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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Feb, 2025
Submitted to Contest #324
“All things begin and end in Albion’s ancient Druid rocky shore.”(William Blake, ‘Milton’) “Kurt Cobain lives in Bognor. And so does Jesus.”(Anonymous, a wall by Bognor beach, c. 2005) That's the thing about living by the coast, you’ve got an expanse of sea and sky, they glory themselves to you whether you’re a visionary poet or a bunch of teenagers who’ve spent the night downing alcopops on the shore. Blake wanted to annihilate the self so that his true imaginative vision could exist; we’re here just getting annihilated. Behind us is the ga...
Submitted to Contest #323
Ravenmaster Diary #214 Debs: Hiya everyone, it’s Debs again - Ravenmaster here at the Tower of London, day two hundreds and fourteen without the birds exiting the vicinity under my watch. The kingdom is safe! As the superstition goes. Touch wood. Debs: As ever, the uniform is silly but I’m dead serious about these majestic birds. Today’s feeding schedule: apples, biscuits, a bit of raw beef, and one dead mouse that George had off the pest control team. He’s the real king, that one. Debs: Corvus corax. People always ask me how clever they are...
Submitted to Contest #322
Kraig Kraig the Keys had just given a final chromatic flourish on “Toxic in the style of Debussy”. A toddler had arabesqued around the square, pulling at her family until they did the same, whilst three millennials stood by, gripping each others’ arms, as if he was transmogrifying into Britney Spears herself. Success. He saw Suzanna edge into his periphery - he’d known he was pushing it with the last couple, all right, several songs. ‘I think that’s four encore’s worth,’ she said with a smile. She was drinking mint tea from a mug with an ony...
Submitted to Contest #321
The forbidden glade was so high in the uninhabitable reaches of Cloudbreaker that some snow never melted, its secrets held by the mountain, undisturbed by the seasons. A young man, or maybe a grown boy, paced its perimeter, peering into the dense forest, anticipating ermine against emerald, the flash of her coat amongst trees. He, Fenric, stood more than an exclamation’s distance from the village. A safe distance, far enough to pretend that other place had never been. He craned his neck. Every other time, she had come. Today of all days coul...
Submitted to Contest #320
Come with me, into the forest. Chances are, you haven't been in for a while, have you? Don’t try and tell me that National Trust Halloween trail counts, or that playground picnic where you never lost sight of the ice-cream van, or when you lost a ball in a bit of scrubland round the back of the estate - full of dangerous pricks for sure, but not the kind you’ll need to worry about out here. This is the real stuff. Get your boots on - we've got a job to do. Bet you never knew England has rainforests, did you? Hardly anyone does. It keeps itse...
Shortlisted for Contest #319 ⭐️
Sixty-one months four daysThis is a house of monsters, and we are its keepers, Herc and I. We never know what we will face when we enter. Today, all was calm. The Persian rugs which line the creaky floorboards lay in place, untorn, the walnut panelling was unstained with ooze or gore, and the crystal chandeliers, although flickering, were intact. I am sure that vapours of the noxious history of this house have seeped their way into the grain of the wood, the fibres of the carpets. Try as I might, I am unable to cleanse it. There is little ve...
Submitted to Contest #318
The Favourite, right, she don’t just get smiles, she hoards them, piles of the things fallen to the floor with the cuttings. I’m down there with the broom sweeping up grins and split ends, try and chuck them all in the bin quick as I can, before The Stylist gets a look in. No matter what she’s done he’s in awe - her fringe-cuts are pure works of art and the leftovers are the bits of paint that dripped off the Mona Lisa. The Favourite isn’t The Favourite at school, where we still have to go one day a week, when we’re not at the salon. Monday,...
Submitted to Contest #317
Content notice: it's a bit sexy. (I hope.) This didn’t feel like sleep. But the space between getting here, and what came before - all darkness. She remembered her desk, her monitor, the cursor blinking unhelpfully. Imagination and history were one big knot she couldn't unravel. By the monitor, the one in her memory, she saw berry tea steeped so long it was basically syrup. Nothing else. What obsession had drawn her so far in she’d lost the way back? She drew in breath and let it out slowly, holding herself still. When she wrote, it sometime...
Submitted to Contest #316
A violin bow lay, stick splintered, over an upturned chair. Horsehairs frayed all over. Next to it, a trombone impaled a harp. Bodies were scattered about the community hall, along with music stands and upturned chairs - some individuals were clutching instruments, some nursing injuries, some lay unmoving. Those who were awake stared at the stage, unblinking, even in fluorescent light. A stage which appeared to be perfectly ordinary. Nothing unusual, just the backdrop to the local theatrical society’s performance of Jekyll and Hyde. And one ...
Submitted to Contest #315
Lewis chucked his rucksack down in the hallway, in the way of his own feet, and flicked on the light. There it was - the washing from breakfast. And the night before. Still sitting there, politely reminding him it needed doing. Nice birthday present from past Lewis. Maybe just leave it ‘til the morning. Future Lewis might appreciate the chance to feel useful. Lucky Lotus was calling his name, anyway. They were so oldschool they numbered their dishes on the app. No need to browse: he went straight for eleven, forty-two and fifty-five. And bec...
Submitted to Contest #314
Elderberry‘Never thought of murdering anyone until I started up the herb garden,’ said Fenella. She sipped the elderberry wine she’d so over-fermented, it’d bypassed fizzing for sizzling. Or maybe that was us, in the ponderous late-summer sun. ‘But this lot can really bring it out of you.’ I’d arrived at the allotment, some months ago, expecting sedate, solitary afternoons. Perhaps meditatively plucking a leaf here or there, having a cry about my empty nest, and seeking salvation through some nurture-based metaphor. Maybe I’d finally get to ...
Submitted to Contest #313
There comes a point, after a painful reckoning, when there’s only one reasonable path onwards: journeying to a kingdom under the rule of a techno-cult of renegade gnomes. Meredith knew how patiently Ayo had been waiting to get started on their tabletop roleplay campaign again. She always pitched it right - never bombarded with messages, pushy GIFs, emotional blackmail. When she’d said, ‘I think it’ll help you to get back into it,’ Merry knew she was genuine. But god, that woman was thirsty for a campaign. How could such an insatiable Game Ma...
Submitted to Contest #312
Content warning: this piece contains vivid, bodily imagery and references to trauma that may evoke or trigger responses related to experiences of physical or sexual violence. Content warning: I got thinking about man and machine, and it got weird. A pleasant hush. Listen out. Soft sheets anchor the body, bleeds some bright presence. Lie in warmth, sore, lead the shiver of breath that throbs - loss - a presence close, blurry, bright, wet, not rain. Show a reflection in the water on the floor. Not rain. Sit, survive connection. Contact with th...
Submitted to Contest #311
Yes, It’s Forever tattoos was holed up in a tiny rented den, in a narrow dead-end, in an ungentrified hollow of London. Its door was always closed. What’s more, it was obscured by a row of bins. It didn’t have a phone number, it barely had a website - and yet, if you wanted a spot with Aisling Stabs, you had to join the end of a year-long waiting list. For Petra Köhler, the other artist-in-residence, it was just six months. Aisling never emerged from behind its blinds, instead relying on Petra’s daily missions to the local Food and Wine corn...
Submitted to Contest #310
Shelf Discovery was a book club who could argue about anything. They'd had mudslinging over misery memoir, locked horns over lauded literature, and even come to blows over blistering biography. An improbable group of six, they’d begun as a meeting between friends which grew over the years. Their meetings were sporadic, their membership was eclectic, and their book choices, chaotic. But a more passionate bunch of readers you could not find anywhere. They read like their lives depended on it and argued like every word was theirs. But even the ...
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