Richard Schiver

Tag: short story

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 12/17/2025

    Weekly Writing Challenge 12/17/2025

    I began work on this little tale more years ago than I care to admit. In the interim the story became lost when an old computer quit working. I remember at the time that I felt the story was beyond my capabilities. I feel confident now that I may be able to do the story justice.

    Disclaimer: I understand it’s not possible for a memory from a donor to appear in a clone. But when you’re writing, you enter the world of what if, where everything is possible.

    Without further adieu I give you the first 600 words of

    I Am!

    He became aware of his surroundings in increments.

    The tireless voice of a wheel humming on pavement, punctuated by the rhythmic slap of a seam in the roadway that came like the steady tick of a metronome measuring the passing moments. The rocking motion of the vehicle in which he was a prisoner, wearing through the skin at the tips of his shoulder blades pressed against cold, unyielding, steel.

    The air around him was heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies, and though his eyes were open, he saw nothing but the bleak emptiness of despair.

    Where am I? What have they done to me?

    A cough came from above, a grunt from the left. With shaking hands, he explored his prison and found he was sitting in a corner, his hips twisted to one side with his legs curled beneath him. Other sounds intruded upon his terror, adding to the panic slowly nibbling its way through him. He struggled to bring it under control, to try and reason out this problem, but could find no plausible explanation for what was happening to him. At this his panic roared to life as he tried to reign it in. If he let it go, he would turn into a raving lunatic battering its flesh against unyielding steel. He had to center himself if he hoped to survive.

    Bringing his emotions under control, he realized there were others with him.

    But where was here?

    Warm fluid trickled onto his chest, several drops splashing into his mouth to leave a bitter taste as the overpowering odor of urine washed over him, tainted with the sharp tang of shit. He held up his hand to shield his face, his fingers pressing against warm flesh in a tangled mass of coarse hair. His hand brushed against a fleshy appendage and he grabbed it.

    Stars filled the darkness as a hard hand slapped his face and he released his hold to retreat into the corner.


    Who are they? What are they?

    They were trapped, all of them, living in their own waste as the night stretched into forever.

    The last thing he remembered was leaving his office to check on the sound of voices coming from the loading area. The Co-Op, where he’d been the assistant manager for the past three months had been closed for nearly an hour when the sound of the big steel door going up interrupted him as he was counting the till.

    Normally he would have been gone by then, but his wife had called frantic over a report of someone breaking into their neighbor’s house. It had taken Gus the better part of an hour to settle her down, reassuring her as best he could, promising he would be home soon. The memory of that promise, now broken, sent a pang of guilt shooting through him.

    How long has it been?

    Here, time held no meaning.

    In the loading area he had come upon two drivers throwing bags of shelled corn into the back of one of the company trucks. The deliveries had been made for the day so the only explanation for what they were doing was theft. If you’re going to take the risk of stealing something, why shelled corn? he wondered.

    He never got the chance to ask for as he approached them, and they stood up from their task, the younger of the two glanced over his left shoulder. Someone was coming up behind him and as he turned to confront this new threat darkness descended around him with an abrupt finality. 

    Why?

    To be continued!

    This week the short story titled, Brothers, was sent to my newsletter. It’s a story much like this one that was born in my desire to write a series of alphabet stories. The title of each beginning with a letter from the alphabet. I Am! will be the ninth story when it is eventually finished. What you see on my blog is the raw, unedited version. What my subscribers receive is the fully polished and edited version of each story. The stories are sent every other month. During the off months I share a full chapter from one of my works in progress, of which there are currently three.

    If you’d like to sign up for my newsletter, follow the link below and you will get full access to every story and chapter sent since I got serious about following through. You will also receive a full length novel only available to my subscribers. You can’t buy this book anywhere else.

    Synopsis: 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.

    Sign me up!

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 12/10/2025

    Weekly Writing Challenge 12/10/2025

    We have reached the end of Hell Hole. This week I’ve only done 279 words. When I’m writing shorts I tend to let the body of the story simmer before I write the actual ending with the first rewrite. It gives me a chance to consider all the angles of the story and come up with a decent ending. What you’re seeing is only the first draft of the story with very minor editing.When I complete it the story will enter the rotation for my newsletter readers who will receive the fully edited tale. This month’s story is ‘Brothers.’ If you’d like to see it sign up below.

    Join the Adventure: Free Zombie Apocalypse book.

    Every month you will receive either a full short story available nowhere else, or a chapter from one of my works in progress, of with there are currently three. For signing up you will also receive a complete novel available nowhere else. Yours to keep even if you unsubscribe.

    Without further adieu I give you the final part of Hell Hole.

    Continued from last week!

    “Eric,” a familiar voice whispered, coming from behind the crystals on his right. He swiveled his head in that direction, spotting a shadowy shape marring the opaque purity of the crystal.  

    “Who are you? Eric shouted. He already knew the answer to that question but chose to ignore it. To acknowledge what he suspected would send his already teetering mind into territory better suited to the deepest part of lonely nights where dreams became nightmares.

    A soft tap fell on his shoulder and he spun around expecting to find the culprit, but the space behind him was empty. Another tap fell on his other shoulder and he turned in that direction with the same results.

    He had to get out of there while he still could, and he searched for the way out. The exit framed by two crystals forming an X above the way out, but nothing looked even remotely familiar. He had spun around so many times in response to what was happening he had become lost within the forest of crystals. He stumbled to the right, stopping when a shadowy shape appeared within the stand of crystals. He didn’t want to see what they looked like.

    He turned back the other way, stopping again when another shape appeared. They were all around him, closing in, yet still hidden behind the nearly opaque crystals.

    He sank to his knees, hands over his head. “I’m sorry,” he said.

    A firm hand fell upon his shoulder and he looked up into Jared’s face. Only it wasn’t Jared, and while this person looked similar, he was obviously much older.

    “I tried to warn you,” Jared said behind him and Eric.

    The end, for now.

  • Impostor Syndrome: A Writer’s Silent Struggle

    Impostor Syndrome: A Writer’s Silent Struggle

    Impostor syndrome is a silent companion for many authors, lurking in the background as they craft their stories, and submit their manuscripts. Despite evidence of talent and achievement, some writers struggle with persistent self-doubt, and the feeling they don’t deserve their success. They become afraid of being exposed as a fraud. The phenomenon isn’t limited to just newcomers. Many celebrated authors like Maya Angelou and John Steinbeck have confessed to feeling like impostors, convinced that their accomplishments were mere luck or deception.

    “Each time I think, ‘uh-oh, they’re going to find out now. I’ve run a game on everybody, and they’re going to find me out.’” Maya Angelou

    For writers, impostor syndrome exposes itself in many ways. Obsessive self-editing, scrapping drafts at the finish line, endless feedback loops. As well as a reluctance to refer to themselves as “writers”. The subjective nature of writing lies at the core of these feelings. Quality is hard to measure and validation is external, and beyond their control. Unpublished and self-published authors may feel especially vulnerable, lacking the traditional markers of success, while even those with publishing deals can struggle to accept their achievements.

    The emotional toll can be significant. Authors may minimize their accomplishments, attribute their success to luck, and compare themselves unfavorably to peers. Perfectionism and overworking become coping mechanisms, but they rarely silence the inner critic. Yet, the universality of impostor syndrome among writers offers hope. You are not alone.

    “I am not a writer. I’ve been fooling myself and other people.” John Steinbeck

    Overcoming impostor syndrome begins with acknowledging the problem. Naming the feeling and challenging the negative self-talk are crucial first steps. It has been suggested writers keep a “kindness file” of positive feedback. Connecting with supportive communities and focusing on their mission rather than external validation. Shifting attention from self-doubt to the impact of their words can help and authors reclaim their creative joy.

    Ultimately, impostor syndrome may never fully disappear, but acting despite it is what sets successful writers apart. By embracing vulnerability, celebrating small wins, and remembering why they write, authors can continue their journey knowing their voice matters, and their story deserves to be told.

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 12/03/2025

    Weekly Writing Challenge 12/03/2025

    Eric rolled Jared over, his eyes were closed, his face slack, his chest perfectly still. He looked like he was merely sleeping, but Eric understood it was a sleep from which he would not awaken. Eric stood up and looked down the narrow mine. It was only another hundred feet or so to the opening of the crystal cave, he could carry Jared’s body that far and leave it for them.

    He only hoped it would be enough.

    Every sacrifice before Jared had been alive. He hoped they would not hold that against him. Squatting down he lifted Jared by his arms and slung his cooling body over his shoulder. Rising back to his feet he fixed his helmet upon his head and moved in the direction of the crystal cave.

    As he moved, he debated with himself. One part of him wanted to leave the body where it was and flee. But that wouldn’t do any good. If his offering was unacceptable, they would still find him. Maybe there was a chance they would understand, after all he’d always brought them what they wanted without argument. But what choice did he have?

    He found the crystal cave when he’d become lost in the mine as a young boy looking for adventure. How he managed to get down into the lower levels without a rope had remained a mystery to him. All he could recall of that time was squeezing himself through narrow passages as he ventured deeper and deeper into the earth.

    Reaching the horizontal shafts of the mine made his adventure a little easier, that is until the flashlight he brought burned out. He had never expected to get this deep, originally planning only to explore the easily accessible portions of the mine. But the lure of uncovering the secrets behind those narrow crevices had proven too much to ignore. Today, as a full grown teenager, he’d never be able to squeeze through those cracks and crevices.

    When his flashlight went out, he had nearly lost control of himself, the darkness around him so complete, he saw nothing. It was much darker than anything he’d ever experienced before. But as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he detected a faint light coming from somewhere ahead. With every step closer to the light, it grew brighter, and he found himself in that room of crystals.

    They were massive, hexagonal shapes, some nearly thirty feet long and at least four feet across. Crammed together into a room he would never be able to properly measure, and that was when he found them. The lost miners. This who had been sealed into the cave after its collapse. He didn’t see them at first, but as he explored the room of crystals, he became aware of shadowy shapes moving just out of sight, catching brief glimpses of figures that scurried about just beyond his peripheral vision.

    “Hello,” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth, that solitary word echoing into the distance as it repeated itself into the depths. It was then a chill slid down his back as a soft voice whispered in his ear.

    “We are here.”

    He spun around in a circle as those shadowy shapes no longer hid from his view, yet they remained behind the crystals, marring their milky depths with their shadowy shapes. As if the souls of the lost miners had taken up residence in the crystals themselves, offered a form of eternity few would understand.

    “What do you want?” He asked as the black shapes crowded around him.

    Their answer filled him with terror. They wanted the blood of the living, the warm spark of something whose heart still beat. They wanted their memories, their experiences, their knowledge of the past, and the dreams of their future.

    To be continued

    If you’d like to read the entire story up to this point follow this link.

    Hell Hole

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 11/26/2025

    Weekly Writing Challenge 11/26/2025

    Sorry I’m a little late getting this out to you.

    With Jared trialing behind, Eric followed the beam of his flashlight into the depths of the mine. Around them the shadows felt alive with the memories of past miners who spent their days toiling beneath the ground, their emotions becoming permanently etched into the shattered stone around them. Hope, dreams, and the desire for a better life filled the emptiness pressing in on all sides.

    Errant thoughts filtered through Eric’s mind. Concern for a sick child. Worry over meeting unrealistic quotas. The fear over losing one’s job only because they couldn’t keep up. What would they do then? None of them had much socked away for emergencies, the company store made sure of that, offering an easy line of credit that could never be paid off. Not even the homes they lived in belonged to them, another aspect of living in a company town where the only thing that really belonged to each miner was the misery of eking out a living.

    There lived in these shadows the constant fear the roof might cave in, locking them away for eternity in the cold ground.

    “It’s getting warmer,” Jared said, struggling to keep up.

    “We’re getting deeper, the deeper we go the warmer it will get. I did some reading on these mines. Did you know the miners worked in company towns that made sure they could never escape their job?”

    “That sounds horrible,” Jared responded.

    “That’s the way things were back then. Families were indebted to the owners of the mine for everything. Every week their rent and whatever they purchased at the company store were deducted from their pay. They didn’t have much left over, but they still pooled what they had left to build a schoolhouse and pay a teacher hoping their children would grow up and escape the life they were leading.”

    “I’m glad it’s not like that anymore,” Jared said.

    Eric nodded in response as they reached the end of the passage where a slight ramp took them down to the next level. Reaching the bottom of the ramp Eric heard what sounded like picks working the mine somewhere in the emptiness ahead. The sound was accompanied by soft voices murmuring in the shadows and he imagined a crew of men working by candlelight in the shadows ahead.

    Once again that soft voice whispered in his ear. Beware of friends who tell half-truths. A chilled breath tickled his earlobe.

    Eric spun around on Jared who was several feet behind him, his hand closed in a fist.

    “Why do you keep fucking with me?” He shouted as he stalked towards Jared who cowered from his approach.

    Only a liar would be afraid, the thought whispered through his mind as he closed with Jared who held up his hands to protect himself. His defensive posture only enraged him more and he lashed out with a right cross that sent Jared falling to the floor.

    “I don’t know what you’re talking about?” Jared said as he tried to get back to his feet.

    Eric hit him again, hard, and Jared dropped back to the floor where he remained still.

    Jared stood over him, his hand opening and closing as the anger he’d felt slowly drained away. When reason reasserted itself, he realized what he had done and dropped to his knees next to Jared’s prone figure.

    “I’m sorry man, I don’t know what came over me,” he said as he ran his hand up and down Jared’s back, searching for signs of life. He had no idea how to take a person’s pulse and was filled with horrifying loneliness as he struggled to wake his friend up.

    To be continued!