Richard Schiver

Tag: works in progress

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 01/28/2026 – I Am

    Weekly Writing Challenge 01/28/2026 – I Am

    They’ll be coming soon, they’ll let me out soon. The two thoughts chased one another through his mind as the night gave way to dawn and the sounds of a new day filled the compound.

    “What about the one in the box?” One of the farmhands shouted from somewhere nearby.

    “Leave him, he hasn’t learned his lesson yet.” Came the answer that sent the first waves of panic washing through his body. They weren’t coming to open the box anytime soon, not before he learned his lesson.

    What lesson?

    He hadn’t done anything and he fought to quell the panic that threatened to turn him into a raving lunatic that would batter its flesh against unyielding steel in a mindless foray into madness.

    It won’t be much longer. He tried to convince himself but that need to stretch his legs grew with every passing moment. The steel around him became warm as the suns rays broke across the horizon. Spilling through the countryside like a river unleashed from it restraints. Running wildly as it cast long shadows for the remnants of the night to seek shelter in.

    He focused on keeping himself calm, a nerve-jangling panic thrumming just beneath the surface of his consciousness as he pressed the palms of his hands against the warming steel that was mere inches from his face.

    It won’t be much longer.

    His leg jerked spasmodically, driving his knee against the lid of his prison, coffin, and pain washed up his leg as panic and rage swelled within him. He screamed as he beat against the lid of his prison, soft flesh turning to mush against the unyielding steel as flecks of blood rained down upon his face. He thrashed back and forth, bouncing his head from unforgiving steel, his screams filling the confined space, ringing in his ears as he pummeled the lid.

    He didn’t know how long he had been screaming before the lid was lifted, he was only dimly aware of the cold gray steel replaced by a featureless blue sky. Rough hands reached into the box and pulled him to his feet, standing him next to the box where he collapsed onto the ground.

    “On your feet boy,” that familiar voice shouted and he struggled to stand as gloved hands held him steady. He was whimpering in his throat as he gazed about the compound. The featureless gray buildings that surrounded him represented his future. Endless days beneath a relentless sun and the stinging whip of the overseer. Bent to his task until he could no longer stand up straight. Scrabbling through the remainder of his short life like a deformed crab performing tricks for its master for small scraps to sustain itself.

    No!

    He looked down, catching a glimpse of a well-worn handle, the butt of a pistol sticking out of its holster on the overseer’s hip. Before reason could stop him, he reached out and snatched the pistol from the holster. He fumbled with it in his hand, not sure how to use it, relying more on instinct as he wrapped one hand around the handle and pointed the muzzle at the three farmhands who had come to take him from the box.

    “Let’s get him back to the…” the man in charge began, the rest of his sentence dying as he turned to find the muzzle of the pistol aimed at his face.

    To be continued!

  • How Everyday Life Sparks Great Writing Ideas

    How Everyday Life Sparks Great Writing Ideas

    One of the most common questions a writer hears is, “Where do you get your ideas?”

    Being the typical smartass that I am, I sometimes reply they come from the idea tree.

    But the real answer, when authors are willing to admit it, is simple, yet elusive. Ideas emerge from some of the most unexpected places. Maybe a fleeting moment, a snippet of conversation, or even a dream. For some, inspiration is rooted in personal experience or observation. Mark Twain famously based Huckleberry Finn on a childhood friend, proving that real life often provides the richest material for fiction.

    Other writers find their muse in the world around them. News stories, historical events, or even graffiti can spark that “what if?” moment that leads to a compelling narrative. Many authors, like Stephen King and Neil Gaiman, describe their ideas as arriving unbidden. Sometimes half-remembered, sometimes fully formed, yet always demanding attention.

    In his book On Writing, Stephen King spoke of ideas using the cup and the handle metaphor. How some ideas do not arrive fully formed and ready to go. But they get catalogued anyway until the idea that represents the handle or the cup arrives to complete the set.  

    But the secret isn’t just in having ideas. It’s in recognizing their potential. Writers train themselves to notice the unusual, the poignant, or the extraordinary in everyday life. They jot down stray thoughts, nurture them, and let them grow into stories. Sometimes, inspiration comes from other art forms, travel, or even the simple act of people-watching.

    For me personally I watch strangers. I work part time at Wally World, and I’ve wasted a few moments building narratives in my mind for the lives of the shoppers around me. Simple little tales that at times uncover a deeper narrative that refuses to be set aside. Like a hidden treasure trove of ideas that emerge from a simple act.

     Every writer’s process is unique. The magic comes with being open to inspiration while being brave enough to follow these ideas to where they ultimately lead. Turning ordinary moments into extraordinary tales.

    Where do your ideas come from?

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 01/21/2026

    Weekly Writing Challenge 01/21/2026

    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.

    I Am

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 1/14/2026

    Weekly Writing Challenge 1/14/2026

    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?

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 01/07/2026

    Weekly Writing Challenge 01/07/2026

    I Am continues:

    “Don’t leave any marks boys.” Someone said, obviously a boss as the farmhands guiding the group into the shed clipped their cattle prods to their belts and began shoving the stragglers with gloved hands.

    The entire group, which he estimated at between twenty-five and thirty strong, all male, and all completely naked, were lined up along the back wall of the barn.

    “Clean the shit off em,” someone yelled, most likely the same one who had warned against damaging them with the cattle prods. Three fire hoses were turned on the group, the water came out hard, fast, and ice cold. Stinging his flesh, getting under his eyelids, and invading both his nose and mouth. Still the majority of those in the group made little noise aside from a few grunts of displeasure.

    As they were pummeled by the water one of the men fell to the ground and covered his head with his hands. Those on the hoses focused all three streams on that unfortunate soul, driving him against the wall as he tried to protect his face with his hands. The force of the water drove his hands away from his face, forcing open his mouth as he was held in place.

    “Goddammit what are you trying to do?.” One of the hands yelled as he waded into the three men manning the hoses and began beating at them with his fists. The water was turned off but it was too late for the man who had been pinned against the wall. Without the water pressure to hold him up he fell to the floor where he remained, motionless.

    “You’re paying for that one boy. I’m taking the cost outta your next pay.” The farmhand in charge shouted.

    Gus pushed his way through the crowded bodies around him, intending to go to the injured party to see if there was anything he could do to help. As he did, he began to notice something he’d seen before but had so far managed to keep from consciously acknowledging.

    They were all the same.

    Every last one of them was an identical duplicate of the next. Each one of them had short sandy hair, wide spaced eyes, a pug nose and a thin mouth. Beyond the facial similarities they were each the exact same height and he was willing to bet if he had a scale available they would each weigh nearly the same, no more than a few ounces different.

    How? He wondered before the answer filled his mind chilling him to the bone.

    It was how they were keeping the costs down. Everyone had assumed they were shipping in illegals they’d kidnapped from the slums of Mexico. Feeding and clothing them, but not much else.

    But they said cloning a human was impossible, no they’d said it was immoral, and laws had been enacted to punish anyone who tried. But it hadn’t stopped the corporations that owned the farms.

    Surely once he explained the mix up he’d be released, he didn’t look like them obviously, and he was confident they had noticed the difference. His finger strayed to the stitches in the side of his neck.

    They’d cut his vocal cords so he couldn’t speak.

    To be continued!

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    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.

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