Menu

Menu

Prompts

Contests

Stories

Blog

Directory

Contests

Magazine

FAQ

Ian Wilson

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jan, 2020

Stories (7)

Comments

Library

3 Followers

0 Following

7 Stories

153 karma pts

?

Robin Goodfellow and the Apples of Inspiration

Ian Wilson

Submitted to Contest #63

Robin Goodfellow and Bobert sat at their usual table near the fireplace at the pub, as they usually did this time of the evening. The fire crackled softly, the air was filled with the smell of food and pipe-smoke, and the sounds of laughter and singing.The master thief and his apprentice were waiting for a client who, according to Bobert, would pay quite a bit of money. “Where’s this so-called high-profile client, Bobert?” said Robin, lighting his pipe. “He’s coming eventually,” said Robin. “I’m beginning to wonder if he exist...

10 likes

The Changeling

Ian Wilson

Submitted to Contest #61

A cool breeze filtered into the room through the half-open window. I puffed thoughtfully on my cigarillo. My partner, Conrad LeFontain, sat in the corner, reading something on his tablet. I was never much for them things; too much technology these days. “Mail call!” said a voice from outside. “Howdy Perry,” I said, inclining my head to the lanky, middle-aged postman. “Howdy, Walter, Conrad,” replied the postman, tipping his pith helmet. “You’ll never guess what happened today!” Perry was known for telling tall tales, wh...

15 likes

The Society of the Griffon

Ian Wilson

Submitted to Contest #56

The Society of the Griffon was a very prestigious fraternity when I was in seminary. England was such a different place then; so much has happened as a result of my actions, or lack thereof, that I hardly recognize the place. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The Society kept the charge of the most ancient and rare volumes in the basement of the university library, and they were the only ones allowed to view them whenever they wanted. All others had to schedule an appointment, and that depended entirely on whether the Society felt gene...

9 likes

Morgana and the Well of Wyrd

Ian Wilson

Submitted to Contest #54

“Wrong note... Again,” said Taliesin, grasping his brow. Morgana grinned sheepishly and began the song again. Her voice cracked as she hit a note that was far too high for her. Taliesin cringed. Morgana halted.. “I should just give up,” she said. “Giving up never accomplished anything useful,” said Taliesin. “Keep trying.” “I’m pretty hopeless, aren’t I?” said Morgana. “I don’t think anyone is truly hopeless,” said Taliesin. “But I don’t understand it, Taliesin!” cried Morgana. “This... thing. My hands just won’t pluck the strings...

7 likes

The Straw Men

Ian Wilson

Submitted to Contest #53

November 2, 1961 I’ve had the most unusual experience over the past two days; something which I am still processing. It’s a strange thing, the Appalachian countryside; full of superstition and folk traditions. In the eyes of those who live there, witches still roam the hills and hollers looking for unsuspecting people to hex. Even still in this modern age of science, in some places of the world, magic is king. I recently came into possession of a cottage in West Virginia. Heh, “possession” is a good word for it. I feel as though I need a...

19 likes

The Doom-Book

Ian Wilson

Submitted to Contest #52

I sat in the back seat of the dark sedan, hands cuffed, as the grey-suited men drove in silence to an unknown destination. “You will come with us!” they had said as they cuffed me in the market. “You know what you did!” Except I didn’t know. The men never introduced themselves, I never saw a badge, an identity card, or anything to indicate who they were. All I knew was that they were both very imposing, standing at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders, and military haircuts. Who were these men? What did they want me for? I was merely a ...

8 likes

The Greatest Since Orpheus

Ian Wilson

Submitted to Contest #26

I strummed a single chord. “No,” I said to myself. I strummed another chord. “That’s more like it.” I began to play around that chord, strumming and picking various notes until a song started to evolve. But it was garbage. I put the lyre down with a thud. “Don’t you have better things to do with your time?” said Paris. My brother had apparently just come back from hunting. He smelled like dirt. “You’re a prince of Troy,” he continued, “there’s no reason for you to be a musician, like some common vagabond.” “But I’m not going to inherit...

7 likes