R.C. Shivers Jr. was born just a few short miles from the Atlantic Ocean on the south shore of Long Island. The beach and the east coast seasoned his mind and creativity. The waves and the dunes shaped his soul. But the cold weather and short summer months left him longing for more than sitting atop a lifeguard stand in the winter months just making music with his childhood friend. The south was calling. R.C. traveled to South Carolina and found a home in Charleston in the late 90's. A career in the medical field and the sands and palms of the South Carolina low country seemed as natural as the cliffs and rocks of the Long Island Sound. Something else called though. Everywhere he looked the Lowcountry filled his vision with history and the ocean. Sitting on the sands of beaches like Folly, Edisto, Sullivan's Island and Isle of Palms, lowcountry stories flowed from locals to his ears and filtered quickly to his pen.

Salty air, a gift for words and inspiration from the unique coastal scenery quickly changed a hobby of writing to a need to tell stories. The first of which became the novel Peninsula! Check me out at www.rcshivers.com.

My passion is ...

my wife, my dog, my writing, islands, racing....Life!

I know too much about ...

Ask my Wife.

My parents always told me ...

So much, it made me move far far away!

My childhood ambition ...

To be Elvis or Richard Petty

My favorite memory ...

Racing go-karts with my dad.

Why I write ...

Why does the earth spin? Why does the Sun shine? I write because I have to. The pen is my syringe.

What I am reading/watching/listening to ...

Don't laugh...the cartoon network. Gotta love Scooby Doo.

My first job ...

Picking beans. It sucked.

My best moment ...

August 13, my wife and I eloped.

My inspiration ...

IS every story or book I have ever read, that made me feel something...anything.

Creative Writing > Short Stories Short stories: Dark stories

55 of 668

The Twin Bed
Deafening ordinance explosions came in wave after relentless wave. Chunks of muddy hillside flew in every direction. A blast, too close to his right side, erupted in a plume of fire and mud. The intense heat seared the flesh of his forearm like steak on a hot summer grill. Bobby's fear rose as each strong struck closer and closer to his side. The explosions were too random, and always too close. He pushed forward up the hillside because he had to. He pushed forward because his fear of the next blast would not let him remain st...

More..