A. That’s a tough one because while I always had what I’d call an “artistic sensibility” (i.e. I didn’t fit very well into normal life). At first, I wanted to be a painter–an artist–an illustrator. Then I realized I could do with words what I struggled to do with paints. I think by the time my tenth novel was published, I figured I was a real writer and it wasn’t a fluke.
2. What is the hardest part of writing?
A. Ideas are easy for me. And writing is a struggle, but a fun one. Revision is always fun. And editing is tedious but necessary. But the absolute hardest part of writing for me is developing the ideas once I get them. That’s where you have to fill in the blanks and piece the story together to get an outline or, at least, a clear idea of where you’re going. That is the worst and hardest. After that, it’s easier … but never easy.
3. How did you feel upon publication of your first completed project?
A. I was thrilled, of course, but I was also nervous. I felt like I was an imposter. It was like standing in the middle of a shopping mall with no clothes on. I was insecure enough about my work (and still am) to not allow myself to enjoy … to savor the moment.
4. In addition to writing, what else are you passionate about?
A. Reading, of course. You can’t be a writer and not read–good books, bad books, indifferent books … every kind of book to see and learn what the craft is all about. Other than reading and writing–my family and politics. My friend Tom Monteleone calls me a “leftie, liberal, tree-hugging, granola-crunching, long-haired hippie.” That works for me … and my politics reflect that.
5. If you could ask any author, living or dead, one question, what would it be?
A. I’d ask Shakespeare not where he got his ideas, but how he developed them … or I’d ask Hawthorne why he seemed to be depressed all the time.
About the author.
Rick arrived on the horror scene in 1980 with many of his early novels published by Zebra books. He wrote and published over 90 novels and short stories from the early 1980s on. In 2011 the Horror Writers Association awarded Rick and Joe R. Lansdale the Bram Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement. Sadly, on March 21 of 2013 we lost Rick to a heart attack. For me personally he was a writer who was always willing to help those of us starting out, and though I never met him personally I counted him among my friends.
Rick’s work is still available at Amazon, stop by and check it out by clicking on Rick’s photo on the right.
If you write in any of the speculative fiction genres and would like to participate, answer the five questions above and send them, along with a brief author bio and an author photo no larger than 200px by 200px to rschiver@gmail.com.
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
Free Book
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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.
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.
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
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.
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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Richard Schiver 