Holland Hall

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Apr, 2020

Stories (4)

4 Stories

114 karma pts

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“Seven Matchbox Cars” by Holland Hall

Submitted to Contest #56

Chicago, March 1952 ‘What a perfect way to spend a Thursday morning!’ Gilbert thought to himself, feet pounding against the pavement as he ran, chocolate becoming gloriously melty in his hands. He turned his head to make sure that he wasn’t being followed as he approached the street corner, when he suddenly collided with something about his size in a skirt, knocking him to the ground. “Watch where you’re going!” “You watch where you’re going!” The collision had sent the coins in the girl’s hand as well as the candy in his flying ...

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“Nightingale” by Holland Hall

Submitted to Contest #55

David drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. Evelyn was late for what seemed like the millionth time, and he already knew he would have to cut the date short. “A bottle of Pinot Noir,” he said when the waiter came around again, “and another basket of bread.” He twisted a piece of crust in his fingers as though it owed him money. “Hurry up,” he whispered under his breath. Almost as if on cue, Evelyn floated through the door. David raised his hand to wave her over. “Hey, babe,” she leaned down to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Hey--”...

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“Dust” by Holland Hall

Submitted to Contest #41

Amelia held her cat close to her chest. From an onlooker’s perspective, it might have seemed as though a tattered scarecrow were standing in front of the house, clad in a faded yellow tablecloth, black rug in its arms, straw braids draped stiffly over its shoulders. Its mother called it from the doorway with a handkerchief clutched in her right hand. “Get inside. There’s another one comin’,” she said. The scarecrow turned helplessly from her post and retreated into the house before dust darkened the sky for the third time that week. Try...

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“Marie and Fitzgerald” by Holland Hall

Submitted to Contest #35

Paris, 1924 I tossed my gaze to the ground and pulled my scarf tighter around my neck against the frigid wind. As I continued the walk to my studio in an inexpensive neighborhood, my eyes were met with something peeking out of an ebbing snow bank. Most days, I would have walked by without a second thought, but something made me stop and crouch down. With a shabbily gloved hand, I pulled free the little black book. On the inside of the front cover was scrawled the name “Fitzgerald.” It looked rather ordinary, but I slipped it into my handbag ...

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Author bio

Historical fiction is my jam. Gershwin is my aural aesthetic.