Richard Schiver

Category: works in progress

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 10/22/2025

    Weekly Writing Challenge 10/22/2025

    Contd from last time,

    Approaching the opening, he looked up to see someone had painted the casing around the opening to look like the opened mouth of a skeleton with jagged white teeth prepared to crunch down on any who dared enter.

    He almost turned around right then, but didn’t, more afraid of what Eric might think of him than what might be waiting inside the mine. Unlike many of his other friends, Eric wasn’t into the whole macho scene. He was much more reserved and laid back, exuding this aura of relaxed invincibility that drew people to him like moths to a flame. A far cry from Jared who was socially awkward and lacked the charisma of his friend.

    At the entrance Eric stopped and had a good laugh at the sign someone had spray painted on the casing. The words made Jared want to turn around right then and go back home.

    Abandon all hope, all ye who enters here!

    “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Jared said.

    “It’s just someone’s idea of a joke. Come on man you need to loosen up.”

    “Have you been down here before?”

    Eric shook his head. “This is my first time.”

    “Then how do you know it’s safe?”

    “I just know it is, I’ve got a map. A couple of guys I know who do this all the time gave it to me and told me about the crystal room.”

    “How well do you know these guys?” Jared was searching for any reason he could to back out of this without losing face.”

    “Well enough, they wouldn’t steer me wrong, they’re good guys.”

    “I don’t know, I’d feel better if I could see the map.”

    “I forgot to bring it, but it’s okay, everything will be fine. The chamber is only a few hundred feet away from the end of the mine. It’s a straight shot, we can’t get lost.”

    Jared was about to turn around right then but stopped. This was the chance he’d been looking for. If he went in and word spread about what he’d done his whole life would change. He’d no longer be the afterthought, the last one called, if they called at all. He’d prove to the others he could be just like them.

    “The moment I don’t feel comfortable about this we leave, right?”

    Eric shrugged as he smiled. “You got it bro, the moment you feel afraid we’ll turn around.”

    “That isn’t what I meant.”

    “I know, I’m just giving you a hard time, man, come on let’s get going.”

    Still apprehensive, Jared followed Eric into the shadowy depths of the mine, glancing once at the clear blue sky above before it was replaced by the smooth concrete of the casing.

    Will I see the sky again? He worried as smooth concrete gave way to naked stone carrying the tool marks of those who once toiled in these depths.

    The comforting glow from the sun faded to a deepening gloom and Eric turned on his flashlight as they moved deeper into the mine. Every ten feet ancient timber formed arches that held the roof of the mine in place.

    To be contd!

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 10/15/2025

    Weekly Writing Challenge 10/15/2025

    I believe I’ve reached the end of God’s Chosen. All that’s really left to do is edit the opening and the ending and it will be done. So the time has come to move on to the next story. This week we will begin the tale of two friends Eric and Jared who like to explore caves. I give you the first 500 words of HELL HOLE.

    Jared had been a little hesitant when he heard the name of the cave Eric wanted to explore. After all who would name a cave, Hell Hole, without good reason. Eric assured him that while the cave was technically difficult, there was no real danger outside of what they would normally face in any other cave.

    “It’s not as bad as Nutty Putty,” Eric assured him, the name awakening the memory of the story surrounding the cave’s name. In 2009 John Jones became stuck in the Nutty Putty cave in such a way it was almost impossible to save him. He’d gone through what he thought was a section of the cave known as ‘the birth canal,’ a narrow stretch that forced cavers to make themselves as small as possible to push through. In reality he entered an unexplored section that narrowed to the point he could not move. He was stuck, upside down, for twenty-seven hours before passing.

    Jared shuddered at the thought of becoming trapped in such a way. He could have done without the mention of the cave, but the lure of exploring unknown regions was too strong to dissuade him. He believed he was smart enough to not let himself become stuck like Jones had, who it was said was not as experienced as other cavers who had vanquished the nutty putty cave.

    While preparations had taken the better part of a week while they pulled together the supplies they would need, the trip to the cave itself was only a matter of a couple of hours. Rumor had it there was a chamber below filled with crystal formations similar to the Cave of Crystals in Naica, Chihuahua, Mexico. A chamber nearly a thousand feet beneath the surface with some crystals measuring as much as 39 feet long. Some considered it one of the wonders of the natural world, and the thought such a room might exist a few hours’ drive from their hometown of Frostburg was too much to pass up.

    Leaving interstate 68 they followed the winding roads of rural West Virginia, turning off onto a gravel lane that vanished into on of the many hollows. Here there was only forest pressing in on either side of the narrow lane until they reached the end of the road that spilled out onto a wide gravel lot. They were alone and as they gathered their gear Jared surveyed the opening of the mine. A concrete casing had been built into the opening, making it look like a tunnel. On the arch above the opening someone had spray painted the legend. Hell Hole in tall red letters.

    A shudder washed across his shoulders as a cloud passed over the face of the sun, plunging the lot into a false dusk.

    “How deep is the mine?” Jared asked.

    “It goes down about six hundred feet before we come to the natural opening that will lead us to the room of crystals. It’ll be easy going at first, and it’ll get a little tight before it opens into the room.”

    A chill tumbled down Jared’s spine as the thought he might never see the sun again strayed into his mind. He pushed it away. He’d been caving with Eric for several years now and he had never once given him reason to doubt him.

    To be contd!

    If you enjoy my work sign up today to become a member of my reader’s group, Every month you will receive an email from me containing either a polished short story that first appeared here, or a full chapter from one of my works in progress. Subscribers recently received my short story ALONE, which will be available to you once you sign up. You will also receive my novel. Zomething Dead This Way Comes, a 95,000 word novel only available to subscribers. If you don’t like what you see, then unsubscribe and keep the book.

    Sigh up here: Sign me up!

  • 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