Richard Schiver

Tag: Fiction

  • 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!

  • Unlocking Creativity: The Role of the Subconscious in Writing

    Unlocking Creativity: The Role of the Subconscious in Writing

    Every writer, whether a seasoned veteran or just starting out, has experienced moments when the words flow with little effort. This can be attributed to the subconscious mind. A vast and mysterious realm beneath our conscious awareness that shapes our thoughts, emotions, and creative impulses.

    The subconscious is a silent partner in the writing process. While the conscious mind focuses on grammar, structure, and logic. The subconscious quietly weaves together memories, emotions, and fragments of experience. It’s here that ideas incubate, characters develop personalities, and stories find their unique voice. Writers often describe inspiration as a sudden spark or a whisper from within, but in reality, it’s the subconscious mind drawing from a deep well of lived experiences and hidden associations.

    Many creative breakthroughs occur when writers allow themselves to step back and let the subconscious take the lead. Techniques such as free writing, journaling, or even daydreaming can help bypass the inner critic and tap into this reservoir of creativity. Dreams, too, are a window into the subconscious, offering surreal images and narratives that can be transformed into compelling stories.

    However, the relationship between the writer and their subconscious is not always straightforward. The subconscious can be elusive, at times withholding ideas or presenting them in cryptic forms. This is why many writers develop rituals. Such as walking, listening to music, or meditating to quiet the conscious mind and invite the subconscious to speak.

    I’ve always been more comfortable making my decisions from the subconscious level, or more emotionally, because I find it is more truthful to me; Intellectually, I don’t think like that because I get uncomfortable.

    Tim Burton

    Ultimately, the magic of writing lies in the interplay between conscious craft and subconscious inspiration. By learning to trust and nurture the subconscious, writers can access deeper layers of meaning and emotion in their work. The stories that resonate most powerfully are often those that emerge from this hidden place, carrying the authenticity and complexity of human experience.

    For me the key to my subconscious stirs during showers, and the brain teaser games I play on my phone. Every time I hop into the shower my mind starts gnawing at whatever impasse I might find myself stuck in my current WIP. If things are going well on the writing front it’ll start poking holes into whatever I’m working on.

    One of the puzzles I play on my phone is Woodoku. This morning while working on a chapter for Parasite I got stuck with my character at the stove cooking breakfast. What could be so exciting about cooking breakfast that it needed to appear in my story?

    I didn’t understand it at the time, so I turned to my phone and started playing. Halfway through the first game my mind flashed on an image of the yellow yolks of an egg in a skillet. A game many of us may have played as children that involves buttercups and the question, ‘Do you like butter?’ came to me. This in turn opened the floodgates to a sequence of events that shaped my characters choices later in life and dovetailed nicely into the narrative.

    If you’re a writer, artist, or any kind of creative, what ritual, or process do you follow to unleash you creativity?    

  • Fridays 5 with Bryan Hall

    Fridays 5 with Bryan Hall

    1. When did you first consider yourself a writer?

    A. The minute I finished my first short story. If you put pen to paper – or fingertips to keyboard – and create something then you’re a writer. Success means different things to different people, for sure, but as far as just being a writer I consider anyone who’s done something like that to be one.

    2. What is the hardest part of writing?

    A. Confidence. I read a blog from Neil Gaiman once where he talked about being three quarters of the way through a book and realizing it was pure and utter crap. That nobody would want to read such drivel and that if they did they wouldn’t understand it or would realize how terrible it was. He told his agent (or publisher) that and they said “Oh you’re at that part”. It happened to him every time – that moment of doubt that shut down his ability to keep writing. I’m sure that’s not the exact story word for word, but it’s a good approximation of it. And that same thing happens to me at a couple of points during anything I’m writing. Keeping my confidence up can get tricky sometimes.

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

    A. Excited, for sure. Almost in disbelief, as well. I got very lucky in that the publisher I’d hoped would pick up my book did so rather quickly. I’d reached the goal that I’d set for myself and was honestly in a bit of shock that it had happened. Once the release came the reality of it set in. It was very surreal. Even now, a release does the same thing for me. It’s a good feeling to know that your stuff is getting out there in the world.

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

    A. Hobby-wise I keep bees and play video games. I also read voraciously. Other than writing those are my main pursuits, but I don’t know if any of them can come close to what I get out of writing.

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

    A. I’d ask Clive Barker if he had any plans to get back to his roots and do some real old-fashioned horror writing like he used to. I know he has to write what he’s inspired to, but I’d really love another volume of The Books of Blood or a novel like The Damnation Game.

    Bio: Bryan Hall is a fiction writer living in a one hundred year old farmhouse deep in the mountains of North Carolina.

    He spent the first nineteen years of his life writing and reading voraciously, until pausing for some befuddling reason to spend a decade drinking whiskey and beer, playing in various garage bands, and rock climbing, eventually conquering practically every worthwhile cliff in western North Carolina.

    Although a bad back has greatly hindered his rock climbing, he still considers himself an aficionado of good beer and great whiskey, which seem to add fuel to his demented imagination.

    Growing up in the Appalachias, he’s soaked up decades of fact and fiction from the area, bits and pieces of which usually weave their way into his writing whether he realizes it at the time or not.

    His amazon author page is:

    https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B004VRN73K/

    If you are a writer working in the fields of horror, sci-fi, or dark fantasy and would like to participate in Fridays 5, answer the five questions above and send them, along with a brief author bio and author photo to rschiver@gmail.com

  • 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.