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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2022
Submitted to Contest #302
Station 8, ration shipment 041345 has completed its rotation. Truck FCT3 has lost tire #5, requesting replacement. Station 8, watchtower W2 replacement lightbulbs have expired, requesting refill. All is well otherwise. Station 8, To Mister J. Fields, Room 224. Station 8, Brockport bridge shows signs of wear/tear on support beam #1, requesting steel sheets for sauder repair asap. Station 8…Station 8…Station 8… Letter after letter after letter. Some are work requests, for supplies or the like. Others are personal, or news (or lack thereof) fro...
Submitted to Contest #301
Rippling heat waves distort the view of the desert expanse. From down here even the weeds are blurry. My face is planted in the dirt as I slowly open my left eye. The sunrays have already begun burning my skin.I ease upward like a stiffened board as orange sand flakes off my sweaty cheek. In front of me, a vast canyon of layered rock, scattered trees, and far away riverbeds. Behind me, black smoke engulfs the carnal wreckage of mangled iron and warped steel. The bodies of former passengers paint a trail from where I lay to the blazing train ...
Submitted to Contest #243
If it hadn’t been for the framing of my helmet, I would’ve thought I was dead. Beyond the thin glass barrier was nothing at all; utter darkness. When someone’s power goes out during a storm, or when an urbanite goes camping, they only think it's dark. This is like laying in a dark room with your eyes open. Your brain tries to make out shapes, but you know there are none. There’s no difference between closing your eyes, or keeping them open. The term pitch black beholds new meaning amidst the final frontier. I am lost in space. I had been sle...
Submitted to Contest #234
The year was 585 BC. By all accounts, the month was May, and the day the twenty-eighth. Whether or not it was a Tuesday, like it will be this year, is inconsequential. But what is consequential is the time and location; twelve hours and fourteen minutes in the PM, and, unfortunately not accurately approximated, “somewhere” along the Kizilirmak River. This is going to be tricky. ____________________ I’m currently sitting at home in my bathrobe, staring at my dark and empty television set. A storm of immense fortitude had swept through my sm...
Submitted to Contest #212
__________ Scott, My friend. It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter. As you know, Francine’s death has put me in a fragile state, and I’ve made the difficult decision to move away. Before I met Franny, you had been my closest confidant, and, admittedly, so much more. The past few years have driven us apart, and although we both denied the reason for this fissure I never gave up on rekindling our friendship…until now. I’ve gone up north, beyond Toronto, in hopes of finding myself in these twilight years. Perhaps solitude wi...
Submitted to Contest #181
[Dear reader: this story contains references to adultery, sexual abuse, and suicide.] __________________________________ It seemed easy enough. My task was to carry the stone to the top of the mountain; a path of recompense, I was told. It looked a long hike, sure. From where I was standing, I couldn’t even see the summit. Clouds of gloom circled the peak, and I could see that the upper slopes were covered in snow. The stone was a mere pound, and it felt smooth in my palm. I was already fiddling with it, rubbing it back and forth between m...
Submitted to Contest #176
“‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; the stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.” - Clement Clarke Moore I remember it as clearly as I see you now. Christmas memories tend to stick with you. I was sitting at the top of the stairs peaking down at the tree. It was late. I can’t be sure of the time, but it was well passed my bedtime. That year, I was determined to witness what all children hope for: Santa Claus placi...
Submitted to Contest #174
I’m an oil man, in broad terms. My fingers were made black from years of smut, and by the time I settled down, I could hardly remember what my real hands looked like. The dye is fading, and so am I. Perhaps it’s time. I made my start working in the Navy yard. I was nine years of age, rolling empty barrels aboard ship after ship. “Reworking material” they called it, hauling used barrels back down the coast. As a lad, there wasn’t much money in it, at first. I worked for scraps and loose change, and mercy from the men. The yard had become m...
Submitted to Contest #171
Autumn. Blood orange leaves flowed down the mountainside. Sunset yellow oaks waved like ocean water, twirling to reveal the hidden green branches below; the last of their kind. The season’s turning below mocked the blue sky above, which still conjured clouds of summer rain. If the world was flipped upside-down, it’d look like a sunset sea.Like the sky, a pair of piercing blue rebel eyes looked out across the expanse. Cal, a man of twenty-four years, was doing his best to accept the loss of ninety-degree greenery. The orange reflection in his...
Submitted to Contest #166
“Happy retirement!” POP! Suddenly it was raining confetti on my desk. My otherwise sparkly clean cubicle had been puked on, but my OCD decided to take a pleasantly timed vacation. My smile grew wider than I knew it could. I look up to see Penn, my boss, holding the empty confetti canon, and wearing a rainbow party hat. Ken, my cubey-neighbor, wore the same triangle hat, but upside down so it looked like he had grown a skittles-beard. His bald face made my shoulders dance with my cheeks. I spun myself around in my chair and landed face-to-fac...
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