Deborah Mercer

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Aug, 2019

Stories (321)

321 Stories

9615 karma pts

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“Adulting” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #95

 The irony (well, apart from the fact that I always used to tell the girls off for overusing or misusing that particular word!) is that so far as many people, both my colleagues and our clients, are concerned, I am the capable one. Oh, not necessarily capable at what you might call individual skills – I’ m not the one who does the trouble shooting when the laptops go wrong, nor the one who has the knack for unblocking the loo and saving us the cost of a plumber. I am just, in some generic sense, the capable one. The sensible one. Sensib...

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“Upstairs” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #93

Whoever heard of a garden party being held at night, thought Rosie, or at any rate whoever had heard of it being CALLED a garden party? And it was dark, too. It was late September now, and they had waited until nearly nine o’clock for it to start. Well, come to think of it, she knew who would think of such a thing, knew perfectly well. Edwina and Henry, for their engagement party. Rosie could still remember a teacher she’d once had, who had a way of letting pupils down gently when he was sure they’d done their best, but a piece of work or a ...

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“Two Old Ladies at a Party” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #93

Why, thought Dora, clutching her glass of wine and giving polite smiles from the corner of the room, did people assume that because you were “good on the radio”, or even “a bit of a celebrity” then you were going to love a party. Dora didn’t. She hated them. Oh, she didn’t mind going round to a friend’s house, but this was another matter. It wasn’t even as if she was antisocial. She had spent most of her life working with the public, and could make conversation well enough. But right now, oh, how she longed to be back at her little cottage, ...

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“Clearing Things Up” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #93

I’m still not quite sure how Shaun and I ended up doing the tidying up after Miriam’s leaving do. Still, here we are. And I suppose at least it means it will get done fairly quickly as we’re not likely to stop too much for chit-chat, or for much chat at all beyond the purely polite and practical. I wonder that he came at all, after all, it’s not something you can force folk to do, but maybe he just liked the idea of some free drinks and nibbles. I say nibbles – it was quite a spread, really, I can’t remember when I last saw a vol-au-vent, bu...

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“In Broad Daylight” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #92

Sometimes I make lists. And those around me look on that with indulgence. It is something harmless for me to do. I make lists of things like cities with interesting sounding names (for some reason I am especially fond of Karachi and Malmo and Harare – I know a bit about the cities, but it is just for the sound of the names) or other words for walking – like striding or pacing or shuffling or strutting. I make lists either in the dim glow of a computer screen, or in perpetual twilight in a notebook with grey paper, crouched over it. I am quit...

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“The Theatre of the Night” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #92

The darkness is gathering over the city. It is late March, just past the equinox, so darkness comes neither especially early nor especially late. It comes when it is ready, comes at the time when families have already gathered together again after the working day, comes after the lights of businesses and offices, those blocks of fluorescent false clarity, have already faded. For although this is a city, it is a small city, it is only, really, a city, by virtue of the soaring and splendid cathedral on top of the hill. Sometimes, for high days...

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“Strings Attached” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #92

Viola (her parents had loved string quartets, and she wondered if any brothers or sisters may have been called Violin or Cello) had been delighted when she won the first prize in the Short but Sweet writing competition. Well, okay, she might have been more delighted had she won the second prize, which was £250, as there were plenty of free creative writing courses online and she was borderline broke. But she told herself that would be ungrateful, and as transport and meals were included in the prize, it wasn’t going to be one of those infamo...

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“The Last and First Visit” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #92

The oddest thing about visiting Auntie Stella, even when Lucy was a little girl, was that she never really wanted to go, and yet she never really wanted to leave, either. There was an unease, a dissatisfaction, about both. Auntie Stella didn’t live in a roses round the door idyllic little cottage like Lucy’s friend Annabelle’s Auntie Maureen. She slightly envied Annabelle, though she wasn’t going to give her as much fun as to say so, and though she wasn’t proud of herself, couldn’t honestly say she was sorry either when she told Annabelle th...

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“Mirror Image” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #91

I suppose, like most people, I have mixed feelings about library book sales, or the discards table, or whatever. A strict voice tells me that it absolutely isn’t right to sell off a perfectly good hardback copy of a book that originally cost over £10 for 50p just because there’s a bit torn off the corner of page 27, or a naughty child (or adult!) has scribbled a bit on page 153. By the way, don’t read any especial significance into these numbers. They’re not like 42 from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, or 73 from The Big Bang Theory. T...

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“The Longest Night” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #91

It was a phrase that kept cropping up at the Helpful Hub, as it was somewhat tweely, but undeniably accurately described. Once a Library, always a Library. It was six years now since the library in the little market town had moved to its new building complete with the glass atrium and computer suite, and four years since the building had been taken over by a local charity. All of the bookshelves had gone. The former Reference Library upstairs had been converted into a conference room, and in the little alcove where the children’s library had...

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“Rocks Remember” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #90

I grew up in what some people would call a sect. Or a cult. Oh, folk had their suspicions, but most of them were wide of the mark, and the truth was both more mundane and more strange than they would ever have imagined. Let me tell you what we weren’t. What we did and didn’t believe, and what we did and didn’t do. Though there was some kind of headquarters, it was mainly for administrative purposes, and most members, like my family, just lived in regular houses, did regular jobs, and sent their children to regular schools. Members were allow...

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“A Rose by Any Other Name” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #90

Author's Note: To the best of my knowledge, the violet moss rose does not exist, but the Novalis novel “Die Blaue Blume” or “The Blue Flower” most certainly does! ï»ż Jodie Marlowe grew up hating something that she wasn’t even sure existed, and that would most certainly have done her no harm. She knew that. But at times she hated the violet moss rose with a veritable passion, and thought she would have had no pangs or compunction about tearing one to pieces or trampling it underfoot. It was true the hatred came in waves and variants, and at ti...

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“The Last Safe September” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #89

There was something Margot liked about September, or at least that she disliked less than she disliked the essence of other months. Of course there were sometimes days that still sweltered, and days when the first frosts came, and storms raged, but it was generally a month that was mild enough and cool enough. The nights had started to draw in a little, and the dawn to come a little later, but it was still too soon to dwell on that. And there were no significant dates in September. Of course, not Christmas, and not Easter. And not Mother’s D...

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“The Tale of Lou and Lizzie” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #89

It has been a quiet funeral, even though that’s not compulsory anymore. Well, that’s not entirely true. There has been soaring music, and readings, and the bells have rung, because Louisa left a specific request that they should, even though she wasn’t an especially religious woman. But it has been the kind of funeral that even a stranger would know was for someone important, someone significant, someone who has left her mark on life. But it wasn’t a huge gathering. Family and close friends only, though there’s talk that there will be some k...

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“Fade to Grey” by Deborah Mercer

Submitted to Contest #89

I can still decide not to get on the train, or at any rate, not to get on that train. It is five minutes before it’s due to depart, though its imminent departure has been announced, surprisingly clearly, not in one of those crackling, irritating voices that at one and the same time are both disjointed and like some badly made robot, and as if it is under the skin and not just echoing around the platform. But I have joined the queue, now, and am doing the things that people in queues for trains generally do, taking a swig from a bottle of wat...

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Author bio

Hi, I'm Deborah, generally known as Debbie. I'm growing middle-aged disgracefully in a small town on the East coast of England where I work for a local charity. My passions in life are writing, reading, cats, chess, crosswords, cheese, and shouting at the radio!

Shortlisted 3 stories ⭐

Contest #26
Five Years Afterwards – read story
Contest #16
The Big Surprise – read story
Contest #12
The Tangled Town – read story