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Grace Yoder

Author on Reedsy Prompts since May, 2025

Stories (4)

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4 Stories

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Full Circle Moment

Grace Yoder

WARNING: This story contains mentions of suicide, death, and violence. --------------------------------------------------------------- The Italian leather of my Armani suit felt suffocating as I stood in Director Morrison's sterile office, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps. "You've been replaced." Seven years. Seven goddamn years of sleepless nights in dingy motels, of watching good agents die while I played whatever part the Bureau needed. Seven years of bleeding for this job, and they were cutting me loose before I could...

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The Real McCoy

Grace Yoder

Submitted to Contest #312

I'd always avoided the tech repair shop on Elm Street. Something about its flickering neon sign and the way electronic hums seemed to emanate from within made me uneasy. But today, with my laptop dying and a crucial deadline looming, I had no choice. As a freelance writer specialized in food and travel, I need my tools working—I have a piece about disappearing neighborhood bakeries due tomorrow, and my editor wasn't known for patience. The shop buzzed with the white noise of dozens of devices, heavy with the metallic smell of solder and warm...

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Room #237

Grace Yoder

The detective's pen had been clicking for exactly four minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Click. Pause. Click-click. Pause. The rhythm was driving me insane, but I couldn't stop counting. "Let's go over this again," Detective Morrison said, not looking up from his notepad. He had a coffee stain on his tie that looked like a small bird, and his wedding ring had a scratch on the band that caught the fluorescent light every time he moved his hand. I shifted in the uncomfortable plastic chair. The police station smelled like burnt coffee and disi...

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Before the Fall

Grace Yoder

Submitted to Contest #309

I keep his old soccer cleats in my closet, the ones with grass stains that never came out, and laces he double-knotted because he said it brought him luck. They still smell like the field—dirt and sweat and that particular scent of Saturday mornings when everything felt possible. Dad played in the over-40 league every weekend until I was fifteen. I'd sit in the aluminum bleachers with Mom, watching him sprint down the sideline with more enthusiasm than skill, his receding hairline glistening with sweat. He wasn't the best player, but he was ...

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