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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Nov, 2023
Let me tell you about the city that died of awareness. A metropolis strangled by its own enlightenment, where the collective conscience was measured in milliamps and worn like jewelry against tender wrists. The little green notification pulsed against Sascha's skin, a firefly mating with a stopwatch: GaiaSync Update Complete. Feel Closer to Earth Than Ever Before! A tired smile touched her lips—the kind you might see on a penguin just informed that global warming now comes in mint flavor. She tapped confirmation on her EcoSense Band. April ...
The fog was all around us on the lake that morning. That's how they say it in textbooks—Lake Texcoco—but to me it was just the water we lived on, the same water my grandmother had planted things in, and her grandmother before that. The city was waking up in that slow, underwater way cities do when covered in mist. I was kneeling on our chinampa, which sounds exotic but was just our family's little floating farm. My knees pressed into the woven reeds at the edge and I could feel the dampness seeping through my clothes. I touched a water dropl...
The helicopter descended, its blades slicing the air with a steady, insistent rhythm that seemed to match, then outpace, the uneven beating of Dr. Griffin Gower's heart. He looked down at the Esterhaus Retreat, pale and sprawling against the dark coastal rock, its white angles and glass surfaces catching the light in a way that made the building appear both beautiful and somehow wrong, like a creature that had evolved in darkness suddenly exposed to day. The structure clung to the bluff with a determined, alien presence. Dr. Gower's fingers ...
The sock incident first tipped me off that Mark wasn't just awkward but possibly adrift in the cosmic laundry cycle of time—lost between the spin and rinse of centuries like a rebellious sock that refuses both its mate and the drawer that awaits it. There in our living room, he hunched over a holey athletic sock with the reverence of a medieval monk transcribing sacred texts. He dabbed at it with something fibrous and menacing—nettle, according to his solemn declaration, "foraged with respect for the hedgerow," a phrase that hung in the air ...
Submitted to Contest #299
It wasn't hate. Nothing like TV drama, slammed doors and shouting. That takes energy, like wrestling a fitted sheet onto a mattress while convinced a stranger judges your technique. Leo’s thing with people was more complicated. A loop: crave connection, then build mazes between himself and others. A text, not a call. An email, proofread, not dropping by. A tight wave across the street, shoulders hunched, avoiding conversation.He’d watch neighbours haul groceries from his window, coffee mug clutched, its warmth barely registering. He’d duck i...
Okay, so. Aldo Fontana. My name was still that, anyway. And up until last Tuesday, which now felt like a photograph you keep pulling out looking for something that was never there, life was…well, smooth. Like that 8:14 train I took. The chug-chug punctual? That was the beat to my song. And the library, where I worked —the card catalogues going shhh-click. That was me. A lot. Made things neat.I was a person who liked things Just So. Really liked it. Maybe a little too much, eh? People probably saw just the quiet library assistant. But it felt...
Shortlisted for Contest #296 ⭐️
The hum. That was the first thing Owen Lux always noticed. Fable's Edge didn't breathe; it vibrated. A low thrum, deep in the bones, seeping through concrete and glass like damp. Daytime brought the usual racket -- traffic, commerce, ambition grinding itself down on the pavement. But night? Night was a steadier drone. Server farms sighing, ancient HVAC units wheezing, and beneath it all, the white noise of millions lying awake, staring at their ceilings. Owen lived right in the middle of that static. Or felt like he did.His apartment was thi...
Submitted to Contest #230
In a Nutshell By DannyG “The nutshell closes then finally cries………” He closed his mouth slowly, licking his lips, searching for moisture. I wasn’t sure what to do now. The air was warm and sour, yeasty. If I didn’t have to breathe it, I probably wouldn’t have. “What’s that about then?” The man wiped the corners of his lips, his long grey hair in a not-so-tidy bun. “I’m not sure. Can’t really gather it up for you. Get i...
Submitted to Contest #227
The First Line of Defence By DannyG “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” Mary Oliver I was convinced that my all of my future reincarnations were nullified by the enlightenment I had just attained. But something was wrong. The cycle of Samsara wasn’t broken -- not as broken as my family, as broken as my community, or as broken as the middle finger I had snapped getting up from my cross-legged pose under the shading Ficus. Also, after forty-nine days without moveme...
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