Tag: short story

The man in charge looked down upon him, his features twisted with a sadistic cruelty.

“I thought we had agreed you weren’t going to cause any trouble, boy?”

Gus shook his head as he worked his mouth silently.

“Look at this, boys. It thinks it can speak.” The man in charge said. The other hands laughed, Gus’s subdued attacker lying at their feet. The rest of the captives kept their heads down in a submissive manner, their eyes fixed on the bowl in front of them.

“Maybe a night in the box will teach him his place.” The man in charge said before the emptiness swelled up from the black depths around him to envelope him in its smothering embrace.

He drifted across a black sea buoyed by a single thought that anchored him to the reality of his past. He was not like the others. He had a life, a family, a wife who loved him. The thought of abandoning her as he had, even though everything that had happened to him up to this point had been out of his control, sent a dagger of guilt into his heart. She would be frantic, not sure what to do, lost within the terror of being deserted.

What was her name?

He searched his memory for her name, the throbbing at the base of his skull growing as he struggled to remember even the simplest details of his past life. They had children, or did they? If only he could remember her name, it would strengthen the anchor that tied him to the reality of his past and give him hope to battle the despair his life had become.

Around him the shadows were deep, the sides of the steel box in which he lay were pressed tight against his shoulders, the crown of his head was wedged against the top while his feet were pressed flat against the bottom. It was a cramped space with a narrow slit along the top that allowed a soft breeze to dance across his naked flesh.

They had taken his poncho.

With shaking hands he reached for the top, his palms encountering cold steel as he pushed against its unyielding surface.

He was trapped within the confines of a box too small for his frame, filled with the need to get up and move around, a restlessness that became the center of his world. Beyond the box the night moved resolutely towards morning, the sky to the east growing lighter as the world continued to turn upon its axis, unaware, uncaring, following a course that had been plotted long before he’d been born and would continue long after he was gone.

His legs grew even more restless, and he struggled to keep them under control as spasms racked his muscles. He didn’t know how long he’d lain unconscious in the box, but judging by the pain in his legs it had to have been the better part of the night.

Maybe they’d let him out with the dawn, to work the fields, to move about freely with the others. The thought gave him a goal to focus on as the birds sang in greeting to the approaching dawn, somewhere a rooster crowed as he concentrated on that single thought.

They were going to let him out soon.

Somewhere a door slammed, keys jingled, and a muffled shout came from the low-roofed building where the others were being kept.

As the first light of the coming dawn crested the roof of the barn the doors of the barracks swung open, and the workers were driven towards the building where they had been fed the night before.

They’ll be coming soon, the thought whispered through his mind, followed promptly by another. They’ll let me out soon. His legs had fallen asleep, his buttocks was numb from resting on the unyielding steel, and the flesh covering the nubs of his shoulder blades felt like it was becoming raw.

If you’d like to start the story from the beginning follow the link below.

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.