🎉 Our next novel writing master class starts in –! Claim your spot →
Advice, insights and news
Free 10-day publishing courses
Free publishing webinars
Free EPUB & PDF typesetting tool
Launch your book in style
Assemble a team of pros
A weekly short story contest
Author on Reedsy Prompts since Dec, 2022
Submitted to Contest #235
Warning: This story deals with sensitive topics and subjects of loss and grief. I had to stop running. Most people stop running because they can’t find the motivation anymore, or maybe because their life gets so busy that they couldn’t fit a simple run into their schedule. That wasn't the case with me. I glanced over at the alarm clock on my bedside table, the constant “tick-tock” blending into the simple lines of meaningful nothingness. The even knots of the mahogany seemed to sing along with the tick, tick, tock of the clock. I p...
Submitted to Contest #195
It wasn’t really a big deal. I laughed as I emptied the fiftieth trash can into the giant, black one with wheels that I carried behind me. I glanced around the room, noting the change in the dirt, blood, and gore that had been there moments before. Now, it was clean and sparkling, ready for the next patient. The nurses and doctors scurried around outside as I finished cleaning the room. The patient had been in a horrific car accident. They moved him from ICU to a regular room, and I breathed a sigh of relief when they did. ...
Submitted to Contest #186
I looked through your eyes. And when I did, the world was all blues, purples and greens. The colors were fresh, the sounds and feelings new. A new perspective was in my own gaze, as I looked through your eyes. I looked through your eyes. Those were eyes that would light up when I walked into a room; those were eyes that grew dim with each passing day, as the disease pulled the life from your body. Those eyes could flash like a burning fire, or twinkle like the stars on a cloudless night. They would narrow and widen, laugh merrily without mak...
Submitted to Contest #178
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Old Mr. James shook the snow from his boots and coat with practiced ease. His heavy frown and wrinkled forehead made his actions cartoon-like as he tossed his coat onto the wire coat rack. He hunched his sturdy shoulders as he walked through the department store, glaring at the brightly wrapped presents, decorated trees, and Santa’s elves as they waved from every corner at him. “I don’t know why they have to go to so much trouble. Christmas is just something corporate made up to get their fingers into every American po...
Hannah Lloyd has not written a bio yet!
Oops, you need an account for that!
Log in with your social account:
Or enter your email: