Tag: short story

My apologies. I realized as I was setting up this post that I failed to inform anyone on my last post that I would be taking a short break until the new year. I’m sorry.

For countless writers, the act of putting words on the page is more than a creative pursuit. It’s a leap of faith. Each story, poem, or article carries a piece of the writer’s soul. Crafted with hope it will resonate with readers. Yet, for many, the harsh reality is that their work goes unnoticed. Lost in a vast sea of content. When sales are slow or nonexistent, writers come face to face with a deep sense of invisibility.

This feeling isn’t just about financial disappointment. It’s about validation. Writers pour hours, sometimes years, into their projects, all while dreaming of connecting with an audience. When those dreams don’t materialize, they can feel as though their voice doesn’t matter. That silence can be deafening to a writer. The lack of reviews and feedback coupled with no sales, can be deafening.

Social media and self-publishing platforms have made it easier than ever to share work, but they’ve also intensified competition. Algorithms favor the already popular, and marketing budgets often determine visibility more than talent. As a result, many skilled writers find themselves on the margins, wondering if anyone will ever discover their words.

The emotional toll is real. Writers may question their abilities, their stories, and even their worth. Some withdraw, shelving manuscripts and abandoning projects. Others persist, driven by passion or the hope that one day, their work will find its audience.

But invisibility doesn’t mean failure. Many celebrated authors faced years of rejection and obscurity before breaking through. The key is resilience. Continuing to write, to submit, to share, even when it feels like you’re shouting into the void. Community can help, too. Connecting with other writers, sharing experiences, and supporting one another can help ease the loneliness.

Ultimately, every writer’s journey is unique, and while the sting of invisibility is sharp, it’s not the end of the story. With perseverance and faith in their craft, writers can transform silence into opportunity, and invisibility into impact.

The club Thrillrror Book Box sale has been extended until the end of this month. Check it out there’s a lot of works to choose from and each book is autographed by the author.

Let me start by wishing everyone a very Merry Christmas. I hope everybody gets everything they wanted, and is able to spend some time with their loved ones. If you’re military or in emergency services, and will be unable to spend Christmas with your loved ones, thank you for your service.

I AM (contd.)

He knew the answer to that question, or he thought he did. The Co-Op where he worked served over a hundred and fifty family-owned farms in central Nebraska who were being threatened by a number of large corporate farms that had managed to lower their operating costs.

No one could figure out how they were doing it. They were still regularly buying the same amount of supplies as before, with the same discount and pricing structure. Driving by their fields it was obvious they were using the same amount of labor they had in the past, more so as it seemed there were a greater number of overseers striding upright among the groups of workers bent to their task. 

Among those in the co-op the rumors spread fostered by an equal share of not knowing. Some claimed the corporate farms were using undocumented workers and paying next to nothing, holding out the promise of citizenship in exchange for a few years of hard labor. Others suspected they might be using prison labor; hence the reason for the greater number of overseers who were actually prison guards being paid by the state’s taxpayer.

None of the rumors had even come close to the truth.

The hum of the tires subsided, replaced by the sound of gravel stirring beneath the tires as the container in which he rode tilted to the left, indicating that they were turning off the main highway.

He tried to call out, his mouth as dry as a sheet of sandpaper, his throat sore as a sharp pain throbbed along his neck. With his hand he probed the side of his neck, finding several stitches in the puckered flesh of a healing wound.

What did they do?

The vehicle came to a stop and restlessness washed through those around him. From the black depths came the sound of a latch being drawn back. Cold air washed through the container as light spilled into the emptiness. A door was pulled open and for the first time since awakening he could survey his surroundings.

To his left and right, above and below, there were others packed in with him. His neighbor to his right grunted and Gus turned to confront the vacant stare of a man who appeared to be in his early twenties, drool traced a wet line from one corner of his lips as his gaze wandered about.

“Let’s get em out,” someone yelled. Booted feet rang on cold steel, gates were drawn back, rough hands reached in and yanked him from where he sat. He was propped up onto his feet, the steel floor cold against the soles of his feet. Other bodies were crowded around him, naked flesh pressing against his own as they were driven from the confines of the container towards a large barn whose oversized doors stood open.

Like cattle they were driven from the steel container, across a gravel lot with sharp edged stone cutting into tender flesh, and into the barn. Their captors wore the traditional garb of a Nebraska farmhand, bib coveralls over a flannel shirt with muck boots riding as high as mid-calf. They carried cattle prods and he noticed that those around the edges of the naked crowd of captives were falling prey to the buzzing heads that left scorched flesh in its wake.