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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jan, 2021
Submitted to Contest #297
Author’s note: *The dialogue style of this story is blatantly and shamelessly ripped of from Stephen King’s work Dolores Claiborne. It is a magnificent novel and I would recommend you read it!*“Well, alright then. Everyone settled in? Got your little machine turned on? See, I suppose this is the part where you start to ask me questions. You might start with some softballs, real easy ones to get me talking. It’s not like the old days, with the good cop, bad cop shtick, is it? These days it’s a little more complicated, I bet. Well, if you don’...
Submitted to Contest #296
A woman sits in a London train. It is Friday night, and the frenetic energy, the chaotic distillation of a world that has been waiting for the weekend rages around her. Somehow, she is sitting with no one near her in a cluster of four seats. She, like so many others around her, is dressed exquisitely - normally, the narrative eye would need not dwell on such aesthetic triviality, but in this case, it is relevant. She wears a tight black dress that stands out against her blonde hair and red lips. Everything about her is manicured, from her na...
Submitted to Contest #291
I always knew that thing would be the end of him. His motorcycle. Not a bike, not a cycle, but a motorcycle. Like Marlon Brando in The Wild Bunch. Which makes me wonder why a Millennial like him would ever care about some old movie stars who rode around on noisy ‘choppers.’ For us, sure - back when the world was simpler and the pool of iconography was shallower it made sense that all the kids wanted to be like Steve McQueen or Dennis Hopper. But for him? A 90s baby? That fucking thing. I don’t know why it came to be, but I sure do kno...
Submitted to Contest #288
Stepping on to the dock, Darryl is faced with the sheer weight of his dilemma: it was only four days ago that on the way back from placing traps, Louise had blown her engine and had to be tugged back to port. It had been in Captain Ted’s family for generations, a boat that Darryl’s own father had worked on, a boat that had survived countless harsh winters. Somehow, it must have acquired the properties of a talisman, capable of providing eternal safety in a world where safety is never certain. For whatever reason, Captain Ted wouldn’t give up...
Submitted to Contest #285
I remember everything about that day. There are some things I choose not to remember, but some things, like that morning, I will always remember. I remember padding down the stairs, holding the banister (you always told me that the stairs were the most dangerous thing in any house) until I got to the bottom and started to waddle (you remember the pregnant-lady waddle, right?) to the kitchen. I turned on the lights and gave light to a new day. You were sleeping - it was early - and I made coffee. I usually waited until later in the day ...
Submitted to Contest #284
Content warning: Derogatory slurs, offensive languageAnthony Losani hated Thanksgiving because every year, his Uncle Dom and his family would come to visit. Dominic Losani was his father’s brother, and was the epitome of everything that Anthony hated. He worked construction, though over the years he had risen in the ranks to the point where he barely had to do any heavy lifting; the massive gut that hung outside of his jeans was a testament to this, as well as his appetite. He was greasy - it seemed to roll down his body from his nearl...
Submitted to Contest #283
In the darkness of her room, within the perfect stillness of Christmas Eve, Sarah Dawson’s darkest thoughts were dragged up from the recesses of her mind before she drifted off to sleep. She thought about her mother and the almost-born baby inside of her and Sarah’s thoughts formed words, and those words were: I wish that her baby were never born. * Now, before any snap judgements are made about Ms Dawson, some context is in order. Sarah Dawson, 12, had actually adapted quite well to a difficult life. Her mother, Leila, and stepdad, Pa...
Submitted to Contest #275
It had been over four years since victory was declared in Europe. Since then, London, that behemoth, slowly breathed its way back to life. With every pile of rubble cleared, every man returned home, every shop opened up and every celebration, the lustre and vigour it was known for had returned. That wasn’t to say it was without scars - the bullet holes and missing buildings stood out like missing teeth, but with time, it was rebuilt. These were the thoughts of Ella Franklin as she looked out from her Westminster flat across the c...
Submitted to Contest #274
Fate isn’t talked about much around these parts. Maybe it’s something that is more felt than expressed - you spend long enough seeing all these rich people and their mega-cottages and their boats come and go, you start to feel like your path was decided for you. To me, it’s more luck than anything else. Some people are just born on third base. But even saying that, I wonder… I wonder about something bigger, about a grand design with a plan in mind and the means to accomplish it because fate is resourceful. See, this story is about a boy and ...
Submitted to Contest #272
A closing car door and the soft crunch of gravel under a wistful blue sky as Allan King, carrying his briefcase, walks slowly, and with intention. He thinks of his boss, Mr. Langston, and how he had spoken that morning with almost maddening ambiguity: that he seemed ready for his own crack at a policy renewal, if he wanted it. This one’s a walk in the park. And what the hell was he supposed to say to that? Absolutely, sir, seemed like the only choice, and so he said it. And then he found out it was a funeral home. But it wasn’t lik...
Shortlisted for Contest #259 ⭐️
Keith Mitchell awakes to the sound of a ringing bell. As it has been since the accident, there is a second of confusion at waking up somewhere that is not his mother’s house. It doesn’t take long for him to remember where he is - the Haxton Regional Rehabilitation Centre. He repeats the words to himself and that helps to clear the fog of sleep. Then, he turns to sit at the side of the bed, winces at the pain in his head and lifts the leg that is still in a cast to join his other uninjured leg. He’s become used to the dull, itchy feeling belo...
Submitted to Contest #237
Levon Morgan wouldn’t necessarily qualify as a misanthrope - to use the parlance of beer, he would be a misanthrope light. Human interaction was not something that he enjoyed and he tried to avoid it as much as possible, but he wasn’t a live-in-a-cabin-in-the-woods-and-write-a-manifesto kind of guy, though. Just someone who didn’t feel it was necessary to interact with people frequently. It was all the more surprising, then, when he pulled into the parking lot of Ye Olde Squire - a bar that was equally known for its breakfast service and sca...
Submitted to Contest #232
Ella’s hand held the water pump’s handle; its metal was cool against her calloused palms. She started to work the metal up and down with a practised efficiency until water slowly dribbled into the bucket. It was the last one of the night - just enough to wash and make her mother some tea that she wouldn’t drink. As she continued pumping, her eyes looked upwards to the fading sky. There, in the back of her mind, was the thought that what existed in her dreams might become a reality. That recurring dream with a world of darkness and echoing he...
Shortlisted for Contest #221 ⭐️
Until I met the man with the accordion, I wasn’t the kind of person who believed in ghosts. * Who am I, you might be wondering? Well, the name isn’t important. But some details are. Yes, it is a ‘cardinal sin’ of storytelling to dump information in the exposition, but some sins are needed to live life effectively. I’m a 29 year-old English teacher who lives in London. Where I’m from is not important - what’s really salient here is that I’m not a nut-job. I don’t buy into conspiracies, I don’t do drugs and I enjoy the odd drink, bu...
Submitted to Contest #208
The clouds hung low in the sky like pillowy mountains that were mysteries to those who gazed up at them. Above them the sun burned evenly, spreading an indolent haze. Below them, it was the first day of Wimbledon and the green was strikingly verdant against the array of colours the spectators wore. Nikola Marusic was preparing to serve, and he approached the ball boy behind him who brought out three balls. The ball boy’s name was Max Hunter and he tried his best to stop his hands from shaking as his idol approached him. Marusic towered above...
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