Across the White Line

Posted on August 12, 2015 by R. Richardsson

This isn’t my typical fare for those of you expecting something delicious. I don’t have any monsters in this post, nor will anybody die. Sadly, there will also be no twist endings, no surprise villains, and I will not be creating a world you’ll want to visit from time to time. Tonight I will be stepping outside of my comfort zone to talk about something that happened last week.

Life changing? Sure. For some, this was an event that might give cause to completely alter one’s life.

Enlightening? Possibly. I suppose there is something to take away from all of this. Later that day, my boss says to me; “Do you believe in God? You should, because he believes in you.”

The day in question was August 4th, the day I nearly died.

The image you see here is the wreckage of my 104, the truck I had been been entrusted with when I took my job as a driver.

I had just left the quarry in Edgarton KS, headed to a job site less than ten minutes away. I had a number of routes available to me, three to be exact, of which I had chosen the quickest one; hwy 199, going east. For those of you without any knowledge of this road, and I expect that number to be in the ‘most of’ category, it’s a narrow two lane jobber.

Normally, I try to follow the highways that have a full, or in the very least, a partial shoulder, in case something should happen. Today, I thought that I could get a little bit further ahead by shaving a few minutes off of my route. Three, to be exact.

Somewhere deep down, I knew that I had made a mistake when there was no shoulder on the other side of the line. Once across, you were in the grass. These fears came to fruition about a mile in.

Ahead of me, I noticed an extra large pickup coming my way. More specifically, I noticed that his two rear-axle tires were on my side of the road! I had only a split second to react and I moved over a little to the right.

Two things immediately happened:

Because I was carrying a full load, and as it always does when I move a little too suddenly, the trailer began to rock from side to side. When I felt it move, I looked out the side view mirror, wrongfully thinking that it had gone over the white line.
Because I looked out the mirror, as nearly every driver would do at this point, my hand hand followed the movement of my head.

At that moment, what I thought my trailer was doing, was happening to my tractor!

I wouldn’t realize this until later, however, as I swore it was the former of the two that sucked me down. That being said, there were only six seconds left until –

I watched in horror as my truck slid from the road. To my credit, I almost kept her on her wheels! However, and as I was later informed, I did what eight out of ten drivers would have done in this situation. I kept fighting to get back on the road. As such, when I reached that point where only five of my eighteen wheels were still on the pavement, my tractor overturned and slammed into the ground at a little over forty-four miles per hour, give or take.

There were only six, when I felt myself losing control, but they were the longest six seconds of my life. It was at that moment that I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I had come to the end of my life.

I wish I could say that I said something memorable, like in that movie; “The Perfect Storm.” Remember when the boat went down and the crewman said something to the effect of; “This is going to be hard on my little boy?”

Or what if I had gone with a witty one-liner? “Well, this is one way to lay down some rock!”

Unfortunately, the sad truth of it is I went with; “No. No, no, no, NO – OH FUCK!”

That’s when the ground exploded into the cab. That, and about two feet of the rock I was carrying that day. When the dust settled, I didn’t have time to think about how I was alive. I looked down into what was left of the passenger area of the cab and tried to make sense of it. It looked, and I would later discover this to be true from the outside as well, as if it had been crumpled up like a wad of paper.

I heard steam. I could hear something leaking. I looked out the hole where the windshield had been and saw a pool of liquid forming on the ground.

The dust settled, and I burst into action. I had seen the movies enough times to know what happens next. Directing my attention to my side, I located my seat belt release and fought for escape.

*CLICK*

Success! I was free!

The next two or three seconds are a blur, nearly lost in my memory, but I somehow birthed from that unholy compartment and back into the world.

I remember pulling myself to my feet and charging away from the truck as if the hounds of hell were at my heels! What a sight I must have been to the bystander who’d stopped to help. THIS man, bloodied, and wearing a terrified expression, pulls himself from the wreckage and charges as if possessed!

I remember the expression of shock/amazement/fear on his face as I waved him away.

“Got. To. Get. Back,” I shouted between gasps.

I was struggling for air. I was also trembling from the adrenaline rushing through my veins. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had sustained some damage to my left shoulder. Maybe in the impact of the crash? Or, maybe pulling myself out? Who’s to say… As I write this, pain is consuming every nerve ending in what I believe is the rotator cup area, and I’m wondering just how much more I can pound out on my keyboard before I’m happy with the results.

And actually, there’s little else to tell, from then on, that I feel is relevant to this post.

The bystander allowed me to call my work, 911, and my wife before leaving.

The person who caused my reaction, the one driving the extra-large truck, never stopped, and hasn’t been heard from since.

And, I have been on the mend now for over a week.

I don’t know how long this place in my life will hang on to me, I’m hoping to have some good news after my next doctor’s visit, but I do know that the wounds will take longer to heal in heart, than just in body.

Amazing that these are the worst of the abrasions I suffered! Not pictured were the scrapes, cuts, and scratches on my arms and legs, probably earned during the escape. And, obviously, we can’t see the damage done inside my shoulder, but I assure you the bruises forming there are telling a story of their own.

Strangely, this hasn’t changed my outlook on the future.

Once I am able, I plan to get in another truck, back at it. Since this job is seasonal, and most of the work is in the warm months of the year, I anticipate (as well as look forward to) the remaining months to be used writing my books. Of course, I work on them during the week when I can, but some nights I don’t get home until well after dark.

I guess I am sharing this with you, my friends and avid readers, because I wanted to show you what was on the other side of the computer screen. I don’t do this often, for I am not always fond of what I, myself, find there, but this time I felt compelled to. As I mentioned before, I find myself heavy of heart as of late, but I’ve heard that sometimes it’s best to just tell the tale.

104 has been laid to rest this week, but I have not.

R. Richardsson

Trespasser (Part XXI)

Posted on August 2, 2015 by R. Richardsson

Something bad had happened recently happened to one of her daddy’s friends, but as it was most other times, it was about something her parents would not tell her. Like every other situation they didn’t want her to know the details, they said they would tell her when she was older.

She felt like they still treated her as if she was fragile, as if she couldn’t handle the woes of the real world, but what they seem to forget is that she had survived the sadness which came after Sammy’s passing. He had been her friend when the other children her age would not, had offered her advice when she needed it, and protected her when her family wasn’t around. He had been like a grandfather to her, but his final lesson to her had been about the harsh realities that come with growing older.

Her head was often in the clouds. She enjoyed the worlds she immersed herself in, this much was true, but she was also intuitive enough to know when something was terribly wrong.

The morning when she first noticed her parents change in behaviour, strange cars began filling the driveway of the Robinson’s house. Before long, they were parked out against the curbs and even so far as a couple of houses down the street!

In the few fleeting moments that she saw Mrs. Robinson, she was usually crying, and she was never without the company of one of her visitors. It got so that she began to feel uncomfortable playing at the edge of her sidewalk, so she moved further down the street from where the activity was heaviest. More specifically, she sat on the walkway leading up to the Burman’s home, the house of a nice older couple who only lived there in the summer.

It had been a couple of weeks since their lawn service had been through, but she didn’t mind, not one bit. Not only could she create a jungle scenario for which her toys could play in, but it also gave her plenty of cover to remain unnoticed. In addition to the overgrowth, the walkway was lined with small hedges, each also suffering from neglect. With her back against them, and the tall grass before her, she was all but invisible to everyone.

All except for one.

“Hello Vanessa,” came a cheery voice from behind her.

“Oh!” she exclaimed.

“I’m sorry, did I startle you,” came the concerned response.

“No, I just didn’t see you there, is all.”

Andy stepped out from around one of the hedges, a warm smile on his face, and with his hands behind his back.

“You look very pretty today,” he said as he moved them towards her in offering.

“Thank you,” she said innocently. “What is that,” she asked when she saw the small gift in his hand.

“Oh, just something you might like. Something I made. Just. For. You.”

She squealed, excited that he knew her favorite cookie was chocolate chip, and in seconds she was stuffing it in her mouth.

“That’s right,” he said with a wolfish look in his eyes. “Eat it all up.”

The Morelli Bros. (Chapter II, Part II)

Posted on July 22, 2015 by R. Richardsson

Appearances can be very deceiving to the unsuspecting. To mistake what looks like a harmless creature can have deadly consequences. Such is fate for one small family of Mushroom people. The Goombas marched upon their house, silently closing in from every direction as they ate their evening dinner.

Like most of the denizens in the Mushroom Kingdom, they lived in an oversized fungus for which their country was named. The interior had been carefully carved out to accommodate their needs, and the walls had been coated with a special salve that helped keep them alive, as well as to prevent them from filling in the wounds.

Rooms were only carved per their need, usually starting with a general living area, and one bedroom. Because they were an industrious people, not much time was spent inside, with the exceptions of eating and sleeping. As their needs grew, so too, did the number of rooms. Because their homes continued to live and grow around them, there was never any worry for lack of space. Of course, this led to some very interesting natural architecture, for no two homes ever looked the same.

For centuries untold, the Mushroom folk had lived in harmony with their surroundings, integrating with, and showing the greatest respect for, the bounties of their land. As reward for their due diligence, however intentional or unintentional that it was, their land had given their homes natural camouflage to protect them from their enemies.

Unfortunately, until this day, they had always been able to distinguish the nature of their enemy. They were hunted as food by the carnivores, until they had learned to hide themselves. Their homes were eaten by the herbivores, until they learned to coat them with a mixture of mud and dung. This not only helped their homes to grow and remain healthy, but the smell repelled the creatures that would dine upon them.

Never had they known a species that attacked without provocation. They had never faced the kind of monster that would kill creatures they deemed to be inferior. And so it was that the first casualties fell in the small community soon to be formally known as Shrooshen, which was home to forty-seven of the Mushroom people.

First came the Goombas, marching mindlessly through the underbrush. The first fell beneath three of the bug-eyed fungi, to be simultaneously trampled beneath their feet and melted beneath a spray of thick, mucus-like acid. The latter erupted from thin mouths which opened as they trod over the hapless creature beneath them. Steam rose into the air from the wounds, and its dying screams soon gurgled as its lungs filled with blood.

Neighbors popped outside to find the source of distress, only to become one themselves when hammers were launched from the shadows around them. Some hit their mark true, catching the creatures in the torso and face, caving in the point of impact. An unfortunate young Mushroom curiously peered through a window in time to catch a hammer in the mouth, completely destroying her lower jaw and killing her instantaneously.

Two separate families sprinted through their doors with the hope of escaping into the untamed forest. Each group drew slowly closer together, each aiming for a large opening in the trees where there appeared to be no sign of their strange attackers. They only noticed the soft buzzing above them when it was too late.

Three airborne Lakitu swooped in from above, launching crimson orbs into the center of the group. The first spike covered projectile caught the mother of the first family in the face, to the horror of her children, and she fell to the ground, dead. Her oldest son, who had recently been awarded for ‘Fastest Runner’, didn’t move fast enough and caught one of the orbs in the chest. The living weapon thrashed, clawed, and bit its way into the center of the once agile mushroom, who fell near his mother’s body and died choking on his own blood. His eyes continued to stare into the sky long after the deaths of those around him, unbelieving and forever unknowing of the fate that had befallen him.

None survived the first attack of Bowser’s army. No hands had been lifted in defense of their homes, or of their lives, and in less than an hour’s time, the Goombas had erased them from existence.