

Okay, that’s a whole other discussion there, but I won’t get into that for now. What I want to express is my thoughts on how these people aren’t numb to the horrors around us. They see it. They embrace it and they want you to know about it. Kind of a little like what I’m doing here. I, however, don’t want you to follow anything with this, other than a simple idea.

For me, there’s nothing scarier than the world around us. It’s tangible. It’s real, and it’s a sonofabitch.

There’s no margin for error. There is no forgiveness for what is done. We can only live in the best way that we know how and try to make the world a better place, the best way we know how. (And the problem with that, is that there is no common agreement as to how we should go about it. Everyone has their own ideas, whether its an individual pressing his/her ideals, or a group pushing theirs, there is no one practice we all follow.)

Robberies, theft, murder on any count, religious fanaticism, political fanaticism, terrorism, car-jackings, home invasions, fatal accidents, (or non-fatal, but paralyzing accidents…

The list goes on. I’m sure you might have thought of some things of your own as you were reading this.

The world is chocked FULL of horror.

I draw a lot of inspiration from the previous works of others, but my stories would have no emotion in them if it was only about this character doing that mission. The real world is full enough sadness and sorrow that if I can draw just enough of it into my work, THIS, is where I believe the frights are made.

My faithful reader will know what I’m talking about here. It’s not about rewriting stories that have already been done. No, it’s about creating something new that will live on in your dreams and nightmares. It’s about putting an emotion into you, the reader, that will bring you to laughter or tears. (Or, if I do it right; screams, late, late at night!)

I love to write, yes, but I love to tell a story even more. And a good story is memorable. A great story is immortal.

Will you remember me, if I recreate the same old shtick that has reused over the years? I will remember you, if YOU do!

If you know me in person; you know that I don’t have a strong passion for politics. I could care less. If we’ve sat together over a cup of coffee, you know that I’m not going to shake my finger at you for a few swears and suggest more time at church. That’s not my thing. I won’t talk about our rights, unless I believe enough in what you’re saying to agree.

But this doesn’t mean I don’t care either. It affects me when children go missing. I’m saddened when I hear about ‘x’ number of people who were killed while doing something that should be safe; such as going to a movie. I’m frustrated when I see so many things going wrong around us, but my heart isn’t in trying to change these things by actions alone.

My love lies in writing and this is how I choose to express myself. I write fiction, but I hope to do so well enough to channel real emotion into my creations. It’s that spark of life that makes a writer into an author (and yes, I know how that looks. Maybe someday I’ll share my thoughts on the difference between the two…if you’re interested.)

*deep breath*

What a long and seemingly directionless rant. If you find yourself here, I thank you. I had a purpose when I started. I believe I followed through with it to the end. And, I truly hope you enjoyed/hated/don’t care enough of this post to have reached this point.

Because any of the three means that my work is still being read, and as you might or might not know; if my work continues to be read, then I can call it a job well done.

(coming soon; She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXV) & The Box (Part VII)