Erodite Papapostolou

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Sep, 2024

Stories (4)

4 Stories

64 karma pts

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“Fires in the Sky” by Erodite Papapostolou

Submitted to Contest #269

Cody sat by the window of his psychiatric wardroom, rocking back and forth, his mind lost in the past. Ten years had passed since his life had been shattered. Since... He shook his head violently, trying to shake off the memories, but they clung to him like vines, wrapping around every corner of his mind. He remembered it as if it were yesterday: He was nine years old when he saw the strange light over the field. Without a second thought, he ran towards it, his heart pounding. As shooting stars streaked across the sky, he searched the field,...

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“The Tailor and His Halloween Teddy” by Erodite Papapostolou

Submitted to Contest #269

On Halloween Eve, the veil between the living and the dead thins. Spirits roam freely, leaving trails that, if followed, could lead to either salvation or destruction. *** "Trick or treat!" a young boy in a cowboy costume shouted, his voice barely audible over the wind. Edwin, an elderly man with a weathered face, opened his door and grunted in response. He pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, adjusted his checkered suit, and stroked his bushy mustache. With a weary sigh, he dismissed the boy with a wave of his hand. As Edwin continued ...

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“Bluehour” by Erodite Papapostolou

Submitted to Contest #268

Regus Flynn adjusted his plaid jacket and glanced around the desolate playground. Though the air was filled with the distant laughter of children, the swings and slides stood empty. He ran a hand through his sparse hair and pushed his glasses back up his nose. A voice broke the silence, "Mr. Flynn." He turned to see a man with pale skin, piercing blue eyes, and a white hair. Dressed entirely in black, he extended a hand. "Damon HellWay," he introduced himself. "You wanted to see me." Regus swallowed hard and shook Damon's hand, a chill runni...

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“The Ghostwriter” by Erodite Papapostolou

Submitted to Contest #267

A thin veil of fog, like a river of mist, enveloped London's streets on that damp November morning. Jeremy Sigul, a man barely past forty-eight, pulled his coat tighter, adjusted his hat, unfurled his umbrella, and gripped his briefcase as he emerged from the subway. His youthful appearance belied his age, betrayed only by his receding hairline. His tall frame and confident stride suggested a man of assuredness, a stark contrast to his inner turmoil. Lost in thought, he barely noticed the stranger who collided with his shoulder. Startled, he...

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Author bio

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