You can reach out to Technossance Press with the contact information below, or contact the author’s agent, Jackie Appleseed, and discover Richard’s motorcycle diary. “Jackie” is not on Facebook, but he’s also not with Mushroom Records.
Richard Tattoni got a call one time. Someone spoke so fast, Richard didn’t know what he was saying. The caller ended with “Understand?” It began with “Please.” The tone was like a demand. He can’t find the exact source on Canada 411 or the Yellow Pages, but they list the area code in the Yellow Pages as coming from Brewington. The caller didn’t ask who he was speaking to before he began to talk. Maybe he thought he was calling into a Lionheart radio station. The caller never identified himself. Richard hung up because he thought it was either a prank call or a telemarketer. After he hung up, he called back. When Richard’s answering machine came on, he just hung up. But stranger things happen every day. We rock on while the old newspapers pile up in the recycling bin. News from yesterday is history. But Reagan Bratts still reads Soviet propaganda.
Crickets are louder in the grass. The moon is his only reminder of the literary agents that got away.
Then there was a fuckin’ massacre. The massacre in Brewington left the town hushed and hollow, streets emptied of noise and hearts heavy with what could not be undone. Windows stayed dark longer than usual, and even the air seemed to carry a weight, as if the town itself was holding its breath. No one spoke openly about what happened, but everyone felt it, stitched into the silence. It felt like a Rich Army forming, bringing folks together and uniting them as one.
Richard went to pray under another name, becoming Rich Cornstarch as he crossed the threshold of Brewington’s church. You could find him there when the doors were shut, kneeling in the dim light, searching for words that might make sense of the ruin outside. Faith wasn’t an answer so much as a place to pray. St. Ray’s Church held vigils.
“Hallelujah” behind closed doors, and “Amazing Grace”. His voice low and unsteady, echoing through the empty corners of the sanctuary while the congregation waited inside. Outside, flocks of sheep grazed calmly, unaware or unconcerned, their quiet presence a strange counterpoint to human grief. Life, indifferent and persistent, went on.
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