A New Story Idea

Hey snyderwrites peeps!

I hope that you’ve all been doing great! We have moved into our new house, getting things done, and feeling happy. Ohio is treating us well.

Here’s my dilemma folks: I need people to read some of my writing. Neighbors in the Supernova was such a fantastic experience, but I’m ready to move on from that. After receiving so many rejections from so many agents (It hurts), I realize that maybe the story is just not meant to be. At least, not in its current form or at this given time. It is what it is–A first try, a first novel, a first go-at-it. A combination of speculative fiction and mystic fantasy–And I loved it! The most incredible journey so far, as I’ve said a million times.

But I’m ready for a new journey. I’m ready for the next big Morgan Snyder thing.

I’ve a got a few tales cooking in my crock-pot of stories: First, I’ve got a steampunk epic fantasy story (YES!) that has been incredibly fun to write. I’m 16k words in and I’m feeling it come alive. NIS was definitely a story that I connected with, but it wasn’t really me. If that makes sense. This story, which I have tentatively entitled Embark!, feels like it fits perfectly in my wheel-house, stylistically and otherwise. It’s a blast. Anyone can read the first few chapters.

Next, I’ve got a middle grade fiction/ easy reader chapter book which is entitled, Microwave Horror Story. I was practically raised on Goosebumps and Animorphs, so it made sense to me that I should at least explore the possibility of creating a supernatural/ sci-fi MS. I can’t stop laughing as I write it because in my head, I’m imagining all the stories that I read as an 11 or 12 year old. Premise basically revolves around a microwave that’s connected to another dimension and two friends that have to defend the city against the creatures that pop out. Now that I think about it…this could potentially be a dumbed-down, kid-friendly of STRANGER THINGS. LOL.

Last but not least is a government/sci-fi/slightly distopian/ thriller story that I really don’t know how to summarize. I got this image in my head of a rugged man stuck in a containment cell, and him explaining his story. It’s much more intense and dark than what I usually write, but it came relatively easily. Here are the first two pages:


These cracking cement walls are my walls. This titanium door frame is mine as well. This bench were I sleep, read, daydream, take orders from the guards, and cry is my only belonging in the world. I am one of the lost ones, a forgotten man without anyone to feel sorry for me or care that I’m gone.

Because they erased me.

I am worse than dead.

When you die, you have a funeral. Tears are shed by loved ones. They talk about the great life that you lived and the impact that you had on the lives of those in your community or group of friends. Songs are sung, and stories are told. Everyone drives reverently to the grave site, pensive and pondering. In a slow, methodical manner the procession gathers around the gave. Final words are spoken by a holy man, who dedicates the grave to deity and instills a blessing on the body. Flowers are gently placed on the top of the casket, which is then placed deep inside the earth, protected by a warm covering of dirt. The quiet crowd watches on, wondering when their time will come.

My time came and passed.

They took it from me.

For me, I simply disappeared. My entire personal history, the long list of events that composed my life like the billions of other people on earth has no physical or electronic remnant. It’s as if I was never held by my wonderful mother and father, like I never learned to shoot a gun with my older brother, like my triumphs and failures were never a part of the unraveling of time.

I exist only in this room.

Besides the bench, they let me keep my spoon for the grovel they feed me twice a day. The stuff tastes like the bottom of a boot, shoelaces included. But the spoon serves a second purpose. It also acts as my mirror when I lick it clean. I can hardly see the reflection now. It is nice to know now and again that I’m still a human, that I still possess the same exterior when my soul is so damaged.

They’ve broken me.

I have nothing left now.

In my containment cell, there are four, dull light bulbs that flicker above my head. By my best estimate, I haven’t seen the sun for some seven to eight years. It’s impossible to gauge because I have no way of keeping track of the time. No clocks to be found. Can’t etch in a tally on the wall. They keep the hallways blacked out at all times. The guards talk about how it keeps the prisoners quiet.

Darkness doesn’t keep them quiet.

Sedative does.

For some reason or another, I’ve never been drugged. People a lot less dangerous than me get drugged. Petty criminals and dealers get loaded up in smaller penitentiaries. Most of them are just shot on the spot. For me, my handling is intentional. As the primary enemy of the State, they let me feel every second tick by. Every ounce of strain on my soul counts. They want trying to destroy my mind so I lose my will to ever speak again. The only time I have ever been spoken to during my time here was by a Colonel three years ago touring the facility, who said three words, “You are nothing.”

And you would be too, if you ever spoke of me.

You would disappear.

If you ever were to bring up my story, which I doubt you would because you value your life, they would label you as a mentally unstable traitor to society. On the media outlets and major news stations, they would tell the public that you were a radical against the common good of humanity. Your family would get a visit from the agents, who would sell them lies and fabricate such a deceptive web of falsehood that your own blood would move to the other side of the planet in fear of you.

Then they’d come for you.

And that’s when you become forgotten.

I’m not the only one that has suffered this plight. There are others like me, many are my friends, many who I consider to be my brothers and sisters, who have been battered, tortured, and killed for what they know. Knowledge is a dangerous commodity. It’s more powerful than a barrel of dynamite.

That’s why I’m here.

Because I know.

What do you think? Leave comments! Share! Help! Read! Por Favor!




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