Tag: short story

Even if he could, he realized with a cold chill, if he revealed who he really was, he’d simply vanish, dead at the bottom of an unmarked grave, if they even went to that extent. Disposing of a dead body on a working farm was a simple matter. Farms were a deadly place to the uninitiated, and even lifelong farm hands had been known to lose fingers to thrashing steel.

He was on his own. He couldn’t rely on those around him. He had to escape, but how? How did a naked man flee from a corporate farm in the middle of nowhere? With no clothes, no tools, nothing, or no one to help.

Gus, the name popped into his mind, and he turned it over in his thoughts as if he were rolling it around on his tongue to ensure it fit.  

Is that my name?

As he tested the name, he noticed one of the farmhands watching him intently. Beneath the straw hat he saw the familiar outline of a large jaw outlining the bloodless line of a narrow strip of lips.

Brodie, he knew him, and a memory blossomed in his mind. Brodie used to come into the co-op all the time. He’d buy a couple of bags of shelled corn and go on his way with nary a word. But there were some subtle differences between this Brodie and the one he remembered. The most obvious being the difference between in are. This Brodie appeared much younger than the one he recalled. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’s a relative of the Brodie I knew.

Their eyes locked, recognition sparking between them. Brodie was the first to look away and Gus suddenly realized just how precarious his predicament had become. They knew him. They knew he was here. Which meant he’d never leave this place alive.

“Move em along boys, let’s get em fed and dressed before we bed em down for the night.”

They were moved to an adjoining room, forced into single file with short whips their handlers took joy in using. Here they were each given a burlap poncho and instructed in how to put it on. Standing a few inches taller than the rest, his hair much darker than the sandy color of those around him, it wasn’t long before he drew unwanted attention.

“What do we have here? A mutant? The man who was in charge said as he approached Gus. He was several inches shorter, his flesh the color of tanned leather, compliments of a lifetime spent farming. He looked up at Gus with hard eyes that sparkled in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat.

“You’re not going to give me a hard time? Are you boy?”

Gus shook his head trying his best to mimic the slack expression of the others around him. He must have succeeded as the boss held his gaze for a moment before nodding and stepping back.

After receiving their poncho that served to cover their naked flesh, but not much else, they were herded into the next room where tables waited. Here they were fed a watery gray gruel with a gritty texture. There was little taste and as Gus gazed down at his bowl, he saw his neighbor try to take it. He placed his hand on his neighbor’s arm, stopping him.

With a shriek his neighbor jumped to his feet, slapping him around his head and shoulders. All Gus could do was cover up as the blows fell and several of the farm hands made their way through the crowd to intercede. After his attacker had been pulled away a rough hand yanked on the collar of his poncho, pulling it tight against his throat and forcing him to lean back in his seat.

What do you think so far?

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.