Richard Schiver

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  • Weekly Writing Challenge

    I’ve added another 669 words to the continuing story God’s Chosen. I hope you enjoy my work as much as I enjoy writing it. I wrote this Tuesday morning, and you’re getting it raw and unedited.

    God’s Chosen (contd.)

    Derrick fell back with a cry of terror, the sudden movement coupled with Mrs. Franklin’s added weigh threw Reverend Wickes off balance. She felt like a sack of concrete and was just as graceful. They both went down in a jumbled heap and Reverend Wickes struggled to escape Mrs. Franklin’s grasp as they rolled across the ground. She scratched him across his left cheek, a jagged fingernail tearing open a flap of skin that sent a shock of pain through his body as he untangled himself and rolled away.

    He jumped back to his feet, one hand pressed over his injured cheek as blood flowed down his face. He felt the flap of skin beneath his palm and was struck by a sudden sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Mrs. Franklin rolled back and forth on the ground, struggling to get up, yet unable to do so.

    “What’s wrong with her?” Derrick said, his question followed by the wail of an approaching siren. With squealing brakes, the ambulance arrived, and two paramedics emerged. One crossed to Mrs. Franklin still thrashing around on the ground, while the other approached Reverend Wickes.

    Reverend Wickes recognized the paramedic attending to him as the daughter of Joshua Billings who served on the board for the town of Whispering Pines. He couldn’t recall her name, of course she rarely attended church, unlike her father who was always present.

    “How’s your father?” Reverend Wickes asked her as she tended to his wound.

    She smiled in a way that tried to warn him off the subject, but he had already opened that can of worms. “He’d my dad, and that about sums it up, you’ve got a nasty wound, how did it happen?” There was genuine concern in her voice and Reverend Wickes readily opened up, explaining what brought them to this point.

    “That’s odd,” she said as he finished telling his story. “Wouldn’t they have embalmed her after her death?”

    Reverend Wickes had never considered this, and he found his gaze drifting over to where Mrs. Franklin struggled against the other paramedic. If she hadn’t been buried alive, what else could have happened? His train of thought was interrupted when the other paramedic, a young man he did not know, joined them. Jenny, the name struck him out of the blue, he’d been distracted enough to recall the name of the paramedic caring for him.

    “I don’t understand what’s going on,” he said in a near whisper. “Her respiration is elevated, but there is no pulse, nor is there a heartbeat.”

    “Can we transport her?” Jenny asked.

    “We’ll have to strap her down.”

    “Get the gurney then,” Jenny replied as she finished taping a bandage to his cheek. “I’d have your doctor look at that as soon as possible. I cleaned it up, and used a couple of butterflies to close the wound, but it might need stitches.”

    “I will, thank you, Jenny, tell your father I said hi,” Reverend Wickes said.

    “I don’t see my father that much anymore. You’re welcome and remember to have that looked at.”

    Reverend Wickes watched as Jenny and her partner strapped Mrs. Franklin to the gurney and loaded it in the back of the ambulance. After they were gone he turned to his church where most of the parishioners were gathered on the front lawn, watching the events unfold. There was no sense continuing the sermon he had hoped would end the bullying he knew was taking place in their small corner of the world. Maybe next week he’d have a better chance of instilling some respect for others. As it stood he was tired from his ordeal and only wanted to go home lie down to rest.

    “Everybody go home,” he told the parishioners, noting the happiness on some of their faces at escaping another of his boring sermons. After they left he returned to his own modest home behind the church and wearily climbed the steps to his bedroom where he promptly fell asleep.

    to be continued

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    Jimmy and his friends have come to the roof of their apartment building to watch the passage of the comet Omega9. Little do they know the dust from the comet contains ancient organisms that are about to turn their world upside down.

    They’re already dealing with tough times, but things get even crazier when Robert’s mom is attacked by his dad and turns into a zombie. This is only the first act in a chain of events that plunges the world into the zombie apocalypse. Forcing the boys to figure out how to survive in this new, terrifying reality.

    Trapped between the undead, and the evil living in the building, their future becomes more perilous until Robert makes a startling discovery in the basement. In the end it’s all about survival, friendship, and facing their fears as they fight to protect each other and their home.

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  • The Ghosts of Conflicts Past

    The Ghosts of Conflicts Past

    The gunfire has long since fallen silent, most of the scars that once marred the field of battle have healed, and the physical signs of the past conflict were but a memory. Yet if one were to listen closely to the restless breeze whispering across this hallowed land, you might hear the voices of the past. The cries of anger and terror fading to the final whimper of a dying soldier as they came face to face with that which awaits all of us in our final moments.

    The names of the battlefields might change as well as the means of conflict, but one thing will always remain. The dying. Be it from sword or arrow, bomb or bullet, death moves among the combatants gathering up the fallen. Where they will march for eternity in lock step with death as the world of the living honors their sacrifice.

    Stories of ghostly encounters near old battlefields are as old as the nature of war itself. On the plains of Marathon, north of Athens, Athenian soldiers repelled the Persians in 490 B.C. Afterwards visitors to the battlefield talked of hearing the whistle of spears and the screams of dying soldiers.

    British history is filled with similar stories. Three battles from the civil war of 1642 have been reportedly seen by visitors, the engagements at Naseby, Marston Moor, and Edgehill. Two world wars have also left their mark upon the landscape from Dieppe to Burma.

    The U.S has its fair share of stories with most centered on the ghostly apparitions that inhabit the civil war battlefields of Gettysburg, and Antietam just to name two.

    I experienced an encounter in West German in the mid-seventies. It was my first trip out of the country, courtesy of Uncle Sam, and we were in the field on maneuvers. I had been assigned to a listening post for two hours. It was punishment because me and my tank commander, a west pointer who was always trying to bully people, had been locking horns ever since he’d been assigned to the tank. I had been bullied growing up, so I had very little patience for people of that nature, no matter their rank.

    It had only been a little more than 32 years since the guns of WWII had fallen silent, and in many parts of the country there remained small reminders of the past conflict. Most notably were the abandoned structures still riddled with bullet holes.  

    We weren’t near any towns, or even farms. The night was clear with a full moon and as I waited to be relieved I caught the sound of movement to my right front. I focused my attention on where the sound was coming from but could see nothing. It sounded like several people sneaking up on our position, and it was obvious from the sound of their movement they were soldiers. An armed force moving through the night, no matter how quiet they think they are, will still make small sounds. A rifle sling rattling softly, pants catching on the weeds, footsteps moving as quietly as possible. When you’ve done it enough you recognize these sounds.

    There were no infantry units nearby, and as per our rules of engagement everything in front of us was considered hostile. I was about to call it in when whoever it was started speaking quietly, in German. Like they were giving orders or bitching about their situation. I only knew enough German to get into trouble. I looked again at where the voices were coming from, but there was nothing there. The weeds in the field were only about a foot high and not very dense so it’s unlikely they were hiding.

    They continued to get closer, their footsteps growing louder, that guttural voice whispering orders. They were no more than five feet away from me, but nothing moved where the voices were coming from. I couldn’t see a damned thing, but I could hear them as clear as a bell. It was then I took a chance and turned on my flashlight. I was supposed to call in any movement, but for some reason this didn’t sound right. There was something off about the way the person was speaking so I hesitated on calling this in. I’d heard a number of stories about strange occurrences that happened to others in the field.

    I searched everywhere but saw nothing. If it had been an opposing force patrol sneaking up on our position, the moment I turned on my flashlight they would have come after me. As it was whoever had been there simply vanished. My relief showed up, and I returned to the tank to get reamed out by my TC for turning on my flashlight. I didn’t tell him what happened. It wasn’t until later that I started to piece together what I might have witnessed. I believe what I heard that night was a lost German patrol that paid the ultimate price but were still continuing their mission.

    Sounds farfetched, and some might question what kind of drugs I had been playing with at the time. But I was stone cold sober, and I know what I heard. I believe it was just one of the little events that put me onto the path I now follow.

    In the coming weeks and months, I plan to explore the stories of hauntings from the world’s battlefields, from ancient times to the present day. If you have any personal experience I’d love to hear about them too, please share your story in the comment below. Thank you.

  • Fridays 5 with William F. Nolan

    When I decided to bring back Fridays 5, I knew for the first few weeks I would share responses I received in the past from those who are no longer with us. First up is William F. Nolan, who we lost in 2021.

    1.) When did you first consider yourself a writer?

    A.)  When I sold my first story to Playboy. At that point, I knew I was a professional. That was in 1956.

    2.) What is the hardest part of writing?

    A.)  Sitting down in front of a sheet of blank paper (or a blank screen nowadays) and filling it with good words is the hardest part.

    3.) How did you feel upon publication of your first completed project?

    A.)  Seeing my name in professional print gave me a tremendous lift, and seeing my name in print still gives me much of the same feeling today.

    4.) In addition to writing, what else are you passionate about?

    A.)  I love cartooning and sports car racing, and the work of Max Brand.

    5.) If you could ask any author, living or dead, one question, what would it be?

    A.)  Bradbury said that he wanted to be buried on Mars in a Campbell soup can in the “Bradbury Abyss”. I’d ask Ray Bradbury if he found his way home to Mars.

    Website: https://williamfnolan.com/

    Wlliam F. Nolan (1928-2021) wrote mostly in the science fiction, fantasy, and horror genres. Though best known for co-authoring the classic dystopian science fiction novel Logan’s Run with George Clayton Johnson, Nolan authored more than 2000 pieces (fiction, nonfiction, articles and books), and edited 26 anthologies in his 60+ year career.

    An artist, Nolan was born in Kansas City, Missouri, and worked at Hallmark Cards, Inc. and in comic books before becoming an author. In the 1950s, Nolan was an integral part of the writing ensemble known as “The Group,” which included many well-known genre writers, such as Ray Bradbury, Charles Beaumont, John Tomerlin, Richard Matheson, Johnson and others, many of whom wrote for Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone. Nolan is considered a leading expert on Dashiell Hammett, pulps such as Black Mask and Western Story, and was the world authority on the works of prolific scribe Max Brand.

    Among his many awards, he was voted a Living Legend in Dark Fantasy by the International Horror Guild in 2002. During 2006, he was bestowed the honorary title of Author Emeritus by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, Inc. In 2010, he received the Lifetime Achievement award from the Horror Writers Association.

    On a personal note I knew William only as the person on the other end of the emails he and I exchanged when I was starting to get serious about writing. Sadly I never got the chance to meet him in person. He never hesitated to respond and always had time for my sometimes stupid questions. His book How To Write Horror Fiction will always sit on my desk, within easy reach.

    If you write in the genres of horror, sci-fi, or fantasy, and would like to participate in Fridays 5 drop me a line at rschiver@gmail.com

  • Manimal: A new release from A.C. Hessenauer

    Coming October 13, 2025, just in time for Halloween.

    In the sweltering shadows of 1930s Atlanta, monsters wear many faces– some human, some not.

    Jack Quinn is a detective with a badge, a trench coat, and a beast lurking beneath his skin. His partner, August Sullivan, is a reluctant vampire with a preacher’s guilt and a thirst he can’t quite drown. Together, they navigate a city cracking under the weight of corruption, secrets, and something far older than politics.

    When a string of gruesome murders rocks Atlanta– victims left heartless and drained, posed like offerings– Quinn and Sullivan are pulled into a case steeped in blood, myth, and madness. All of the victims are vampires. And someone, or something, wants them eradicated.

    As tensions rise between a pair of rival mayoral candidates– one preaching acceptance and peace, the other division and bigotry– the detectives join forces with the mysterious Miss Gray, a woman whose knowledge of the arcane might be the only thing standing between Atlanta and the abyss.

    In a world where nothing stays buried, and the line between man and monster blurs, Quinn and Sullivan must face the truth: acceptance may be the only path to salvation… but some truths are too wide-mouthed to swallow.

    Hard-boiled to the bone, and laced with cosmic dread, this Southern Gothic detective thriller dives deep into identity, monstrosity, and the things that whisper from beyond.

    About the Author

    A.C. Hessenauer describes herself as an author of folk horror thrillers with gothic romance vibes, and a little spice thrown in for good measure. A.C. is an active member of the Horror Writers Association.

    When she’s not exploring the darkest corners of her imagination, A.C. enjoys spending time with her family; her husband, two sons, and border collie named Maximus. She loves a good horror movie, and of course, indulging in a good book.

  • Weekly Writing Challenge

    I’m bringing back my weekly writing challenge. Every week I will add an additional 500+ words to a short story in progress. My plan is to write 26 stories, one for every letter of the alphabet. During my last foray into this I managed to write stories for letters A thru F.

    I previously wrote 500 words for the short story for the letter G – God’s Chosen. Last night after my trip to Baltimore, I added another 618 words to the story in progress. Below is the story from its beginning to its latest point. This is raw work with minimal editing.

    God’s Chosen

    “Why is it so hard for us to forgive?” Reverend Wilkes asked from the pulpit as he scanned the parishioners gathered to hear his sermon. Many were fanning themselves with the days program, the heat inside stifling even with the windows open. Last night’s storm brought with it an intense heat wave that promised to be the worst they’d known in some time. The reverend also noted that Sally Umstead was shifting in her seat and he zeroed in on her. It was terrible what she and her sister were doing to the Plimpton girl. She’d never hurt anyone but to hear them tell it she was evil incarnate.

    “Because the evil one is a good salesman.” Reverend Wilkes shouted, slamming his fist on the pulpit to get their attention. He was satisfied to see many of the younger ones stop their squirming and were sitting up straighter in their seats. They knew it was about to get interesting.

    “He hates forgiveness because he knows that if he can persuade us not to forgive even one person, our own forgiveness from God will be cut off.” He stopped, letting his gaze linger across the parishioners who were all now paying close attention. For a moment it seemed the heat had been forgotten.

    “The devil whispers very persuasive lies to us,” he said quietly, forcing the congregation to lean forward to catch his words.

    “Did he lie to you?” He shouted, pointing at Sally.

    “Did he lie to you?” He asked, shifting his attention to the widow Barnes. He knew she was responsible for the problems the Plimpton girl was experiencing.

    Glancing to the back of the church he spotted the ushers gathered around one of the windows. Bobby Franklin pointed at something outside and turned to look in Reverend Wilkes direction. The terror on his face was clearly transmitted across the room and a ripple of voices followed his gaze.

    “What is it Bobby?” The reverend asked, wanting to get this issue out of the way so he could continue his sermon.

    “It’s the widow Franklin, sir.”

    That wasn’t possible, he’d personally overseen the widow’s grave side services less than a week ago. The scattering of voices became focused on Bobby’s words as several of the parishioners closest to the window left their seats to see for themselves. Several ‘Oh my gods’ were punctuated by a woman’s scream. Reverend Wilkes pushed his way to the window.

    The widow Franklin staggered down the center of main street dragging what looked like the lining of her coffin behind her on one foot. The clothes she’d been buried in were a muddy mess

    Turning from the window Wilkes pushed back through the crowd and crossed to the doors for the church.

    “Where are you going?” Someone shouted behind him. He stopped and turned to face the crowd.

    “I don’t know what happened but I’m going to find out.”

    “Don’t, please, what if she hurts you?”

    “What if she wasn’t dead when we laid her to rest.” Reverend Wilkes said, “certainly, she’s terrified by now and needs someone to help her understand what is going on.”

    On the street the heat hit him with a physical force that slowed his steps. The widow Franklin approached, staggering down the center of main street. It was early yet, and though not all of the inhabitants of Whisper Cove attended services regularly, the streets were empty.

    Where does she think she’s going, he wondered as he stepped off the curb and moved to intercept her. With every step closer his resolve began to wane. It wasn’t his job to maintain order on the streets. His was to protect the souls of his congregation. When he was a few feet away he stopped and pulled his kerchief from his breast pocket to place it over his nose. The smell coming from the old woman was overwhelmingly bad.

    “Mrs. Franklin, are you all right?” It was a stupid question to ask. Obviously she was not all right. For one thing she stunk, for another her eyes had taken on an unnatural cast, and as if to add insult to injury her lips had been sewn shut. She was far from all right.

    She turned in his direction, her feet becoming tangled in the coffin lining, and she fell headlong to the pavement. Reverend Wilkes tried to catch her, but was too slow, and she hit the ground with a wet squishing sound that strayed dangerously close to unnatural. It was enough to give him pause, and he stepped back as she thrashed about on the ground, grunting and groaning in a primitive manner that further distanced her from the prim and proper matron she’d been when she lived.

    But she was alive. Wasn’t she? He wondered as he remained rooted in place, afraid to get any closer.

    The sound of an approaching vehicle drew his attention, and he looked up as Deputy Frank arrived in his cruiser.

    “What’s wrong reverend?” Deputy Frank asked as he stepped out of his patrol car.

    “It’s Mrs. Franklin, we buried her last week, but it appears she wasn’t dead. How she got out I have no idea, but she needs help.”

    “Well, what are you going to do?” the deputy asked.

    “Me? What about you? Help the woman.”

    Deputy Frank stepped closer, and though he stood a good six four, his expression collapsed into that of a frightened young boy confronting his first nightmare. “I don’t even know what to do.”

    “Let’s help her up,” Reverend Wilkes said as he stepped forward and stooped down to grab one of the woman’s arms.

    She nearly yanked him off his feet as she thrashed about, and the spongy way her arm felt under his hand left a sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach. It felt like he was trying to grab something stuffed with wet noodles.

    Deputy Frank managed to find his balls long enough to step forward and lend the reverend a hand, but he quickly backed away when she lunged at his hand with her face.

    “She tried to bite me,” he said, his voice rising in an unmanly manner.

    “Nonsense, her lips are sewn shut.”

    “How do you even know that?” Deputy Frank’s expression had dissolved completely into that of a frightened schoolboy.

    “I called an ambulance,” Derrick, one of the ushers, said as he came up behind Father Wilkes who continued to struggle with the old woman. “Let me help you,”  he said as he tried to slip the old lady’s loose arm over his shoulders. She lunged at his face, pulling at the stitches holding her mouth closed as she tried to bite him.

    To be continued!

    I’m Looking For My Tribe.

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    I’ll give it a try!