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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jul, 2025
Submitted to Contest #314
The apple was half-eaten, half-rotted, and sweating in the heat — still the best thing Tommy had seen all day.It was buried beneath a pizza box and a broken umbrella, slick with rainwater and the faint stench of something older. He didn’t care. Hunger had no pride—and he was done pretending to have any left. He dug it out of the dumpster, wiped it on the least-filthy patch of his sleeve, and sat down beside a cardboard box that would serve as his shelter for the night. His fingers trembled. Hunger, mostly. But part of him knew it wasn’t just...
Submitted to Contest #313
The house settled around him with the kind of hush that only came after long years and longer routines. Abe shuffled across the kitchen tile in worn slippers, still in the khaki slacks he'd fallen asleep in, one hand rubbing at the knot in his shoulder like it might finally work loose after twenty years of complaints.The morning light had that flat, pewter tone to it, like the sky hadn’t decided whether to clear or keep brooding. He didn’t check the weather. Didn’t care. The pot on the counter still held yesterday’s brew, and that was enough...
Submitted to Contest #312
Jeff sat at his desk, staring at the blinking cursor like it was daring him to flinch. The document was titled Last Good Day. That part came easy. The rest didn’t.Outside, the sky was caught between storm and sun, the kind of afternoon that couldn't make up its mind. Inside, everything was still: the mug of half-drunk coffee, the fading list of plot beats on the corkboard, the framed photo of Murphy, his old Labrador, perched beside a row of empty pens. It was meant to be a story about grief. About quiet things. About a man and his dog, and ...
Submitted to Contest #311
The bell above the door gave a weary chime as Patricia stepped into the shop, trailing fog and damp wool behind her. Her coat was a deep charcoal, its hem wet from the street, and a small netted mourning veil clung to the brim of her hat. Wisps of chestnut hair escaped the pinned roll beneath it. Her eyes, green, reddened, restless, scanned the shop like someone waking from a nightmare and not quite sure if they’d truly left it behind.The gaslight outside flickered, throwing shadows across the window sign: Ash & Ember — Restorative Teas....
Submitted to Contest #310
Mark never meant for anyone to read it.He called it The Echo and the Sock: A Nonlinear Treatise on Perception and Choice. A joke title, for a joke book, written in a haze of caffeine, bourbon, and sleep-deprivation. It was a fever dream of metaphors and contradictions - a stream-of-consciousness wreckage filled with sentences like:"All clocks are liars, except the one in your belly button.""To become truly free, one must first befriend a duck and rename it Harold.""Hope is a sandwich left on a windowsill during a thunderstorm."He self-publis...
Submitted to Contest #309
The snow came down like it meant something. Thick flakes spun under the streetlamps, catching in the cracks of brick facades and swirling down Allen Street in soft, bitter spirals. Most of the shops had long since closed. The galleries were dark, the cafés shuttered, and the tattoo parlor on the corner had its neon flickering like a heartbeat trying to quit.But halfway down the block, beneath a rusted iron sign that read Anthony’s Brew, a single window glowed gold.Inside, the bar smelled of cinnamon, molasses, and old oak. The kind of scent ...
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