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Alex Marmalade

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Feb, 2020

Stories (101)

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77 Followers

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101 Stories

1815 karma pts

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Borrowed Time

Submitted to Contest #301

The Ashmolean Museum's marble floors gleamed under the soft gallery lights as Anna guided the group of wealthy donors through her latest acquisition: a previously unknown Caravaggio."Notice how the light creates this almost supernatural contrast," Anna said, gesturing toward the painting's shadowy background. "Caravaggio was a master of chiaroscuro, using darkness not just as absence of light, but as a presence itself."She watched their faces transform with wonder—exactly the reaction she'd hoped for. Seven years as Senior Curator had taught...

7 likes

No Good Deed

The final week transformed Adam's campaign. He still refused podiums, but in living rooms and backyards, the former botanist spoke about urban ecosystems with a quiet authority that made people lean forward to listen."Plants don't care about your credentials," he explained to a gathering at the library, his academic knowledge flowing when freed from formal constraints. "They respond to consistent care, not grand gestures."People nodded, recognizing the subtext about governance.Meanwhile, Mayor Dickerson, whose political career began when his...

1 like

Spin Cycle

At precisely 7:38 AM, Vijay Sharma stood in the rain outside Absolute Appliance Repairs, squinting at the handwritten sign taped to the metal shutters: "New apprentice—key under flowerpot. Let yourself in. First job at 9. —Gary." The "flowerpot" was actually a rust-spattered tin bucket containing a dead geranium and three cigarette butts.Vijay adjusted his grip on the soggy cardboard box of possessions—one medical textbook, a thermos of his mother's chai, and the unopened sympathy card from his medical school classmates following his grandfa...

1 like

Queue Jumpers Anonymous

"SHE'S CUTTING THE QUEUE!"The accusation rang through the NHS waiting room like a gunshot. Heads snapped up from dog-eared magazines. A baby stopped mid-wail. The ancient ceiling fan seemed to pause its creaking rotation.Martin Fitzwilliam, notebook in hand and vein throbbing visibly at his temple, pointed a trembling finger at the blue-rinsed octogenarian who had just sidled past seventeen patiently waiting patients."Mrs. Blackwood," he sputtered, "that is your third queue violation this month! I've been documenting your transgressions sinc...

2 likes

Paper Cuts

Otto Bauer's shoes clicked against the police station's linoleum floor—metronomes of disappointment. The desk sergeant recognized him immediately, the way nurses recognize chronic patients."Dr. Bauer," Sergeant Müller nodded, reaching for the release forms with the practiced efficiency of a surgical nurse. "Third incision into the same patient this month.""Let's excise the commentary, Müller," Otto sighed, removing his calfskin gloves one finger at a time, as methodical as preparing for theater. "Just produce my son.""The Bauer boy's becomin...

1 like

Desert Veins

The scent hit Ibrahim first—metallic and primal, like wet earth mixed with decay. It bubbled up from the ground where his camel had stumbled, a black viscous pool spreading across the sand. The desert sunset cast long shadows as he knelt beside it, dipping his fingers into the strange substance."Allah provides in mysterious ways," he whispered, watching the oil drip from his fingertips.Ibrahim Al-Fadil had not set out to find oil. At thirty-five, he sought only what every Bedouin guide desired: safe passage for his British employers across t...

2 likes

Suspended Sentence

The fever had finally broken. Three nights of delirium—his body alternately burning and freezing, mind spinning with hallucinations so vivid they left him gasping—had left prisoner 237 hollow-eyed and weak, but lucid.He lay on his thin mattress, watching dawn seep through the barred window. Gray light. Gray walls. Gray existence. Four years in this Siberian hellhole had leached the color from everything, including himself."Still alive then?" Zakhar, the cell's elder resident, peered down at him through rheumy eyes. A former Orthodox priest i...

1 like

Last Night at The End of the World

Jack Rosenthal's hands trembled slightly as he slid the VHS into the tape cleaner, the machine's familiar whirring a metronome to another pointless day at Blockbuster Video #4873. Through the storefront windows, summer sunset painted the parking lot gold, illuminating the "CLOSING SALE: EVERYTHING MUST GO" banner hanging crookedly above the entrance. Three more days until the store joined the growing constellation of empty retail spaces across town."I don't understand why anyone would want this piece of garbage," Jack muttered, eyeing the bo...

2 likes

Fluid Balance Chart

Dr. Farida Abdel-Aziz twisted the cap off her water bottle, the morning light filtering through the cramped changing room window. Her pager hadn't beeped in ninety seconds—a new record for St. Barnabas Hospital. She closed her eyes, feeling her parched throat constrict as she tilted the bottle upward.The cool liquid was millimeters from her lips when her pager erupted."Christ on a bicycle," she muttered, then crossed herself automatically—her mother's influence lingering like Catholic guilt. The display read: CARDIAC ARREST, WARD 7B.She bolt...

1 like

Signal in the Noise

The squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum creates a mental map for Samuel. Three years ago, he memorized each corridor of Sunnyvale Care Center by its unique sound signature. The pediatric ward has a high-pitched squeak; the admin wing, where Dr. Warren's office lies, produces a duller friction. Samuel navigates this auditory landscape the way sailors once traversed oceans by stars."Your eighteenth birthday tomorrow is a milestone, Samuel." Dr. Warren's cologne—sandalwood masking something sour—announces his presence before his voice does...

2 likes

Hide and Squeak

Submitted to Contest #299

I press my ear to the floorboards, counting the footsteps below. Four soldiers. Maybe five. Their boots scrape against the bakery floor, methodical in their search pattern. Beside me, Sofia stifles a giggle, her small body practically vibrating with the effort of keeping still."Shh, little mouse," I whisper, gently squeezing her shoulder. "Remember the game?"She nods, dark curls bouncing against her round cheeks, and clamps both hands over her mouth. Her eyes, large and luminous in the dim light filtering through the cracks, sparkle with exc...

10 likes

Punchline Purgatory

Submitted to Contest #299

Harry Newberry ruled the stage like a precision instrument, delivering each syllable with meticulous timing. Under the spotlight at The Laugh Factory, his final minutes flowed perfectly."So I'm at this fancy Manhattan restaurant, right? The kind where they don't list prices because if you have to ask, you can't afford it." Harry paused. "The waiter describes the special with such reverence, I swear he's performing a monologue from 'Hamilton.' 'Tonight we have a locally-sourced, pan-seared diver scallop nestled on a bed of microgreens, kissed...

6 likes

Western Union Starlight

Submitted to Contest #299

"Baba, I found another joke book at the library. This one has to work," Neda said, dropping her backpack on the kitchen counter. She pulled out a worn paperback with a cartoon elephant balancing on a ball. "Look, it's called 'Trunk Full of Laughs.' That's funny already, right?"Mahmoud Rahimi barely looked up from the pile of receipts he was organizing. "Very clever," he said without a hint of amusement. His weathered face remained stoic, the crow's feet around his eyes evidence of smiles from long ago."You didn't even look at it!" Neda prote...

4 likes

Last Name Basis

The chef's knife disappeared beneath my trembling fingers as I stared at the email glowing on my phone—confirmation for an 8:45 PM reservation at Umami, the most exclusive sushi restaurant in Seattle."Ya salam!" I exclaimed to my empty apartment. My cat Mochi—named during a misguided Japanese food phase—looked at me with typical disdain before returning to her grooming.My name—Jon Khoury—glowed on the screen. I hadn't made this reservation.Which could only mean one thing: there was another Jon Khoury out there. My name doppelganger had someh...

1 like

The Excuse Artist

Every Tuesday at 7:30 PM, the "Life in Progress" group met in the crumbling community center off Maple Street. The building had once been a church, then a theater, then something involving crystals that nobody talked about. Now it housed various recovery groups, each with their designated room and coffee setup.Room C's fluorescent lights flickered intermittently, casting everyone in a sickly pallor that matched their collective mood. Six metal folding chairs formed an uneven circle, and in the center sat a small table with a nearly empty box...

1 like

Author bio

Hi, I’m Alex Marmalade. I tell stories that try to dig for the truths we bury beneath the surface.

Yes, Marmalade is a somewhat ridiculous last name – I've made peace with this (sort of 🙃). But sometimes it takes an unusual perspective to see what others miss.

My stories explore what happens in those pivotal moments when pretense falls away—when characters stop calibrating themselves against artificial standards and finally embrace who they truly are. I'm still figuring this all out myself, honestly. 🤗

Fiction is sometimes the clearest way to tell the truth. As Over the Rhine once said, "If you're not embarrassed, then you're not doing it right."

These stories are fragments I've unearthed from somewhere deeper—fossils carefully brushed clean and held to the light. I publish a new one every weekday, along with reflections on the unexpected discoveries found along the way.

If these explorations resonate with you, find more at: https://alexmarmalade.substack.com/

The garden gate is always unlocked. ✨

1 winning story 🏆

Contest #294

Unspoken Orders – read story