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 Sep, 2020
Submitted to Contest #153
Aestivation: a state of dormancy assumed in response to harsh environmental conditions, such as drought or extreme heat. One of the few times my father cried in his life was when the OB squinted into the screen at the sonogram and said I was a boy. A father of four daughters, José Antonio Villanueva had only ever wanted a son. So much so, in fact, that he remained convinced each of my sisters were boys until the day they were born. This forced my mother into last-minute name changes for her beloved girls: Antonia, Juana, Alejandra,...
Shortlisted for Contest #151 ⭐️
Keep your head down. Eyes low.Tread softly, placing your boots with their duct-taped soles in the prints left by the person in front of you.Don’t go too fast, for the person behind.Don’t stop. Don’t look back.And don’t look up.~~~Keep your head down. The wind is strong, strong enough to pull you off course, if you let it.The wind carries things with it. Dust that grits up in your eyes and your mouth, a reminder of where you came from, and where you will return. Rain, occasionally. Not the kind you’d turn your face up for, lips open and soft ...
Winner of Contest #97 🏆
in situ: (adv. or adj.) in the natural or original place***He is like the jeweled light that dances on the sacred floors. I have tried to capture it before, the exact shade of his smile, the hue that sparkles in his laughter. I have tried to piece the glass together in a way that recreates the curl of his hair in the rain. The most glorious window in the world would not do him justice. But that does not stop me from trying.I form the feet of the crucifix first, always the feet, pinned to the deep brown shades of the beam, floating above...
Submitted to Contest #96
The din of the vacuum buzzes heavily in her ears as she dusts the picture frames on the mantle, her gaze following Mark’s unpredictable course through the living room. Her husband’s sun-spotted fingers clutch the vacuum’s handle tightly. He avoids her eyes, focused on the non-existent specks of dirt on the floor. The house is bright, the curtains pulled open for the first time in many months. She is not sure she likes the light that eviscerates their home, exposing their sorrow to the world like a sliced-open abdomen on an operating tab...
Winner of Contest #93 🏆
I wrap my fingers tightly around the clinging plastic of the trash bag, pull it open as wide as it’ll go, and watch him dump the remnants of our happiness into it.His large arms twist and flex unnecessarily as he shovels extra hors d'oeuvres and scraps of entree into the bag. His upper lip is a thin white line, stretched tight below frowning eyes. The faint and smoky gleam of the first stars illuminates our dining room. The windows are open to the still air, mingling the scent of grass and dew with the smell of recently extinguished can...
Submitted to Contest #92
[Content warning: mental illness]She examines the pale skin of her arms, palms upward toward the light as if waiting for an offering. Her veins twist, intricate lines of shadows beneath papery white skin that hasn’t seen proper sunlight in weeks. She thinks about the blood flowing there, along those dark and treacherous paths, tumbling to and from the caverns of her heart.“Hey, where are you?” he asks, watching her from across a tangle of silver sheets.She rolls to her side to look at him. “Just thinking.”He knows her and he doesn’t. He know...
Submitted to Contest #91
Erica entered the library and instantly wanted to leave. The cold stone architecture and crowded shelves intimidated her. She felt small and overshadowed, walking towards the foreign aisles with little more poise than a tourist entering a bazaar.“Can I help you?” the librarian asked, apparently picking up on her hesitation. “No, thanks,” Erica replied. She didn’t know what she was looking for, anyway. Wasn’t even sure why she’d walked in.As a kid, Erica hated books. She’d often grown angry at the way the words were stacked together on t...
Submitted to Contest #89
“It’s okay, baby. I’ll catch you,” he says. I can barely hear him over the echo of laughter, the patter of wet feet on cement. The sun hangs, bright and burning, in the chlorine-scented air. I pick at the pink frills of my bathing suit, readjust my purple goggles. One of the big kids runs by the lifeguard’s chair and leaps, leaving a splash and a sharp whistle in his wake. “You can do it,” Dad coaxes, in the same voice he uses to calm a panicked animal. “Jump.”My heart pounds. I’m afraid, not of the water itself or even that he wil...
Submitted to Contest #88
Owen sits in the garden, lost in thought. He looks out of place here, a tall, well-built man sitting alone under vines and roses. Fingers twisting along the rough wooden bench, he plans and unplans, running the future over in his mind. His phone rings, dragging him away from the abyss of time. It’s Ezra. Just seeing the name and photo sends his heart racing.“Hey,” he hears, “are we still on for tonight?”Owen nods nervously, forgetting he’s just a voice. “Uh, yeah. 7:00.”“Need me to pick anything up on the way?”“Nope, all good.”“Okay, se...
Shortlisted for Contest #88 ⭐️
There once lived a quill-maker who carved fables into feathers. She dwelt alone in a wooden cabin, at the edge of a mountain range that jutted up sharply into the sky like teeth. She sometimes thought she lived in the bones of a great dragon which roamed the earth long ago, large enough to kiss the stars with fire.Each morning, she rose with the sun and went out into the woods to collect feathers. The birds knew her and flocked to her eagerly, for she fed them seeds and stories in the dim morning light. In return, they gave her preened feath...
Submitted to Contest #87
Beware, ye wise, the mirror-glass faeThe trickster vain and cruelHe hides ‘twixt glass and dark and dayTo seek and catch the foolSomewhere in dusk and dying light,The mirror fae lurks and waitsHis smile is bright as stars a-flightHis glass-gaze ne’er abatesTake care that ye not stare too deepOr at the mirror lingerHe there awaits new souls to reapAnd wear upon his fingersThose ringéd fingers, shadow-thinWould scarcely hesitateTo grasp at ye, rend soul from skinAnd bind ye to his fate***Three of the children of Lyhre walked the dusty streets,...
Shortlisted for Contest #86 ⭐️
She took her first breath in a grove of towering aspen trees, under the shadow of a hummingbird’s wing. Her mother was the melody of the mountain stream and her father was the glitter of sunlight through the coin-shaped leaves. The forest cared for her, swaddled her in wildflowers and sustained her with birdsong. When she cried, the butterflies kissed her cheeks and dried her tears. She grew strong and fast, and in only a few years she was taller than the saplings that sprouted on the day of her birth.When the nights were cold, she slep...
Submitted to Contest #85
The city rushes outward, upward, in all directions, blurred by the rain and gloom of another midday storm. The streets teem with blinded cars, headlight beams shining in the raindrops and reflecting off the wet pavement. You are lost, caught by surprise in the storm and turned around in the unfamiliar city. Your hair is soaked and disheveled, your clothes cling tightly to your skin in the warm summer rain.A streetlight and a modest storefront sign catch your eye. This building is nothing like the aloof glass-and-metal structures which s...
Submitted to Contest #84
I am supposed to write about this year. Supposedly, putting things into words will help my mind wrap around them better. I cannot bring myself to do it, not yet. The words will not come.Right now, the room is dark and demands a reckoning of all it has seen. Weeks of productivity, months of creative distractions, a year of trying to reconcile what I knew with what I have learned.I know I should write about the year. Put it into words—blood and ink and truth on the page—and hope the process heals me.Instead, I’ll write a story.🌙There once was ...
Submitted to Contest #81
“I think it’s funny, don’t you?”“What could possibly be funny about this conversation, Lane?”“It’s just— we’re both in the business of piecing things together,” he says, “but neither of us knows how to keep a relationship from falling apart.”I frown. “How does that have anything to do with—”“You’re breaking up with me, right?”“Well, yeah,” I stumble, struggling to control my frustration. All I wanted was a clean break. A satisfying end. And off he goes and beats me to it.“It’s fine, I guess,” he says. He watches me, his hazel eyes wide and e...
Oops, you need an account for that!
Log in with your social account:
Or enter your email:
34 likes
