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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2022
What is it like to be under the glare of a sociopath? A real one; a dark triad of malignant psychopathy, narcissism, and Machiavellianism. Here’s the thing: sociopaths aren’t wearing trench coats and creeping around playgrounds. (Well, some of them are.) You know them. Or perhaps you don’t really know them. They’re utterly charming. They can gaze into your soul; they know parts of yourself that remain in shadowy corridors. They find your weaknesses; they anticipate your joys. Eve knew him as the Beguiler. A...
Jane was bored. She and her sisters, Lizzie and Flora, stayed with their grandparents every summer while her parents went on vacation. She’d spent the day moping about until she discovered the attic up on the third floor and toiled away looking through old boxes. There wasn’t a window and it felt airless and hot, and she was about to leave when she noticed out of the corner of her eye a small door. A door for a child! Sh...
It was a foggy November day when a car maneuvered its way into an empty parking spot, seeking cover underneath a familiar maple tree, which only a few days before had been a fiery red; for weeks had burnished torch-like against the muted backdrop, faded now as it had shed its glory, like a magnificent creature shaking loose its scales. The morning was busy- buses gasping open its doors, students emerging: feet sluggish, heads down, fingers swiping and tapping, smiling and giggling. An old man ...
The man in the suit, that's how Ethan thought of him. He’d told them his name after a cursory introduction, but he seemed sexless, devoid of personality. The man didn’t try to sell them a product; he wasn’t engaging them; he wasn’t dynamic or persuasive. One by one they’d been narrowed down from thirty or so, to fifteen, and now, after almost a week, to just the five of them. They’d been encouraged- not prohibited- from speaking about their personal lives, but they wondered, were they being recorded? They’d had such...
Her name was Eileen. And she talked with a smile. If you were blindfolded, or even blind, you’d still hear it- the sparkle in her words, the lilting cadence. Mesmerizing, you could say; hypnotic. She held out a lacquered cherry wood box; on the top it had a swirl of yellow characters- Chinese perhaps, something Eastern, something profound. But Mara dared not ask this. All she needed to know was that ...
When Anne walks into the lecture hall, at first she doesn’t see him, so intent is she trying to navigate her way up the stadium seating. There's a deluge of backpacks and denim-clad legs, the room buzzing with first day jitters. In her experience, the class will remain bloated until the hopefuls- the ones with the add-on cards- will be sent away by the professor. He's the popular one (hence the overfilled hall), and she's relieved she has him and not the other one- the curmudgeonly type, set in his ways.And then she sees...
Monster Under My Bed The exact details are hazy. I was in college, my junior or senior year, and it was a creative writing class. We were in the computer lab that day, working on our personal essays, but many of us were stuck. “Take a snapshot from your life,” our professor told us. “Select a good one- a hard one, a happy one. Take your pick. And then write about it. How hard ...
I am a literature and creative writing teacher and a busy mom of five. I'm so grateful to this community of writers!
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