Richard Schiver

Category: works in progress

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 10/08/2025

    Weekly Writing Challenge 10/08/2025

    Follow the continuing story of Reverend Wickes as he comes face to face with the zombie apocalypse.

    He would deal with that issue when it came up, for now he focused on the words on the page as his voice calmed the agitated crowd and they settled in to listen. Turning the page, he grabbed a quick drink of warm water from the glass under his pulpit.

    What will I do when that runs out? He worried as he returned the glass and continued to read. Seconds tumbled into minutes as minutes stretched into hours. And still he continued to read, his voice still clear as the morning bled into afternoon and the days heat rose. Cicadas in the nearby forest competed with his voice and he noted that his glass had run empty. He needed more water, but to take a break and get some might end with his own death.

    Mrs. Bailey, he had to signal her somehow to bring more water. His throat was already becoming dry and sore, making it difficult to speak. Not impossible, not yet, but soon the words would fail him.

    What would he do then?

    Die. The answer came unbidden from the depths of his consciousness.

    Under the pulpit was a bell he’d used in the past to alert Mrs. Baily to his needs while he preached the Sunday sermon. He’d put it there the past winter when he came down with the flu and needed her to provide him with warm broth while he conducted his services. He rang it and waited for a response, occasionally glancing at the door through which she would come when she heard it. If she heard it. He rang again, more insistent this time, hoping she would hear his call and come to him. The door opened a sliver, and he waved for her to come out. She stayed back.

    A cough was building in his throat as he continued to preach, his voice had lost much of its luster, and he struggled against the need to cough, trying to contain that which could not be stopped.

    It hit him then, a coughing fit that stopped him in his tracks as he bent over the pulpit with his handkerchief over his mouth. When he pulled the white cloth away from his face he noted the spots of blood standing out against the fabric.

    He needed a drink. Now.

    The congregation had grown restless again, several having left their seats to come down the center aisle towards him. He tried to continue reading but his once sonorous voice came out as a squeak.

    “Mrs. Baily,” he shouted in pain, “bring me some water.”

    The door closed and he turned back to the congregation, picking up where he left off, his voice not as powerful as it once was, but still enough to return those of the congregation who had been approaching the pulpit.

    As he continued, struggling against each word Mrs. Bailey appeared with a pitcher of water. He motioned for her to come over and she carefully crossed the small stage, her eyes glued on the congregation and what had become of it. She filled his glass and left the pitcher under the pulpit.

    “What are you going to do?” she asked.

    It was a question for which he had no answer as he shrugged in response.

    What am I going to do? The questions repeated itself in his mind as he continued to read and the congregation settled into their seats. I’m not going to last much longer, he realized as he pulled at his collar to get some air.

    The heat hung lifeless and heavy around them, and he noted for the first time since he had begun preaching at this church that no one was fanning their faces or fidgeting in their seat. He’d always dreamed of a captive audience, but never once imagined it might be like this. How am I going to get out of this? The question loomed large in his mind, and he realized he had no real answer. The only thing he knew for sure was that he couldn’t go on forever.

    To be continued!

    Authors note: It would appear I’ve written Reverend Wickes into the same corner I’ve written myself into. At this point I truthfully have no idea how I’m gonna get this guy out alive. I’ve got seven days to figure this out, guess I’ll be taking a lot of showers hoping inspiration finds me, at least I’ll be squeaky clean. See you next week.

    Read everything up to this point here God’s Chosen.

  • The Secret to Consistent Writing: Keep Your Butt in the Chair

    The Secret to Consistent Writing: Keep Your Butt in the Chair

    Every writer dreams of inspiration striking like lightning. A sudden burst that ignites the imagination and resolves the mundane problems blocking your work. The page fills with effortless ease as the words sing to your soul. Unfortunately, inspiration is as unreliable as the lottery and only seems to strike when you’re in the shower, fully soaped up. By the time you manage to dry off and get to a piece of paper that brilliant idea has lost all its luster.

    The real secret to writing isn’t magic or muses. It’s much simpler, and far less glamorous. In fact, everyone is capable of doing it. Simply put. It’s keeping your butt in the chair

    Writing is hard work and distractions are everywhere. Social media, chores, even the temptation to reorganize your sock drawer suddenly seems urgent. But the only way to make progress is to sit down, stay put, and write. It doesn’t matter if the words come slowly or if every sentence feels clunky. What matters is showing up, day after day, and putting in the time.

    Some days, the writing will flow. Other days, it will feel like pulling teeth. But consistency is what separates those who finish their stories from those who only dream about them. Even if you only manage a paragraph or a few sentences, you’re moving forward. Over time, those small efforts add up to chapters, then drafts, then finished books.

    Embrace the discipline. Make writing a non-negotiable part of your routine. Turn off the TV, silence your phone, and give yourself permission to write badly. The magic happens not when you wait for inspiration, but when you commit to the process. Keep your butt in the chair, and the words will come.

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 10/01/2025

    Weekly Writing Challenge 10/01/2025

    God’s Chosen Contd.

    Reaching the doors for the church he glanced back over his shoulder. A crowd had formed behind him, a shambling assembly of the undead, wearing the faces of the people he had preached to during his tenure. Features twisted into caricatures of hate tinged with an unholy need.

    Mr. Feely who ran the stable, a gruff old man who sat quietly through his sermons in the aisle seat of the last pew. As if he wanted to escape his weekly duty as soon as possible. Sally Umstad was there as well as the Plimpton girl. He’d never learned her name and for that he was ashamed. His job was to provide comfort, and he couldn’t even take the time to learn a little about her beyond the reason she had come to see him. Most of the rest of the townspeople were present as well. The widow Barnes stood next to Carl Bisby who ran the saloon. Among the familiar faces was a scattering of those he had met beyond the walls of the church. These people did not attend his weekly services, but he knew them none the less as that was his job.

    All of them wore the same slack expression, their eyes glowing with an eerie light as he backed into the church and they followed him. Down the center aisle he moved carefully so as not to trip and fall. Surprisingly as the crowd entered the church they filled in the rows of pews, each taking a seat on its hard surface. Those who were not familiar with attending church wandered aimlessly until the others pointed out what they must do. In time they were all sitting, watching him with silvery eyes, the church filled with an expectant hush.

    Reverend Wickes opened the bible to a random page, surprised to find he had come to Ephesians chapter two. Clearing his throat he began to read, his voice clear in the silent church. “And you hath he quickened, who were dead in trespasses and sin; Wherein in times past ye walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, the spirit that now worketh in the children of disobedience:” He paused, aware that other forces were at now at play as those present grew restless with his silence.

    He turned back to the bible and continued reading, his voice loud as the world around him became still. It seemed even the birds in the trees beyond the church settled into an eerie silence as he continued.

    A tickle at the back of his throat warned him about a coming cough and he paused long enough to clear his throat before diving back in. He noticed in that brief moment of silence that those listening became agitated when he stopped reading.

    Is my voice calming them? He wondered and decided upon a small test.

    He stopped reading and closed the bible. The members of his congregation turned to one another as a restless wave washed across them. In the back he noted that several had pushed themselves to their feet and were even then making their way down the center aisle towards him.

    Stepping back up to the pulpit he opened the bible to the beginning and started reading aloud once more. Those who had been approaching turned back to their seats and settled in as he continued.

    What will I do when I get tired? Thirst? Hungry?

    To be continued!

    Read the entire story up to this point: God’s Chosen

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 09/24/2025

    Weekly Writing Challenge 09/24/2025

    As I stated in my last post the opening for this story has changed. The original opening will remain, it will be moved into the body of the story following the new opening I will reveal when the story reaches it conclusion.

    God’s Chosen contd.

    A shadowy figure emerged from the dry goods store, it could have been Randall who owned the place with his wife, but it was too hard to tell even with the light cast by the burning saloon. Several of those staggering down the street turned towards the new arrival who tried to push through them and failed. The man fired several times into the crowd surrounding him, his bullets whistling harmlessly through the air as the group closed around him and his screams competed with the crackling roar of the fire. Whoever it had been was driven to the ground where the group knelt down around him and tore at his body while his screams dwindled to incoherent whimpers that finally fell silent.

    Reverend Wickes fell back from the window crawling across the floor to vanish into the deeper shadows where the voices once confronted him. They were silent now, leaving him alone with his terror, the image of the man’s death replaying itself in his mind while the roar of the raging fire crackled into the night.

    The call of a lonely bird pulled him from the restless sleep he’d fallen into and he rolled over onto his back, the stained and cracked ceiling of his bedroom shrouded by shadows as the false light of a new dawn painted the floor an effervescent gray.

    Cautiously he crawled to the window, the flames from the saloon having died down and he looked down upon the deserted main street. Smoke drifted across the small town, casting its shadows on the street that appeared devoid of life. Here and there he spotted dark splotches in the dirt that marked the location of someone’s death.

    Where did they go?

    He pulled himself to his feet and left the bedroom, carefully moving down the stairs as other birds responded to that initial cry and the day was filled with the promise of new life as the bloodied street beyond came into view as he came down the last few stairs onto the first floor. At the door he hesitated, not entirely sure if it was safe for him to leave but leave he must. He couldn’t stay here. This was a dead town, and as he moved across the front porch of the hotel he spied his church sitting at the opposite end of main street. White and pristine amid all the chaos the spire rose towards a bright blue sky that carried the promise of a new day. It was a refuge among the insanity of everything that had transpired.

    He raced down the steps, the church the only thing he was focused on, unaware of the multiple piles of what looked like discarded clothing littering the side street between the dry goods store and the hotel. As he moved down the street he became aware of movement to his right and swiveled his head to see these piles of clothing moving as the bodies they draped slowly climbed to their feet and turn to him.

    They all appeared to have died and he hurried down the street, towards the imagined safety of the church while more piles of discarded clothing slowly stirred to life.

    To be continued!

    Read the entire story to this point here. https://richardschiver.com/weekly-writing-challenge/

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 09/17/2025

    Weekly Writing Challenge 09/17/2025

    My apologies for missing last week. Was working on my house when I threw out my back, and have spent the past week on a heating pad. I know it’s no excuse, but it’s all I’ve got. Anyway without further adieu let’s get into it. One last thing before we start, many times while writing a story the ending tends to develop beyond what the writer first saw. In the case of this story, not only has the ending changed, but the beginning as well. When the story is done, I’ll share more details, and let everyone get a good look at the updated story.

    Continued!

    Is it the end? Reverend Wickes wondered as he stumbled back from the window. He was filled with a need to hide in the shadows he knew offered little comfort. Bad things hid in the shadows, this he had learned as a child. Wicked things lived in the shadowed places of our world. As the night closed around him, the faint light coming through the window offered little comfort. It revealed a world that had suddenly been turned upon its head. More shouts and gunshots came from outside as he pushed himself back into the corner of the room, his knees growing weak, forcing him to settle to the floor. He pressed his hands over his ears, trying to block out the sounds of a world teetering on the brink of insanity. But all he accomplished was to awaken the inner voice that had been a constant companion his entire life.

    A voice filled with all of the doubts he’d grown familiar with as he moved from childhood through puberty into adolescence before finally emerging into adulthood. Doubts that plagued his nights, keeping sleep at bay as he battled through every imagined slight and insult he believed had been directed at him. He had not felt like this in years, not since graduating from the seminary filled with the righteousness of a man of God.

    It was this virtue that enabled him to carry out his sermons, that enabled him to lock away the voices that questioned every aspect of his life. Every decision, every word he had ever spoken in response to a question, or while just passing the time of the day. Every waking moment was scrutinized and replayed in his mind while he struggled to slip into a dreamless sleep.

    Are they the chosen? Have the dead been called home?

    Am I now immortal? If this was the first resurrection as spoken of in the bible, priests and the righteous followers of God would be granted immortality. The thought came without warning, and he cringed from its presumptive nature. It was not his place to say. He had led a virtuous life save for his constant worry, his never ending doubts about his own worth. Would these doubts be the one thing to keep him from the kingdom of heaven?

    You are not worthy. The thought came in the form of a sweetly sinister voice whispering in his ear. It took him a moment to realize the shadows were indeed speaking to him in a voice he imagined as belonging to the defeated one, the archangel who had been cast down from heaven.

    “I will not be deceived,” he whispered as that voice continued to speak to him with the soft hissing sound of a snake gliding through grass.

    “I will not be deceived,” he said, louder this time, and the voice that had been teasing him softened even more.

    “I will not be deceived!” He shouted as loud as he could and silenced the voice once and for all.

    With this silence came the roar of a raging fire, and he looked at the window where reflected firelight danced across the glass. He crawled across the floor to see what was happening outside. Barrows Saloon was engulfed in towering flames that bathed main street in the light of day. Several people ran down the street, fleeing from a larger group of people who moved in a random, staggering, gait. They moved like a bunch of drunkards celebrating in slow motion.

    To be continued!

    Follow the link to read the whole story up to this point. Weekly Writing Challenge