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IGY6 Always. 🇺🇸Some battles don't end when the sirens stop.I wrote *The Quiet After the Sirens* for the veterans, first ...
09/06/2026

IGY6 Always. 🇺🇸

Some battles don't end when the sirens stop.

I wrote *The Quiet After the Sirens* for the veterans, first responders, EMTs, firefighters, medics, law enforcement officers, dispatchers, and families who know what it's like to carry the weight of yesterday into tomorrow.

The calls end.
The shift ends.
The deployment ends.

But sometimes the memories don't.

For PTSD Awareness Month, I'm offering *The Quiet After the Sirens* for **$16.22** through the end of June using the QR code below.

Why $16.22?

Because for years, "22 A Day" became a rallying cry in the veteran community—a reminder of the lives lost to su***de and a call to check on one another. While the numbers and research have evolved, the message remains the same:

One life lost is one too many.

This isn't just a discount.

It's a reminder to reach out.
To check in.
To have the hard conversations.
To let someone know they're not alone.

If you've ever stood on a battlefield, ridden in an ambulance, climbed onto a fire truck, answered a radio call, or sat awake at 3 a.m. fighting a battle nobody else could see, this book was written with you in mind.

Scan the QR code below to receive the exclusive PTSD Awareness Month price of **$16.22**.

Available through **June 30 only**.

Because no one should have to face the quiet alone.

IGY6. Always. At all costs. đź–¤

đź“– *The Quiet After the Sirens*
đź’˛ PTSD Awareness Month Price: **$16.22**
đź“… Exclusive June Sale
📱 Scan the QR Code Below

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IGY6 Always.I've worn different uniforms in my life. I've been a Cav Scout Medic. I've been a firefighter. I've been an ...
09/06/2026

IGY6 Always.

I've worn different uniforms in my life. I've been a Cav Scout Medic. I've been a firefighter. I've been an EMT. I've seen people on the worst days of their lives. I've held hands, stopped bleeding, worked codes, delivered bad news, carried bodies to a helicopter, and memories that never really leave.

The thing they don't tell you is that some calls end when you leave the scene. Others stay with you forever.

Sometimes it's a face you can't forget.
Sometimes it's a voice.
Sometimes it's the silence.

PTSD isn't weakness. It isn't something you can just "get over." It's the cost of caring. It's the weight of witnessing things most people will never see and still showing up the next day to do the job again.

I've lost brothers and sisters to the battles that followed them home. I've watched strong men and women convince themselves they had to carry it alone. Hell, even I carry it alone sometimes.

You don't.

Not on my watch.

If you're struggling, call me.
If you're angry, call me.
If you're drinking too much, call me.
If you're sitting in the dark at 3 a.m. fighting demons nobody else can see, call me.

I don't care if it's been ten years or ten minutes since we talked.

Because that's what IGY6 means.

Not when it's convenient.
Not when it's easy.
Not when you're at your best.

Always.

When I wrote *The Quiet After the Sirens*, I wasn't trying to tell a perfect story. I was trying to tell an honest one. A story about service, sacrifice, loss, resilience, and the things we carry long after everyone else has moved on.

For the remainder of PTSD Awareness Month, I'm lowering the price from $18.99 to **$16.22**.

The number isn't random.

For years, the number 22 became a symbol within the veteran community—a reminder of the lives lost to su***de and a call to action to check on our brothers and sisters. While today's statistics are more complex, the message remains the same: one life lost is one too many.

So $16.22 is my way of honoring that conversation, remembering those we've lost, and reminding those who are still fighting that they are not forgotten.

If this book reaches one veteran, one first responder, one firefighter, one EMT, one medic, one dispatcher, one law enforcement officer, or one family member who needs to know they aren't alone, then it has done exactly what I hoped it would do.

We've carried enough people out of the fire, off the battlefield, and out of the wreckage.

Now it's time we carry each other.

IGY6. Always. At all costs.

đź“– *The Quiet After the Sirens*
PTSD Awareness Month Price: **$16.22**
Regular Price: **$18.99**
Available through June 30.

A portion of the royalties will be donated to PTSD Research.

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26/03/2026

Whiskey and the Winter Wind – Now Available

Step into the hush of winter where the burn of whiskey meets the cold breath of memory. In Whiskey and the Winter Wind, Richard White delivers a haunting collection of poetry steeped in reflection, loss, and the quiet resilience of the human spirit. Each poem lingers like smoke in the air—warm, bittersweet, and impossible to forget.

👉 https://shop.ingramspark.com/b/084?params=mKWtoAOaiIJvGcnTcj4ZtU0f2ol0e7hAhxSRxpEu8lU

> May the roads you chose
> keep you far from mine.
> May the silence you gave me
> follow you longer
> than you intended.
>
> And may you never again
> mistake kindness for weakness
> in another man
> who has learned
> what I now know.
>
> I drink to the end of your names
> in my mouth.
> I drink to the cold that stayed
> when you were gone.
> I drink to the man who remains—
> unanswered,
> unbroken,
> and done.

Get a copy direct from the publisher Whispers in the Dark Press on IngramSpark before it hits online bookstores and Amazon.

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01/03/2026

i want me back.

01/03/2026

Who Is This? My name is Richard White. I’m a novelist, an MFA candidate in Creative Writing, and the founder of Whispers in the Dark Press. I write stories that

01/03/2026

For more than twenty years, I have been studying power. Not from headlines alone. Not from official summaries. But from the architecture beneath them — declassi

01/03/2026

Demons breathe.
Ash beneath.

Blackened lung.
Ancient tongue.

Shadows crawl.
Through the wall.

Teeth that gleam.
Split the scream.

Embers blink.
Souls that sink.

Knuckles crack.
No way back.

Velvet night.
Starless sight.

Blood like wine.
Crooked spine.

Candles hiss.
Abyss, abyss.

Iron bells.
Secret hells.

Skin grows thin.
They step in.

Cold embrace.
Borrowed face.

Soft footfall.
End of all.

18/02/2026

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08/02/2026

I grew up with Emmylou back home in our small Vermont hometown, a place where people knew one another not just by name, but by story. When news reached me that

19/01/2026

Today we honor Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who walked unarmed into hatred and still spoke the language of love, justice, and moral courage. 🕯️✊ His dream was forged in darkness, yet it continues to light the way for those who refuse to stop believing in equality. , , , , ,

He walked forward through a country dimmed by its own fear, a lone silhouette against a sky heavy with history. The streets knew his name before they ever knew peace. In the shadows of burned crosses and broken promises, Martin Luther King Jr. stood not untouched by darkness, but shaped by it. The night pressed close around him—thick with hatred, loud with threats—yet he did not confuse the dark for defeat. He understood it as the place where light must first be born.

His voice did not shatter the silence; it entered it. A low, steady tide moving through alleyways of doubt and church basements thick with grief. He spoke of love in a nation that had perfected cruelty, of justice in a land addicted to delay. Every word carried the weight of chains still warm from the wrists they had bound. He did not deny the blood in the soil; he named it. He did not turn from the bruises of the world; he traced them until they formed a map forward.

King stood where shadows gathered most densely—on bridges, in jails, beneath windows lit by hate—and refused to raise his fist. Not because he lacked rage, but because he believed rage alone could not survive the long night. Nonviolence, in his hands, was not gentleness. It was discipline. A controlled fire that burned without consuming the soul. He knew the darkness well enough to understand that becoming it would only make it stronger.

He dreamed not because he was naïve, but because he had stared into despair and found it unimaginative. His dream rose like a dim star over a brutal horizon, faint but stubborn, refusing to be extinguished. It was a dream forged in the knowledge that morning only comes after the longest hours of night. Equality, dignity, freedom—these were not abstract hopes to him; they were demands whispered into a sleeping conscience.

When they finally silenced him, the darkness believed it had won. But shadows cannot bury echoes. His absence became a presence, his fallen body a reminder that light often arrives wounded. Martin Luther King Jr. stood for a justice that did not flinch, a love that walked unarmed into the dark, and a faith that believed even the deepest night could be taught to break.

And somewhere, still, the shadows listen.

©2026 Richard White (Whispers in the Dark Press)

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