Richard Schiver

Tag: writing

  • Upon The Shoulders of Giants

    Upon The Shoulders of Giants

    I’ve heard new writers complain that there are no more good story ideas out there. That everything that could be, has already been done. I wholeheartedly disagree with this. While there are only seven central archetypal narratives that form the basis of every story ever told, each writer brings their own unique perspective of the world to work at hand.

    The seven narratives are: Overcoming the Monster, Rags to Riches, The Quest, Voyage and Return, Comedy, Tragedy, and Rebirth.

    When we retell a particular story we are in essence as writers, standing upon the shoulders of giants. We are taking existing ideas and retelling them from our own unique perspective.

    The most successful authors of our time understand this and use it to their advantage. To cite just a few.

    Stephen King’s novel Fairy Tale features many familiar fairy tale elements including a royal family, a cursed princess, and a monstrous guardian. Typical for his work he leans into the darker, more gruesome nature of the Brother’s Grimm originals. With references to Rumpelstiltskin, Hansel and Gretel, and Little Red Riding Hood.

    Stephen King’s Dark Tower series took its inspiration from Robert Browning’s poem “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came,” J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, Arthurian legend, and spaghetti Western films like The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.  He envisioned the Gunslinger as the man with no name featured in many of Sergio Leone’s westerns.

    Dean Koontz  is currently tackling the Frankenstein story with Prodigal Son book 1 of his Frankenstein series.

    I’ve heard of a rumored quote from Richard Matheson that contrasted the largely psychological, ambiguous atmosphere of Hill House with his own novel, which presented a haunted house where “you damned well know it’s haunted” I’ve been unsuccessful in tracking down the quote though I’ll leave it at that.

    Each of these writers stood upon the shoulders of giants to bring their own vision of a classic to life. The examples are endless.

    I’m currently reading Dan Franklin’s newest novel, Steel Machines. A retelling of the Golem story that has been redone multiple times. If you were to look deeper into every new story ever told, you would find it has its origins in the past and the author is in a sense standing upon the shoulders of giants.

    So, the next time you hear an author complain there’s no new plots or story ideas out there, remind them that the innovation comes not from the plot, or central idea, but in the unique way they tell a story.

    Free Book

    I’m looking or my people. Are you it? Sign up for my monthly newsletter and get your free copy of Zomething Dead This Way Comes. If you enjoy my work do nothing and every month you will receive an email containing either a free short story, or a sneak peek at a work in progress. If you don’t like my work, unsubscribe and keep the free book. This book is only available via my newsletter.

    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.

    They’re already dealing with tough times, but things get even crazier when Robert’s mom is attacked by his dad and turns into a zombie. This is only the first act in a chain of events that plunges the world into the zombie apocalypse. Forcing the boys to figure out how to survive in this new, terrifying reality.

    Trapped between the undead, and the evil living in the building, their future becomes more perilous until Robert makes a startling discovery in the basement. In the end it’s all about survival, friendship, and facing their fears as they fight to protect each other and their home.

    Sign Me Up!

  • Fridays 5 with Rick Hautala

    1. When did you first consider yourself a writer?

    A.  That’s a tough one because while I always had what I’d call an “artistic sensibility” (i.e. I didn’t fit very well into normal life). At first, I wanted to be a painter–an artist–an illustrator. Then I realized I could do with words what I struggled to do with paints. I think by the time my tenth novel was published, I figured I was a real writer and it wasn’t a fluke.

    2. What is the hardest part of writing?

    A.  Ideas are easy for me. And writing is a struggle, but a fun one. Revision is always fun. And editing is tedious but necessary. But the absolute hardest part of writing for me is developing the ideas once I get them. That’s where you have to fill in the blanks and piece the story together to get an outline or, at least, a clear idea of where you’re going. That is the worst and hardest. After that, it’s easier … but never easy.

    3. How did you feel upon publication of your first completed project?

    A.  I was thrilled, of course, but I was also nervous. I felt like I was an imposter. It was like standing in the middle of a shopping mall with no clothes on. I was insecure enough about my work (and still am) to not allow myself to enjoy … to savor the moment.

    4. In addition to writing, what else are you passionate about?

    A.  Reading, of course. You can’t be a writer and not read–good books, bad books, indifferent books … every kind of book to see and learn what the craft is all about. Other than reading and writing–my family and politics. My friend Tom Monteleone calls me a “leftie, liberal, tree-hugging, granola-crunching, long-haired hippie.” That works for me … and my politics reflect that.

    5. If you could ask any author, living or dead, one question, what would it be?

    A.  I’d ask Shakespeare not where he got his ideas, but how he developed them … or I’d ask Hawthorne why he seemed to be depressed all the time.

    About the author.

    Rick arrived on the horror scene in 1980 with many of his early novels published by Zebra books. He wrote and published over 90 novels and short stories from the early 1980s on. In 2011 the Horror Writers Association awarded Rick and Joe R. Lansdale the Bram Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement. Sadly, on March 21 of 2013 we lost Rick to a heart attack. For me personally he was a writer who was always willing to help those of us starting out, and though I never met him personally I counted him among my friends.

    Rick’s work is still available at Amazon, stop by and check it out by clicking on Rick’s photo on the right.

    If you write in any of the speculative fiction genres and would like to participate, answer the five questions above and send them, along with a brief author bio and an author photo no larger than 200px by 200px to rschiver@gmail.com.

  • Pre Order Shattered Peace by Megan Russ

    A Miss-Fortunate Adventures Saga (Balance of Fates Book 1)

    Coming November 1, 2025.

    Pre Order Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F7VXJDMT

    Synopsis

    Secretly nestled in the heart of the ancient forest, there is a tree that towers over all others. Within its embrace, the future generation of warriors trains for the day their nation calls upon them.

    An elven outcast with a secret to keep. A rare free human with something to prove. These two young monks have just graduated from training within the Monastery of the Leaf. With their training days behind them, it is time for them to find their place in the world.

    Have you ever wondered how the heroes began their journey? Let’s go back to the beginning. This coming of age, found-family, action-driven adventure will introduce you to these young heroes before their call to destiny. What dark horrors will they face along their journey? Find out within the pages of this Homebrew 5e-inspired story.

    About the author: I have been writing stories since I was eight years old. I won an elementary school writing competition for a story about a Horse and a Rabbit. After that I thought I could make it. Dreaming of writing a story that would one day reach the hearts of millions. I wanted to be one of the great fantasy writers like J.K. Rowling, or Christopher Paolini. I wanted to see my stories out there. Ironic since coming back to writing I have started writing in a completely different genre.

    About the Author

    I have been writing stories since I was eight years old. I won an elementary school writing competition for a story about a Horse and a Rabbit. After that I thought I could make it. Dreaming of writing a story that would one day reach the hearts of millions. I wanted to be one of the great fantasy writers like J.K. Rowling, or Christopher Paolini. I wanted to see my stories out there. Ironic since coming back to writing I have started writing in a completely different genre.

    Years of writing produced nothing worth people’s money. Rejection letter after rejection letter. The heart-break of rejection and learning that my alpha reader at the time was not even looking at my work caused me to give up writing for a few years. Dropping dead weight from my life allowed me to find my inspiration again.

    New life situation and a new hope for the future has given me back my love for story telling. Living in the haunted Nevada desert has inspired this collection of short stories. Growing up in the Mojave of southern California to settle in the Great Basin of northern Nevada, has given me a unique perspective on desert life and the amazing collection of life that surrounds me. This inspired my first short story collection focusing on more obscure desert history and features. You can read about these desert themed horror stories in Shadows of the Great Basin.

    You can find me on most social media platforms @meganrussauthor

    I am a huge supporter of other Indie Authors and would like to give a shout out to all the authors who helped me and inspired me on my fresh start. Check out their work and help support Indie Writing by reading and reviewing books.

    Zack Graham, Daniel Georgieve, Tiffany Ann, T.R. Sharrow, Heather Renee, Z. Martin, B. Williams, Andy Holberry, Kris Leigh, Meera Masen, Debbie Hyde, Licia Dawn, Ashley Bundy, Thomas Stewart

    Do you have a preorder or new releese you;d like to share. Drop me a line to rschiver@gmail.com

  • Weekly Writing Challenge

    I’ve added another 669 words to the continuing story God’s Chosen. I hope you enjoy my work as much as I enjoy writing it. I wrote this Tuesday morning, and you’re getting it raw and unedited.

    God’s Chosen (contd.)

    Derrick fell back with a cry of terror, the sudden movement coupled with Mrs. Franklin’s added weigh threw Reverend Wickes off balance. She felt like a sack of concrete and was just as graceful. They both went down in a jumbled heap and Reverend Wickes struggled to escape Mrs. Franklin’s grasp as they rolled across the ground. She scratched him across his left cheek, a jagged fingernail tearing open a flap of skin that sent a shock of pain through his body as he untangled himself and rolled away.

    He jumped back to his feet, one hand pressed over his injured cheek as blood flowed down his face. He felt the flap of skin beneath his palm and was struck by a sudden sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Mrs. Franklin rolled back and forth on the ground, struggling to get up, yet unable to do so.

    “What’s wrong with her?” Derrick said, his question followed by the wail of an approaching siren. With squealing brakes, the ambulance arrived, and two paramedics emerged. One crossed to Mrs. Franklin still thrashing around on the ground, while the other approached Reverend Wickes.

    Reverend Wickes recognized the paramedic attending to him as the daughter of Joshua Billings who served on the board for the town of Whispering Pines. He couldn’t recall her name, of course she rarely attended church, unlike her father who was always present.

    “How’s your father?” Reverend Wickes asked her as she tended to his wound.

    She smiled in a way that tried to warn him off the subject, but he had already opened that can of worms. “He’d my dad, and that about sums it up, you’ve got a nasty wound, how did it happen?” There was genuine concern in her voice and Reverend Wickes readily opened up, explaining what brought them to this point.

    “That’s odd,” she said as he finished telling his story. “Wouldn’t they have embalmed her after her death?”

    Reverend Wickes had never considered this, and he found his gaze drifting over to where Mrs. Franklin struggled against the other paramedic. If she hadn’t been buried alive, what else could have happened? His train of thought was interrupted when the other paramedic, a young man he did not know, joined them. Jenny, the name struck him out of the blue, he’d been distracted enough to recall the name of the paramedic caring for him.

    “I don’t understand what’s going on,” he said in a near whisper. “Her respiration is elevated, but there is no pulse, nor is there a heartbeat.”

    “Can we transport her?” Jenny asked.

    “We’ll have to strap her down.”

    “Get the gurney then,” Jenny replied as she finished taping a bandage to his cheek. “I’d have your doctor look at that as soon as possible. I cleaned it up, and used a couple of butterflies to close the wound, but it might need stitches.”

    “I will, thank you, Jenny, tell your father I said hi,” Reverend Wickes said.

    “I don’t see my father that much anymore. You’re welcome and remember to have that looked at.”

    Reverend Wickes watched as Jenny and her partner strapped Mrs. Franklin to the gurney and loaded it in the back of the ambulance. After they were gone he turned to his church where most of the parishioners were gathered on the front lawn, watching the events unfold. There was no sense continuing the sermon he had hoped would end the bullying he knew was taking place in their small corner of the world. Maybe next week he’d have a better chance of instilling some respect for others. As it stood he was tired from his ordeal and only wanted to go home lie down to rest.

    “Everybody go home,” he told the parishioners, noting the happiness on some of their faces at escaping another of his boring sermons. After they left he returned to his own modest home behind the church and wearily climbed the steps to his bedroom where he promptly fell asleep.

    to be continued

    Free Book

    I’m looking or my people. Are you it? Sign up for my monthly newsletter and get your free copy of Zomething Dead This Way Comes. If you enjoy my work do nothing and every month you will receive an email containing either a free short story, or a sneak peek at a work in progress. If you don’t like my work, unsubscribe and keep the free book. This book is only available via my newsletter.

    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.

    They’re already dealing with tough times, but things get even crazier when Robert’s mom is attacked by his dad and turns into a zombie. This is only the first act in a chain of events that plunges the world into the zombie apocalypse. Forcing the boys to figure out how to survive in this new, terrifying reality.

    Trapped between the undead, and the evil living in the building, their future becomes more perilous until Robert makes a startling discovery in the basement. In the end it’s all about survival, friendship, and facing their fears as they fight to protect each other and their home.

    Sign me up!
  • The Ghosts of Conflicts Past

    The Ghosts of Conflicts Past

    The gunfire has long since fallen silent, most of the scars that once marred the field of battle have healed, and the physical signs of the past conflict were but a memory. Yet if one were to listen closely to the restless breeze whispering across this hallowed land, you might hear the voices of the past. The cries of anger and terror fading to the final whimper of a dying soldier as they came face to face with that which awaits all of us in our final moments.

    The names of the battlefields might change as well as the means of conflict, but one thing will always remain. The dying. Be it from sword or arrow, bomb or bullet, death moves among the combatants gathering up the fallen. Where they will march for eternity in lock step with death as the world of the living honors their sacrifice.

    Stories of ghostly encounters near old battlefields are as old as the nature of war itself. On the plains of Marathon, north of Athens, Athenian soldiers repelled the Persians in 490 B.C. Afterwards visitors to the battlefield talked of hearing the whistle of spears and the screams of dying soldiers.

    British history is filled with similar stories. Three battles from the civil war of 1642 have been reportedly seen by visitors, the engagements at Naseby, Marston Moor, and Edgehill. Two world wars have also left their mark upon the landscape from Dieppe to Burma.

    The U.S has its fair share of stories with most centered on the ghostly apparitions that inhabit the civil war battlefields of Gettysburg, and Antietam just to name two.

    I experienced an encounter in West German in the mid-seventies. It was my first trip out of the country, courtesy of Uncle Sam, and we were in the field on maneuvers. I had been assigned to a listening post for two hours. It was punishment because me and my tank commander, a west pointer who was always trying to bully people, had been locking horns ever since he’d been assigned to the tank. I had been bullied growing up, so I had very little patience for people of that nature, no matter their rank.

    It had only been a little more than 32 years since the guns of WWII had fallen silent, and in many parts of the country there remained small reminders of the past conflict. Most notably were the abandoned structures still riddled with bullet holes.  

    We weren’t near any towns, or even farms. The night was clear with a full moon and as I waited to be relieved I caught the sound of movement to my right front. I focused my attention on where the sound was coming from but could see nothing. It sounded like several people sneaking up on our position, and it was obvious from the sound of their movement they were soldiers. An armed force moving through the night, no matter how quiet they think they are, will still make small sounds. A rifle sling rattling softly, pants catching on the weeds, footsteps moving as quietly as possible. When you’ve done it enough you recognize these sounds.

    There were no infantry units nearby, and as per our rules of engagement everything in front of us was considered hostile. I was about to call it in when whoever it was started speaking quietly, in German. Like they were giving orders or bitching about their situation. I only knew enough German to get into trouble. I looked again at where the voices were coming from, but there was nothing there. The weeds in the field were only about a foot high and not very dense so it’s unlikely they were hiding.

    They continued to get closer, their footsteps growing louder, that guttural voice whispering orders. They were no more than five feet away from me, but nothing moved where the voices were coming from. I couldn’t see a damned thing, but I could hear them as clear as a bell. It was then I took a chance and turned on my flashlight. I was supposed to call in any movement, but for some reason this didn’t sound right. There was something off about the way the person was speaking so I hesitated on calling this in. I’d heard a number of stories about strange occurrences that happened to others in the field.

    I searched everywhere but saw nothing. If it had been an opposing force patrol sneaking up on our position, the moment I turned on my flashlight they would have come after me. As it was whoever had been there simply vanished. My relief showed up, and I returned to the tank to get reamed out by my TC for turning on my flashlight. I didn’t tell him what happened. It wasn’t until later that I started to piece together what I might have witnessed. I believe what I heard that night was a lost German patrol that paid the ultimate price but were still continuing their mission.

    Sounds farfetched, and some might question what kind of drugs I had been playing with at the time. But I was stone cold sober, and I know what I heard. I believe it was just one of the little events that put me onto the path I now follow.

    In the coming weeks and months, I plan to explore the stories of hauntings from the world’s battlefields, from ancient times to the present day. If you have any personal experience I’d love to hear about them too, please share your story in the comment below. Thank you.