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David Ader

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Dec, 2020

Stories (51)
Comments
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37 Followers
23 Following

51 Stories

1187 karma pts

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From a Deep Recess

Submitted to Contest #223

The panic erupted his sleep. It was a fire alarm going off in his head, a realization that he’d left a pot of soup boiling on the stove or the bathtub running, and he’d driven hours from home and had no cell service. It was none of those issues, though. It was worse.  Joe Boyle realized he’d failed to drop a course and tomorrow was the final exam. It was his last class in his final semester and how on earth was he still in it, how could he have forgotten? He tried to remember what the professor had taught in those first few ...

15 likes 4 comments 4
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The Urge To Go

Submitted to Contest #219

How long had I been there? Shaking, staring down at what I suppose is an elegant Persian carpet, just like the officer demanded. Waiting for what I didn’t know. It would be bad, of course, but how bad? The two who took me in had punched in my back, thrown me to the sidewalk. In the van I’d brushed away dirt from the street – I’m fastidious that way – and comported myself to be presentable. As if that would help. That damn officer. If he just yelled and slapped me more, that would be fine. When he slapped me, I put my hand to my face, I coul...

15 likes 2 comments 2
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In Counter

Submitted to Contest #216

It was only a coffee. How much simpler could that be? Decaf with skim milk and stevia. They didn’t have stevia; they only had Sweet n’ Lo. No big deal, she’d said. Fine, the waitress replied. Fine, again. Why had she had to say fine twice? That was weird.              Jenn wasn’t that hungry, and she told the waitress as much. The waitress asked twice can I get you anything else?  And twice Jenn said, no thank you. Twice. The first time she said it with a smile. No thank you, I...

14 likes 3 comments 3
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Willoughby's March

Submitted to Contest #211

Willoughby clutched into the soggy ground trying to get lower. Around him bullets popped into the mud, splashing him. Thousands of them hundreds of thousands? How many men did they have? He was soaked from it all. There was a boom off to the left. Artillery. The boom just went on as if a whole line of cannons were firing in turn. He dug further praying the shells would pass over head. Then there was that smell, that sharp stench of burning Sulphur, acrid smoke, men so frightened they soiled themselves.  “Mister Willoughby!” He t...

7 likes 0 comments 0
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You Are So Very Welcome

Submitted to Contest #207

Ellen Berliner offered the caller a ready excuse that her system was incredibly slow that morning. What with the holiday coming up and Covid going around there were simply an awful lot of calls coming in. It rolled off her tongue like the lines from a well-rehearsed play. Ellen also rolled her bored eyes. “We’re experiencing unusually high call volume,” a quote taken directly from the Post-it permanently taped to her monitor. She apologized, per another Post-it, and moved to the topic at hand. “Now what date was the claim again?” An...

14 likes 2 comments 2
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The Feast

Submitted to Contest #205

          Leaving the market, Mabel constantly adjusted her heavy grocery bags to maintain a hold. It was a struggle, but she managed to find them a resting place against the soft protrusion of her ample belly. She also held an ear-to-ear grin anyone would see if it weren’t for those overflowing bags largely hiding her face.  She was going to have a feast; crab cakes, a lobster roll, a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, chosen because of its pretty label, coleslaw, fried-up sweet potatoes, ...

24 likes 12 comments 12
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Worth His Weight in Gold

Submitted to Contest #204

The saloon doors swung open followed by a frigid wind and a quick accumulation of snow. A rude chorus amounted to a demand for the stranger to shut the doors. He did so, taking his time, and brushed the snow off his fur hat and shoulders. In the heat of the room, warmed by a blazing cast iron stove, the melting ice on his long beard dripped to the floor. The saloon stunk of stale cigars, cheap whiskey, and filthy miners. “Well if it ain’t Stonewall Jackson himself,” said a black mustache with a man behind it. He was leaning ba...

19 likes 12 comments 12
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In Counter

Submitted to Contest #203

It was only a coffee. Could it have been any simpler? Decaf with skim milk and Stevia. They didn’t have Stevia; they only had Sweet n’ Lo. No big deal, she’d said. Fine, the waitress replied. Fine, again. Why had she had to say fine twice?            Jenn wasn’t that hungry, and she told the waitress as much. The waitress asked twice, Can I get you anything else?  And twice Jenn said, No thank you. Twice. The first time she said it with a smile. No thank you, I’m not hungry.  &...

15 likes 4 comments 4
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A Winter’s Walk

Submitted to Contest #202

           It was just the two of them, trudging along for what felt like an eternity. They walked that first night and hid the next day. At some point they’d given up on trying to hide; there was no one to hide from. The weather had been kind enough at the beginning; cold, not too cold, and kind of dry. Until today. A thick fog had come in, heavy and wet, and there was a rumble off in the distance. And flashes. Lightening maybe. Or guns. Probably guns. It was getting really cold, that d...

16 likes 3 comments 3
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C’est la Vie

Submitted to Contest #199

The ancient vendor lifted a plastic sheet from his wares that lay on top of an even more ancient, if that was possible, drab blanket. Ashes fell from his reeking Gauloises onto the faded US initials in one corner of the blanket. The old man looked up, his eyes hooded in the sort of contempt you’d expect from a dusty peasant trying to eke out a living with a display of mostly junk to a goofy, smiling, and obviously, American tourist. “Hi,” said Mark. “I mean ‘bon jour’” At least he was trying. The tourist guide said the French appreciated i...

9 likes 4 comments 4
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A Brush With History

Shortlisted for Contest #198 ⭐️

      It was a bitter winter that year, 1954. The coldest that century, they said, and fifteen-year-old Ernie Remsen was freezing; the layers of sweaters underneath his blue cotton mechanic’s jacket, a “Texaco” patch on the breast, couldn’t keep out the chill. Sal was the name embroidered over the left pocket. Ernie didn’t know Sal but was grateful he’d donated it to the church rummage sale. It was almost better than nothing.            Still, Ernie had stol...

32 likes 16 comments 16
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A Day in the Life of Gus Peterman

Submitted to Contest #197

           Gus Peterman had the rest of his days ahead to look forward to. Both of them.            Of course, that wasn’t much of a surprise. Once you’re diagnosed with terminal cancer, once you’ve gone through the whole denial, bargaining thing, you’re left with a case of “yeah-I-get-it “and choose how you’re going to live what’s left. Then there’s that final phase, that final bout, when you’re in hospice and everything’s sort of a...

7 likes 1 comment 1
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A Virtual Life

Submitted to Contest #196

We all have regrets. Coulda, woulda, shoulda…fill in the blank. It drives some people into insanity. Or into therapy. Or worse.            Coulda, woulda, shoulda.            Shoulda is the worst of the trio. I should have done this, but I did that, and look where it got me. Where is not the preferred place or you wouldn’t have asked the question in the first place. The ideal was a life well-lived, no regrets, and a long look in the ...

9 likes 2 comments 2
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Scarecrow & Dorothy

Submitted to Contest #195

Some people said good night or words to that effect. Some nodded their heads as if acknowledging my humanity. A couple of young things smiled, almost shyly, and hurried out. I figured they felt guilty or something that I was there, and would be all night, while they were off doing what young things do. I don’t know, shop, gym, meeting friends. They never got past the nod which was fine by me.            Most, though, like overwhelmingly most, didn’t bother with a smile, or a nod, let alo...

14 likes 3 comments 3
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The Hobby Shop

Submitted to Contest #192

           “I won’t be too long,” said his wife. “I’ll meet you back in…say…45 minutes. Tops. Don’t be late again. Not in this weather.”            “Sure, sure,” he replied, edging back towards the car with three bundles of groceries in his arms.            “What did I say?” she asked.            He leaned over to put the bag...

13 likes 6 comments 6
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