Amelia Bowen

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Nov, 2020

Stories (11)

11 Stories

1230 karma pts

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“Pouch Eggs ” by Amelia Bowen

⭐️ Shortlisted for Contest #102

Someone is talking to me but all I can see is their teeth, so round and yellow they look like cooked corn. We are sitting on the parking lot outside of my apartment, the black tar heating under us and turning our insides to mush. The asphalt has been running a tiff with the sun for hours now, finally reaching a fever pitch as the sun lets loose its rays in a constant barrage against the stubborn pavement. It refuses to surrender its stance, though it has remained solely on the defense. All I can feel is its warmth heating the undersides o...

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“Jagged Edges” by Amelia Bowen

Submitted to Contest #95

Content Warning: self harmI told myself I didn’t need you. It wasn’t as if you couldn’t see. Couldn’t see the way I turned away when you stubbed your little toe on the jagged edge of the dishwasher, and you sat on the floor screaming incoherently about all the jagged edges and all the stupid dishwashers.You were all jagged edges.I told myself I could live without you. I tore imaginary holes in the wall by the toilet in our tiny bathroom, raging with redrimmed eyes as if it wasn’t only ever tearstains...

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“Mother Said” by Amelia Bowen

Submitted to Contest #94

Mother said you wanted to be donated. When you die. We’d just been to a museum, and all I could see was your skin peeled back like an orange to reveal muscle and dried-out bones, steeping in the heavy gaze of onlookers who claimed it was all in the name of science. The image paralyzed me. I was terrified. Could I resist every brochure for a natural history or university museum I came across, all so I wouldn’t see you there, strung out, hung up, feet dangling how you hated behind some smudged piece of smudge-proof glass? I wondere...

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“Ghosts” by Amelia Bowen

Submitted to Contest #92

It felt wrong to be anything but a ghost, in this house. Felt wrong to liken yourself to anything but a drifting specter, white dress or cape billowing after you like a train of unfinished thoughts. She was alone. It felt wrong to be anything but alone, in this house. The curtains were made to be rustled by some invisible hand; frosted windows crafted specially to frame the longing face of a life-long captive. The house was drafty, inconsistent in its moods; she liked to think that she was too.There was a trunk in the attic. An old...

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“Poisoned ” by Amelia Bowen

Submitted to Contest #92

I discovered a rash on my arm yesterday. Its eating me from the inside out. I can feel it melting my skin; burning, itching pains that won’t subside. Its obscene. I haven’t eaten anything strange. I don’t think so. I haven’t been near any particularly long-haired or scruffy animals. My neighbor has a dog. She’s white with really short hair, though. I can’t imagine it’d have given me something. I don’t think I’m allergic to dogs. Not that kind, at least. When I imagine myself allergic to something it usually looks more like a vulture. Or d...

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“When The Lark Laughs ” by Amelia Bowen

Submitted to Contest #90

Beth knew she was almost gone. Her organs had turned on her fragile body and the wind threatened to topple over her feather-light frame. She saluted the sky with her right hand, shielding her eyes from the white sun. She swayed in unison with the grass to the wind, gooseflesh gathered on her arms and legs. She turned toward the sound of a lark in the distance.Peter was tending his grandmothers garden when he heard the sound of the small, brown bird. His hand went up to shade his eyes, his other dropping the shovel he was...

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“Abroad” by Amelia Bowen

Submitted to Contest #89

The old man’s suitcase was having none of it. She smiled slightly, trying her best to reassure its wrinkled figure that no unfortunate miscreant was lurking in wait of its corner. Now, she thought towards its sagging eye; hanging jowl, you might find a hand ready to rob you, but I should think your corner is safe. It continued to glower, and her nose wrinkled as she sniffed the air. You’re going to set my head aflame with those angry looks of yours, she thought at it. Hairspray is quite flammable. The luggage harrumphed as the train lurch...

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“POW” by Amelia Bowen

Submitted to Contest #85

I, queen of the attic spaces, preside over my queendom clothed solely in my ghastly chemise. Say what they may, my nanny, the housekeeper. They do not know how the weighted burden of a people to rule will reduce a dress and petticoat to utter ruin. I would be no better than the water-filled potholes that live by the front of the house. No better than the wash basin, as drenched and overwhelmed as the milk Cook boils downstairs. My queendom is hot as it is, being the attic spaces. It is but spring, and I feel that I can live in no more...

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“Into Madness” by Amelia Bowen

Submitted to Contest #84

There was nothing but the plaster hanging sullenly above my head. Nothing but the birds that warbled their tunes in competition to the wanderings of the wind. It seemed a worthless hobby, no matter how listless, to try with your own melodies to rival the wind. The wind is an entity, yes, but it would shock us all to feel it whisper, as it does, with coherence. If the wind speaks it is the voice of God. If the flowers wave their heads to its voice, they are the puppets of nature. Such were the musings I entertained myself with as I lay use...

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“This Oak, These Skulls” by Amelia Bowen

Submitted to Contest #70

I thought, when I first saw him, that he must be a statue. His skin was the kind of gray you might see Michelangelo bent over- tooth chisel in his concentrated hand. His eyes, his hair, though -they gave him away. Both were dark, almost black. He sat on a bench by the side of the road I strode to school each day. I didn’t know how I could have missed him before; I reasoned that must have been his first day.There was a book in his hands. He was bent over it like it was the source of all truth, the fountain of youth, life blood- I su...

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“Vent by the Door” by Amelia Bowen

Submitted to Contest #67

If she pressed her ear to the vent next to the door, she could just make out the sound of whispering. It was high-pitched, like it belonged to the human equivalent of a feather boa. It was the ripple of maple leaves on a summer afternoon; breathy, like a horse’s hooves on pavement. She heard another voice too, like a top hat. It was low and measured, sounding like it drank tea in the mornings instead of coffee. She imagined a porcelain mug. He wouldn’t use teacups, no. He wasn’t like that, she could tell. The ...

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Author bio

~ will be inactive for a while because of an increase in workload~ I am a short story author and poet who loves to sew historical reenactment clothing and read novels- preferably by Jane Austen or John Knowles. Favorite Poets: Sylvia Plath, Mary Oliver, Billy Collins Favorite books: Jane Eyre, A Separate Peace Everyone go check out my friend Madeline's work at https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/contests/100/submissions/74497/ comments are always appreciated!!:) -My real name is Kyah Tappmeyer for copyright reasons-

Shortlisted 1 story ⭐️

Contest #102

Pouch Eggs – read story