Richard Schiver

Tag: writing

  • Exploring Time Travel in 11/22/63 by Stephen King

    In 11/22/63, written by Stephen King, the hero of the tale, Jake, is shown a portal to the past. It’s where Al, the proprietor of the small diner where it was located, has been buying his hamburger, taking advantage of the price. Offering a much better reason for his lower prices than was generally believed by those who thought he was using stray cats and dogs. It’s here we get to the gist of the story. Al enlists Jake’s help to save President Kennedy from his assassin. Those who have read the story know what happened. I don’t want to post any spoilers, so I’ll leave it at that. If you’re wondering what happened, go grab the book, it’s worth the read.

    It’s a pretty good tale that grows into your typical King story that he is well known for. It also serves to make one wonder about alternate realities and the multiverse. Theoretical physicists have proven, via math, that alternate realities do indeed exist. Not every physicist subscribes to the theory, but it’s out there. Some believe every event, or decision, creates a new branch in the timeline.

    It’s here where things really start to get muddled. I’m sure there’s not a  limit to the number of timelines branching from each of the others, creating a swarm of timelines traveling in multitudes of directions.

    Could you imagine the headache that would cause to whoever had to keep these things straight.

    One of the first things you come up against is what triggers the timeline to branch off? Is it major events, such as the aforementioned assassination of a sitting president, or does the timeline branch based on either/or decisions? If so, is it a worldwide phenomenon, or say a collective decision? Or is it a more personal one.

    On the one hand you have a solitary timeline with other timelines branching off of it with every major event in the world. If it’s a more individual level, does the branching occur at major intersections in one’s life, or does the branching occur based on everyday decisions and changes in our routine.

    Like something as simple as forgetting to turn off a light causes you to leave the house thirty seconds later than you normally would. Now we have dual timelines for your departure where in one you arrive safely to your destination, while in the other you’re delayed by an accident, or possibly involved in one yourself.

    It starts to get really confusing when you consider all the possibilities occurring at every juncture in your life.

    The biggest question of all is what forces are at play to create the branch? Is it a mechanical process that requires extreme amounts of power, or does it use a type of power that for a lack of a better word we might call magic?

    Say these portals do exist. Are they visible? Are they permanent? Do they move? What would happen if somebody accidentally walked into one? Would that explain some of the assorted mysterious disappearances that have occurred over the years? Maybe it’s an explanation for the assorted mysterious strangers that have appeared throughout history.

    You would think these portals would have to be in remote locations to prevent major problems. Could you imagine one appearing in the middle of New York City during rush hour. That would be one hell of an excuse for missing work. Sorry I couldn’t make it in today. I fell into the stone age and couldn’t find my way back right away.

    It’s all just more fodder for the what if machine operating at the center of every writer’s mind. Of course it’s not really restricted to writers, as most people run into situations and events that prompt them to wonder, what if?

    But it’s usually the writer who takes that idea, throws a few characters into the mix, and hits the blend button. As a writer myself I’m always running into these what if moments. They fuel my fiction and inspire me to try harder.

    One such event occurred recently when my wife and I were visiting our grandson, he has two children of his own, a little boy, and a little girl. The boy is four, and his little sister is nine months old. I caught him looking at her, and the expression on his face was one of pure love. In my mind I saw them fifty years from now having to say goodbye to one another. It hit me pretty hard on the emotional level.. It’s one of those moments that will remain with me as my subconscious comes up with a vehicle to carry it properly.

    I’m sure everybody else experiences this. If you’d like to share, I’d love to hear it, put it in the comments below.

    New Update: Zomething Dead This Way Comes will be off to the editor at the end of this month. Had to find another one as my former editor is no longer taking work. It is what it is. See you next time. Be safe.  

  • Our Subconscious at Work.

    It’s amazing how the subconscious works.

    I wrote All Roads Lead to Terror, the first book in my post-apocalyptic series, This Lawless Land, way back in 2013. The story focused on four teenage boys exploring a world that had moved on. At the time it was only going to be a one off, then I’d move on to other projects.

    In All Roads Lead to Terror, one of the characters grabbed a bundle of hundred-dollar bills from a bank. Which on the surface made no sense. I mean in the world I’d built, who would want to be weighed down by such a useless object? But the character wanted it, so who am I to stand in the way? Right.

    One book became two, then grew into three. In 2018 I wrote book four of my supposed stand alone. I’m not as fast as many other writers out there, I usually only get about an hour a day to do what I love. But through all four books my character insisted on carrying that damn bundle of money no matter what. He’d been through a great deal by this time. He’d grown up a good bit, but a small voice in his head kept telling him to keep the money. Yet I still did not understand why he was being so particular.

    Book four burned me out on their story so I moved on to other things for a bit. But I never strayed far from the characters. My thoughts usually returning to them as I wondered what they were up to. During my break I wrote Not of Us, Cursed, and the third installment of a trilogy I started in 2012, I know another project I need to clear up.

    I returned to the story last year and recently completed the first draft of book five. Whereupon I turned my attention to book six, which I felt would be the last chapter in their story. But at this stage, twenty thousand words into the first draft, I believe there will be a seventh and final book in the series. One I hoped to dive into once I have finished the first draft of book six. Of course there will be the rewrites and editing and all that before my creation can finally see the light of a new day.

    In 2013 I never imagined that ten years later I would be writing book six. What’s more amazing, is that in book six I finally figured out why this young boy insisted on carrying all that useless money around with him. If you want to know as well, you’ll have to wait until I get the series done. Sorry.

    Update: I’ve found a new editor and will be sending him Zomething Dead This Way Comes, when his schedule clears up at the end of October. I’m also shopping for a good cover for it. If all goes well it will be available by the end of this year. Stay tuned for more updates as they become available. Things are finally starting to jell on the writing front, and I’ll be posting more often as more news becomes available.

  • Work in Progress

    Here’s another little taste of my current work in progress, Bitter Hollow. I’ shooting for fall of this year with this one. Sheriff Burris stops by the hospital to check on my main character. Would love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

    “One more thing,” I said.

    “Sure,” he said with a strained smile and I began to suspect I was pushing my luck. But he settled into his seat with no further comment.

    “Harold said something got into them, and about a place called Bitter Hollow, what is it?”

    The Sheriff, whose gaze had been wandering, suddenly zeroed back in on me, pinning me to my pillow with a stare that tried to mask an uneasiness fluttering around the edges of his hardened features.

    “What did he say, exactly?” the sheriff said as he leaned forward.

    “He said it got into him, it was in all of them, and something about warning him to stay away from Bitter Hollow.”

    “It’s nothing to worry about, really.” Sheriff Burris patted my good shoulder with a reassuring touch. “It’s just an old wives’ tales, and folk lore. The older folk around these parts come from a time and place where such things were believed to be real.”

    “So, what is it?”

    “Nothing, really, you focus on getting better.” The sheriff pushed himself up from his seat.

    “You know, I spent six years walking a beat in Baltimore, another six carrying a gold shield, three of those on major cases. I know when someone’s lying to me, and you’re lying, what gives about Bitter Hollow?”

    Taking a deep breath, the sheriff settled back into his seat, “there’s not much to tell, really, back when my father was a young boy a traveling preacher held a tent revival in Bitter Hollow, said the name fit as everyone he met seemed bitter and distant. Of course, in them days if you weren’t family or known by such, no one really trusted you. He felt he could do some good for the people of the area, bring god into their lives and give them some hope.”

    “The night of the revival someone knocked over an oil lamp and the old canvas of the tent, dry as tinder, went up like a match. Only about twenty people, the preacher among them, managed to escape. There were some in the area who believed an evil spirit was responsible for what happened and avoided the place from then on. Some even went as far as to accuse the preacher of being a demon in disguise.”

    “What happened to the preacher?”

    “Word was he got lynched by an angry mob who had relatives that perished in the flames. Many of the older folks in the area believe to this day the hollow is haunted by the ghosts of all who died there. Hunters who stray into the hollow talk about seeing strange lights and hearing voices where there should be none.”

    “A few years later someone built a church on the site of the revival fire, but it never really took off and quickly fell into disrepair. I’m not sure if it’s still standing, haven’t had much call to go that way. The last of the families that lived in the hollow left while I was in high school. The only people who go that way now is the occasional tourist that gets lost. The county doesn’t even plow the road anymore. A waste of taxpayer money as the road dead ends in the hollow.”

    Sheriff Burris glanced at his watch and pushed himself to his feet, “I need to get going, I’ve got a meeting with the county budget office to go over next quarters budget.”

    “Sounds like fun, thanks for stopping by, I really appreciate it.”

    “Of course, and don’t worry about what the paper says, the state police will issue their findings that I know will clear you of any wrongdoing. People will soon forget what happened, they always do, especially when a new scandal draws their attention. You get some rest, and I’ll see you a couple of weeks from today.”

    Goodreads Giveaway

    Click on the cover to enter.

    100 copies up for grabs.

  • Work in Progress.

    This week I want to share a little taste of what I’ve been working on. An excerpt from my current work in progress, Bitter Hollow. I hope you enjoy, and would love to know what you think, feel free to share your thoughts in the comments below.

    BITTER HOLLOW

    “Is everything okay, Harold?” I stepped onto the deck, unsnapping the strap that kept my pistol secure.

    “I tried to warn him,” Harold said, turning his head to look at me with a distant stare. It was the same thousand-yard stare I saw every morning gazing back at me from the mirror while I shaved.

    “Who did you try to warn, Harold?”

    In the yard Harold’s German shepherd barked again, a high-pitched whiny sound I knew so well. The dog sat at the top of the yard, keeping its distance while favoring its left paw.

    “It doesn’t matter.” Harold turned his attention back to the German shepherd. “It’s gotten into all of them, and there’s only one cure for what they’ve got.”

    “What have they got Harold?”

    “I told him to stay away from that place.”

    “What place Harold?” I had to keep him talking, as long as he was talking everything would be okay.

    “Bitter Hollow, you’re not from these parts,” Harold said, “you wouldn’t understand, you’re from down around the city, I’ve heard about you, and why you came here.”

    “Why did I come here?” I’d eased my way onto the deck and was carefully moving towards Harold when he spun his head around and stared at me. I’d seen such fear before, in Afghanistan when the shit hit the fan, and everything went sideways. It burned in Harold’s eyes, flowing across his lined face like the touch of a shadow barely seen. It was then I spotted the revolver in his right hand hanging at his side.

    “Doesn’t matter,” Harold said, bringing up the revolver. I took a step back, pulling my own weapon. But Harold didn’t turn his pistol in my direction. Instead, he aimed at the German shepherd.

    “We can’t let it get out,” Harold said as he drew a bead on the dog.

    “Put your weapon down.” I took a two-handed stance and settled the forward sight on Harold’s chest.

    “Fuck you,” Harold said before squeezing off a shot. The German shepherd darted to the right as a spurt of dirt was thrown up to his left. The sharp crack of the shot rolled away into the distance.

    “I said put your weapon down.”

    “Or what?” Harold said as he abruptly swung the muzzle in my direction. Instincts, fine turned by the brutality of the war, took over. I squeezed off one shot as Harold fired. The sound of our dual reports echoed through the forest like thunder. My bullet hit Harold high in the chest, above his heart, and a surprised expression replaced the terror lurking on his brow.

    My left shoulder was driven back. It felt like I’d been hit by a sledgehammer, and my entire arm went numb. My calm, rational half, took a step back while the more primitive side took over as adrenaline flooded my system. I knew the feeling, had experienced it several times on the battlefield. It was a survival mechanism, a throwback to our distant past when reasoning with one’s enemy was not an option. When the only thing you could do was fight to survive. I knew I’d been hit, my left arm was useless, hanging dead at my side. Thankfully, I was right-handed.

    Harold stood his ground for a moment, weaving back and forth on his feet. The color draining from his face as understanding dawned in his eyes. He was about to die, and he knew it. He staggered towards me, the pistol still clutched in one hand, the muzzle weaving back and forth as his own blood mingled with the other blood on his clothes.

    He squeezed the trigger, the sharp report echoed through the shadows as the wicked sound of the bullet slamming into the post behind me came to my ringing ears. I flashed back to another time and place when I’d been confronted by an enemy that refused to die. There was no time to dwell on these memories and I pushed them away as I steadied my weapon, and the old man took another step towards me.

    A shadow washed across Harold’s face, contorting his features. The dog barking in the back yard came to me as if from a million miles away. The old man smiled and opened his mouth to speak, darkness escaping the prison behind his teeth as I fired again, aiming higher this time. Harold’s head whipped back, a bloody wound forming a third eye in the center of his forehead. Something old and terrifying crawled through my belly when Harold lowered his head to look at me with those flat, dead, eyes. A wicked smile bisecting the bottom half of his face.

    What do you think?

    I’m currently running a Goodreads giveaway from my latest novel CURSED.

    Sign up here: https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/326463-cursed

    Cursed