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Author on Reedsy Prompts since May, 2023
Submitted to Contest #277
"At night when she was tired, there was no bed for her to sleep in, but she had to lie down next to the hearth in the ashes."–Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, Kinder- und Hausmärchen, 1st ed. (Berlin, 1812), v. 1, no. 21. Translated by D. L. Ashliman. FRENCH: Thanks for joining us at the Read More Books Podcast. I'm Walter French and I’m thrilled to have Eleanor Ashford, author of the best-selling novel Ugly Inside Out, as my guest. Eleanor’s novel is a paranormal comedy based loosely on the author’s own experiences growing up in a dysfunctional fa...
Submitted to Contest #233
Without wine bottles, Maura’s black lacquered coffee table looked decidedly naked.She moved the charcuterie board and La Croix cans around to better use the space but couldn’t shake the feeling that it was unfinished. Like a formal table without bread plates.“Maybe they’ll bring their books,” she muttered, tossing her own copy of The Honey-Do Murders onto the empty surface. The book skidded across the open space and stopped barely short of the table’s edge. Maura sighed. It would have to do.It was Ina’s idea to make the January book club mee...
Submitted to Contest #210
#_P-C_AllStaff Wow, what to say on my last day of 30 years at the Press-Caller? It has been a wild ride. How else can you describe a career that peaked at “managing editor” and finishes now with “redundant.” And yet I do have something important to tell you before I go.It has been a pleasure and a privilege to work with all of you these many years. Well, some of you. Actually, none of you since I’m the last of the pre-merger staff to remain. I remember well the last round of staff cuts. And the one before it. And the one before that. And th...
Shortlisted for Contest #206 ⭐️
I moved the coffee pot back to its place three days in a row before Adam called me on it.“Erica, what is with the appliance musical chairs?”“That’s where the coffee pot belongs.”“That’s not an immutable truth.”Nothing was, apparently.I was cool when the kids nixed the mashed potatoes and green bean casserole for Thanksgiving dinner. I smiled and agreed to replace them with roasted cauliflower and shredded brussels sprouts. And thanked my lucky stars they hadn’t demanded we invite a live turkey and apologize to it for years of eating its ance...
Submitted to Contest #204
She wanted to punch him in the nose. Hard, right in the nose! But she couldn’t, because she wasn’t tall enough to reach that far. From her position in the passenger seat, she could only get her right fist to his shoulder. And it’s useless to hit a grown man in the shoulder. Even if the man was 60 and a lousy street fighter – 30 years of marriage and you learn a thing or two about a guy. Also, his right was the only hand on the wheel at the moment. She wanted to get from Phoenix to Las Vegas in one piece. Hitting the driver on his drivi...
Submitted to Contest #203
Kayla was two exits from home when she got the text, delivered via her car speakers. “Fist fight in the weight zone. Please come back.” It was the calm, neutral, automated voice of her Honda, but in it, Kayla could practically hear the panicked shriek of her new assistant manager, Davis. That kid needed a lot more training. The afternoon shift shouldn’t be so challenging. Kayla pulled off the highway and made a U-y at the traffic light. She ignored the honks and hand gestures of her fellow motorists and gunned it back to Future Fitness...
Submitted to Contest #201
“ ‘Morning Diane. The time sheets are on your desk. There’re bagels in the break room. And there’s a dead body in Orchestra F.” Diane dropped her purse on her desk. “Really? A dead body” Her voice rose, like she’d just won a prize. Patricia shrugged off her uniform jacket and grabbed her car keys as she headed for the door. “Thought you’d be more excited about the bagels,” she said. “They’re not New York bagels.” “You New Yorkers are snobs.” “About bagels? Guilty.” Diane was on Year Three of living in Las Vegas. She’d adjusted to...
Submitted to Contest #200
Deb was sure she had him by the balls when the Corrine tidbit surfaced. She’d been draped over the bar, mocktail Cosmo in hand, pretending to be tipsy. It wasn’t hard. She just mirrored the gaggle of office girls around her. They were downing the real thing. They hadn’t slipped the bartender $20 to quietly serve them sober drinks all night. They could afford their fun. They weren’t trying to save their careers from the chopping block. “The buns on him – Oh. My God!” “I know, right? Gimme some!” The women of Max Allen Communications w...
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