Hilary Yelvington

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Nov, 2023

Stories (10)

10 Stories

194 karma pts

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“The Knife” by Hilary Yelvington

Submitted to Contest #239

I awoke on a cold tile floor. Lydia, the woman, is here with me now, and so I’m not alone, though she isn't much company at the moment. Not that it’s her fault. It was Lydia I first saw, the very first face I ever knew. She picked me up and put me back where I belong. Such a beautiful face, such a kind woman. Bertrand, the man, has been a nearly constant presence, but he’s gone now. So much has happened. I'd like to get this all down before I forget, before I can't think any longer. While I still have my wits about me.  All I can se...

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“Emery Putnam’s Boyfriend” by Hilary Yelvington

Submitted to Contest #233

January 12, 2012 My name is Emery Putnam and I am 25 years old. I live alone at 222 Carriage Way, Apartment 2B, and I work at Keefer’s pharmacy downtown. To clarify, I am a cashier, not a pharmacist, but it is still a fine job and I am comfortable enough.  As you can see, this diary was meant for a young girl, not a young woman, but I haven’t had use for it until now. It was a Christmas gift from my father, and I received it when I was just 8 years old, hence the tiger stripes and rainbow clasp. I received the diary from Santa, or s...

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“The Green Firework” by Hilary Yelvington

Submitted to Contest #232

Fireworks were always a big to-do on the Fourth of July. Some considered the fireworks a nuisance — lights and sounds designed to wake children and traumatize dogs. Others treated them as the show going on in the background of more important things, like gossiping with friends and neighbors, kissing a new boyfriend, or keeping an eye on children in the dark. Joe Peterson was one of those children, the kind who watched the entire fireworks show from the first dinky firecracker to the final blast of the grand finale, whose only consolation a...

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“The Nacho Table” by Hilary Yelvington

Submitted to Contest #231

Margaret could smell fresh pizza dough, brushed with butter, covered in tomato sauce and mounds of cheese. Deep dish pizza, one of her favorite indulgences, sat on a table in front of her, steam rising off of the top of the gooey white mozzarella, the savory scent as real as the sound of the rain pattering against her office window. She kept her eyes squeezed shut and watched as the Margaret in her visions lifted a large slice from the pan, cropping off the stringy cheese that clung to the sides and plopping the pizza on her plate. She was a...

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“Betty Towers” by Hilary Yelvington

Submitted to Contest #228

Betty Towers was 85 years old. She’d lived in the same house her entire life, eaten the same breakfast every day — scrambled eggs and a glass of orange juice — worn the same reliable Mary Jane shoes for the past several decades, and loved doing her crossword puzzle every morning. She was what people referred to as “a real character” and “a spitfire,” which was another way of politely acknowledging the fact that Betty Towers didn’t give two figs about anyone else’s feelings. Her taciturn nature was infamous around town, and she freely lo...

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“The Assignment” by Hilary Yelvington

Submitted to Contest #227

Everything had gone right. He could come out now.  Not that he needed to rush. Ronan had stocked plenty of provisions. Hardtack, venison jerky, and a large canteen for water — he’d had enough salt, enough fluids and just enough protein to survive underground. Still, his jacket and trousers were starting to hang off of him like laundry on a clothesline. That was nothing, though, compared to how things looked upstairs in the master bedroom.  Hadn’t they deserved it? He hoped so, but then he wasn’t paid to hope. He could still see...

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“The Stub” by Hilary Yelvington

Submitted to Contest #226

My mother died when I was 7. That meant my father was left alone to take care of all four of us kids, a job he took about as seriously as his doctor’s advice to quit drinking. Anyway, being the oldest and a girl to boot, I got handed responsibility for everything my mother, Grace, had done before driving the family station wagon dead on into a giant oak tree outside town. Drunk, probably, but nobody ever said that within my earshot. We got by on bread and butter and apples we picked from a tree in the garden next to our house until Grand...

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“Marbles” by Hilary Yelvington

Submitted to Contest #225

Marley loved marbles. Four-year-olds are simple that way, tickled by things they can hold and collect. The promise of marbles was enough to get Marley to tag along with her parents on a never ending quest to fill their old Victorian home with period furniture.  Once, at her mother’s favorite shop in Sandusky, the old woman working the cash register noticed Marley crawling on her hands and knees, reaching under an old dresser for something out of reach. “What’s down there?” The woman asked. “Marble,” Marley said. The woman reache...

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“Coyote” by Hilary Yelvington

Submitted to Contest #224

“I can’t sleep,” I said. The coyote standing just 10 feet away stared back at me. I saw him most nights on my walks.  Like me, he was a transplant from somewhere less domesticated. Three generations ago, my people lived on lard sandwiches during the Great Depression. Two generations ago, my people were farmers who made enough to build a small house and buy a car, but not much else. My parents found their “humble beginnings” embarrassing, and so encouraged me to “achieve.” So I did. Their other capstone piece of advice: Buy property....

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“Bina’s Room” by Hilary Yelvington

Submitted to Contest #223

“Up here!” Terry shouted.  Marcus followed the sound of Terry’s voice as he wove between rows and rows of bookshelves.  Terry yelled again, and this time Marcus saw him, his belligerent freshman roommate turned friend perched high above, head poking out of an opening in the ceiling Marcus had never noticed before.  “How in the hell did you get up there, Terry?” he yelled, before tripping and falling into one of the ancient wooden bookshelves. Marcus looked back at what he’d stumbled on, and the method of Terry’s ascensio...

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Author bio

Read, write, raise kids. You can email me at hilary@matchboxpress.com.