Richard Schiver

Tag: short stories

  • 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.

  • Develop Your Writing Skills with Passion

    Develop Your Writing Skills with Passion

    Sorry for the delay in getting this out there. Been dealing with a bad case of insomnia for the past few days and I’m struggling to think coherently.

    Writing is a journey that demands unwavering commitment and dedication. Whether you’re an aspiring novelist, a seasoned journalist, or a casual blogger, the process of writing requires commitment to your craft. Below are some key aspects you must consider to create written works.

    1. Time. If possible it’s essential to carve out dedicated time in your daily routine to write. This might mean waking up an hour earlier or setting aside time in the evening. Consistency is the key. Even if you can only manage a few paragraphs a day, the cumulative effect will be significant over time. This commitment to regular writing sessions helps to build momentum and keeps your creative juices flowing.
    2. Learning. Writing is an evolving skill, and there is always room for growth. Like a muscle it must be exercised regularly. This also means reading widely, attending workshops if possible, and seeking feedback from peers and mentors. It’s important to embrace constructive criticism and to be open to revising your work as needed. This willingness to learn and adapt is what separates good writers from great ones. It’s also important to develop a thick skin. Sometimes that honest criticism will hurt, and you have to be able to put aside your feelings to look at your work with an objective eye. 
    3. Perseverance. The path to creating written works is often fraught with challenges, including writer’s block, self-doubt, and rejection. It is important to stay resilient and keep pushing forward, even when the going gets tough. Remember that every writer faces obstacles and overcoming them is part of the journey.
    4. Authenticity. Writing is a deeply personal endeavor, and your unique voice and perspective are what make your work stand out. Stay true to yourself and your vision, and do not be afraid to tackle difficult or controversial topics. Authenticity resonates with readers and adds depth and meaning to your work.
    5. Passion. It’s the driving force that fuels your creativity and keeps you motivated. It is what makes the long hours and hard work worthwhile. Find what inspires you and let that passion guide your writing.

    Embrace these aspects, and you will be well on your way to becoming a successful and fulfilled writer. Happy writing!

  • 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/

  • Overcoming Self-Doubt in Writing

    Overcoming Self-Doubt in Writing

    Anyone who is seriously perusing a career as a writer is familiar with the ups and downs that is the writer’s life. Some days you’re riding the top of that emotional wave as the words just flow from your fingers. Hanging ten from that proverbial surfboard of creation as the ocean of ideas washing through your mind batters itself against white beach of the blank page leaving in its wake the basis of what will become a powerful story.

    For every peak in the creative process, where it seems nothing can stand in your way, behind or beyond lies a shadowy valley of self doubt. When that creative wave dashes you against the unyielding stone of cold reality, you tumble from that peak to land in the valley of the shadow of death for the creative process.

    Suddenly the words that had flowed so freely dry up and one is left staring at the blank page as blood begins to form upon their forehead. Who wants to read anything I write? Why do I waste my time doing this? Who really cares anymore?

    Self doubt has silenced the muse. It has thrown a monkey wrench into the machinery of creation, clogging the gears, and stopping them dead in their tracks. Everyone who dares to believe they can create something another person wants to read faces these moments from time to time.

    The greats have carried on their own personal battles with self doubt. Struggling in the years of anonymity before they became an overnight success. Stephen King threw away the original manuscript for Carrie believing no one would want to read it. His wife rescued it from the trash and convinced him to carry on. Great writers from the past were known to agonize over the placement of every word, never really believing that what they were doing would ever be widely accepted.

    How many unknown greats have given up entirely, trashing their greatest works, and turning their backs on their dreams to accept second best? How many Lovecraft’s, Shelly’s, or Stokers have given up even before they started?

    More than we will ever know. One thing we’ve all learned when embarking upon our writing career is that we are our own worst critic. In my opinion what happens when we turn our mind to writing is that we begin to read as writers. We forget how to read as readers. We dissect every story, searching for clues to how the writer put the tale together. In doing so we forget the one thing that drew us to reading in the first place, the excitement of discovering a brand new world living between the covers of a book.

    Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
    – E. L. Doctorow

    If you can tell stories, create characters, devise incidents, and have sincerity and passion, it doesn’t matter a damn how you write.
    – Somerset Maugham

    Any man who keeps working is not a failure. He may not be a great writer, but if he applies the old-fashioned virtues of hard, constant labor, he’ll eventually make some kind of career for himself as writer.
    – Ray Bradbury