reedsymarketplace
Hire professionals for your project
reedsyblog
Advice, insights and news
reedsylearning
Online publishing courses
reedsylive
Free publishing webinars
reedsydiscovery
Launch your book in style
Author on Reedsy Prompts since Aug, 2019
Submitted to Contest #34
To be sure, the house was theirs. Its stones, its bricks, the very fiber of the creaking wooden skeleton belonged solely to the Cardmonts of Grensville Manor. Yet still, after ten long years, its soul evaded their mastery with a vile and contemptuous scorn. It was visible in the little things: in all the nooks and crannies which take the course of centuries to bend to any one will. The family that had been here before -- an ancient line culminating in the death of a dreary bachelor whose portrait had hung on a damp spot of the main hall -- h...
Submitted to Contest #33
It was a lonely three nights. Which seems a rather obvious thing to say, until it became clear that it was not Her absence which made his heart feel cold and drifting, though at first even he supposed that this must be the answer. Not for the first time, Johnathan Vale stared gloomily at the black expanse behind his window, unsure of the legitimacy of his pain. He was certain of two things. Firstly, he was alone. Whether this had made him happier was a matter of lingering debate, since at one point he'd also been utterly convinced that stron...
Submitted to Contest #30
And then they spoke, saying: "Tell us about the lake."Problem being, he didn't much remember seeing one. He stood (or was it sitting, but suspended?) in the center of the room, feeling both lit and unlit, cast in darkness and at the same time basking in the brilliance of a thousand suns.And then they spoke again, and they said: "Tell us about the lake."He scratched his head and sighed. "Erm," he said. "Well, I . . . that is, it's, ah . . . it's deep. No, scratch that -- very deep. Right." He cleared his throat, his lips straining from the ef...
The clacking of the type drowned out the feeble sobs. In the corner of the cavernous basement, behind the vast machines, the sound existed in a bubble of its own existence, pushing rebelliously at the pressure of the noise. She was alone, but solitude is subjective.Above . . .Laughter filled the small room, making brighter the dim light of the chandelier. Outside, the night was deep. Here, the windows are either squares of black or blocked by splendid drapes which are the color of foreign suns. Glasses jangle against bottles and trays. There...
Submitted to Contest #29
In all things, the Job came first. It was the first thing you learned and the last thing you ever forgot, since it was also a given truth that this wasn't the sort of occupation that ended in a nice pension and a beach-side Havana retreat. There were beaches. Occasionally, there was Havana. But retreat? Never. It was down there in the manual, right next to the little sidebar about cauterizing amputated limbs with a smokeless campfire.. . . for it is known that he . . . who flees the face of darkness, is as unto that face. And he who shirks t...
Submitted to Contest #28
It was a lonely sort of town, the sort where old men sit on their porches at night and say they have been forgotten by Time. Down the main street, a single drugstore, large and dilapidated and groaning under the weight of great mounds of dust, stood as sole champion of our livelihood. On its left was a barbershop, closed all the way back in the days of the Depression, with a little spinning cylinder of blues and reds that creaked on windy days. On the right, Smith's Produce and Meats, faded now to read "Mith odu n M t," a slumbering leviatha...
Submitted to Contest #26
The Lobster lives immortal.Or so the fishermen say, when the day is fair and the beer is good and the shadows beg a tale. On this evening, the sea is calm, raked only with tides painted with the slow and sundry winds. The storm is far away.Yet the docks are deserted, the boats all moored, and what few men still linger in the pier have clustered at the tables of the Widowed Whaler, where they quaff cheap ale with cheerful abandon. Occasionally, one of them will free himself from the talk of his companions, or else the solemn quietude of the b...
They locked the cello in the cellar. Now, before we go any further, understand that this was not the sort of cellar in which we find homey cabinets of jams and pickled beets. Mrs. Maganis is more than fond of the story and, before the incident, acquired quite a knack for telling it.Her husband was the sort of man who takes great pride in the guests he brings to his table, and though he was not usually a proponent for letting the women "prattle on through gentlemen's business," as he put it, it was not long before she developed such a reputat...
In the stark, forgotten reaches of the heavens, shrouded in wisps of clouds and errant dreams, the arrow of Fate draws slyly along a string of captured stars. Below him is a sea of blooming consequence, the colors both blinding and serene as a billion futures cry out to be born, and his breath stains the wind with a fragment of his purpose.His mark is set. The string is released. The bow, creaking, sings out to the sleeping air . . .And the shot goes wide. Fate pauses, and frowns. Below, the woman who history has chosen to lead the new Kingd...
Submitted to Contest #25
At exactly noon on a pleasant April day, Oliver Boon spilled a medium caramel mocha down the front of his best green shirt. He had a best blue shirt, too, and a jacket, but this was his best green one, and the fact was rather upsetting. He also owns a washing machine, but ensuing circumstances will sideline this particular consideration to a level of undeserved inconsequence. Twenty minutes before, a silhouette leaves the shadow of a duplex in the downtown district, and disappears beneath the eaves of a bakery, 15 miles away . . ."God above!...
Shortlisted for Contest #25 ⭐️
On the first year of his travels with the notable Montery June, it had never occurred to the boy that he should keep a journal. His master kept the habit, and he perceived it to be a very popular pastime in certain circles, but he never quite made the connection between the grand slopes of the mountains and golden fields before him, and the groggy feeling, in the back of his mind, that someone ought to be getting this down somewhere, so that it would not be forgotten. He came to regret this very much, later, but that was then.And this is now...
Gray clouds obscured the new day. Below a sweeping vista of postcard mountains, the last of the smoke cleared above the new commonwealth of Ans, fading into the nascent breeze. There was a feeling of anticipation.Lord Elisworth, second to his title and first to the House of Assembly, stroked what little was left of his sandy beard. Some of it had burned off. About half had been sheared away by an overly zealous swordsman. But what remained was enough to calm his racing heart, if only for a few minutes."I'm not sure I understand," he said. He...
Submitted to Contest #24
As anyone over the age of thirty, Captain Lona Honder had a particular pining, at times, for the "good old days." Though, to be fair, that sort of thing usually entailed cheerful anecdotes about flashy cars and better beer and a downright suspicious amount of sunshine, while he contented himself with one extremely practical feature of his days on the Force, which played at the keys of Nostalgia with the maestro's zeal. "Would it be too much," he wondered aloud, "to have a normal murder for once?" He'd given up smoking a year ago, but he stil...
Later, in years when the caravans came less frequently, and the last of the springs had dried to dust, men would still sit at the scuffed tables of the Lucky Prospector. Every Tuesday and Friday night, some unseen force would draw them out, to drink and sigh and tell stories to those who would listen, of the old days and the better days and even those days that no one could properly remember: legends as old as the sunset, and just as far away.Papa had always been a wonderful storyteller. Part of the reason why this was, was because he shared...
The hour drew late. A thin fog scraped about the grounds, and a biting frost had long ago usurped the peaceful calm of autumn. The sky was dark, made flat by stubbornly uninteresting clouds that spoke of dreadful secrets behind their low-hanging curtain.In other words, the weather was absolutely perfect.S'vitari leaned against the garden wall, chewing the scabbard of a dagger. His patience, never considerable to begin with, had shortened considerably in the last hour. Where were they? He eyed the dark windows of the manor with a frown. I'll ...
Oops, you need an account for that!
Log in with your social account:
Or enter your email:
8 likes
