reedsymarketplace
Hire professionals for your project
reedsyblog
Advice, insights and news
reedsylearning
Online publishing courses
reedsylive
Free publishing webinars
reedsydiscovery
Launch your book in style
Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jun, 2022
Submitted to Contest #263
They call me a hero. Do they really know what a hero is? Not conspicuous brave deeds, but what it takes. It takes a lot to be a hero. It consumes you. This is a young man’s game. A place of dreams. Better if you don’t have a clue. Stick your ideals on the situation and make it stick. There is something beyond hope in the young. There’s an unwarranted certainty. They know.Well, I now know and the dream that I was is a hollowed-out husk. They still believe. Of course they do. I’m a part of the fabric of their concocted reality and I keep on pl...
It wasn’t me. It really wasn’t me. I never wanted this. He made me do it. He made me… This city wakes up to its own darkness. During the day it lays dormant and brooding. It’s pulse is barely audible as it crumples into a waking coma. The day-walkers spill in on the trains and the underground, acting like this is real. They do their jobs, they buy their lunches and then they flee from the awakening of this dark titan. Oh, some stay for dinner and drinks. A little walk on the wild side to provide them some excitement. A brief escape fro...
Submitted to Contest #262
They’re saying that it’s the hottest day of the year. This gets me every time, even before I recall the hottest days of my youth. Those days were hot. Hotter than anything you get nowadays. Then there’s the whole premise of this assertion. It’s just so premature. The first day of the year is always the hottest day of the year at that point in time. Then, as Winter gets bored with terrorising the landscape, and Spring attempts to make peace with the world, there are days that are warmer than the preceding days. I will concede that these are c...
The Summer sun beat down relentlessly upon the car roof, cooking it. Jenner shook his head at the shimmering air, not looking forward to climbing into an intensity of heat that his motor’s blowers had no chance of banishing. Huffing his annoyance at the sun and it’s tardy seasonal appearance, he started the engine and lowered the front windows. Still the radiating heat threatened to singe his eyebrows. It was barely ten a.m. “What’s the world coming to, eh?” he asked the car, patting its dash. His Audi was nigh on a museum piece. He didn’t e...
There was once a life within which I existed. Encased in a fantastical ecosystem designed to cocoon me from the pain of reality. Then it was over. A breeze-block in the face. I didn’t see it coming. The impact of the ending sent shockwaves of negative energy into batteries hidden deep within my body such that every time I thought I might have some respite from the pain of my sudden, shattering loss, those batteries fired up and fried my nervous system, leaving me reverberating with a sickness that I could not comprehend, let alone deal with....
Submitted to Contest #261
There are no words. This is because I have never bothered to bring them together in any meaningful way. The words exist, but I chose to dwell in a feeling. Not always the same feeling at that. I am no poet. I have never tried to describe the sky as it puts on a show and reminds me that it can wear colours other than blue. Other than grey. The sky is the sky. It was here before I ever arrived on the scene, and it will be here long after I am gone. So long that it may as well be an eternity, and I have no understanding of what that means...
Submitted to Contest #260
…there is no end. That is the difference between life and a book. Not a story. Stories are merely parts of a book or a life. Stories that are the constituent parts of a book, shoehorned into a finite space to please the reader. Some writers may protest at this assessment. The pomposity of their convenient disregard of themselves as the original reader is a big lie. That lie distorts and corrupts. It is a fiction that detracts from fiction as an artform. But then the artist is as selfish as they come. Whereas art is not. Art is a gift that ke...
Submitted to Contest #259
Sam sits on the bus and gazes out over the craven and piteous sea of humanity. The bus is filled almost to the brim, that will leave a tide mark, the thought of which nauseates him. People stand shoulder to shoulder bracing themselves against accidental contact. He imagines the bus hitting a wall or a lorry or another bus. The last option fits best. The two buses coming together in a clumsy caress, their contents redistributed by the passion of the two inept red lovers. Life is short and ever so fragile. Not that any of these people are livi...
Submitted to Contest #258
It’s a Thursday and in its Thursdayness it is grey and unremarked. The daily annotation deconstructs the flow of time, a swamping of cheap custard over the artistry of a pâtissier. The point is drowned out. Meaning is washed away, and few will ever go in search of its bloated corpse. Dan wends his weary way home. Drops his work bag in the porch. That bag haunts his life. Its position as a sentry is a badly thought out mistake. He’s reminded of the work he hasn’t completed each and every time he passes through the front door. That bag stains ...
There was a well-known, famous and very funny comedian who was always destined for the stage and fame. His energy told you all you had to know about what he was and what he was for. The man was made to grab a crowd by the scruff of the neck and drag them to a better place. A place where people laughed at themselves, and each other, and in so doing exorcised the demons who’d hitched a ride inside them on their rollercoaster ride through life. This man had his own demons. Everybody does, but comedians don’t have the luxury of laugh t...
Submitted to Contest #257
She laughs as the song comes on the radio and in that laugh he sees the girl she once was. He wants to be young again. To know her through the ages. To be with her and share his life with her. All of her. To know her from the very start and onwards, into an eternity which he could not bear if it was not for her, and a love he had not thought possible. Not for him. Not for them. He supposes the song is a classic now, but he remembers when it was first played on older, crackling radios. Those radios were new back then, now they are obsolete. R...
Submitted to Contest #256
In the heat of battle you are transformed. There is so much less to the world and yet you become so much more. The flesh may be weak, but the spirit rises up to be counted when death stares it in the eye. Once you have tasted that exotic and intoxicating poison, the life you lead dies. There are vestiges of something that sometimes resembles a life, but all it really amounts to is awaiting the next adventure in the jaws of death. “I call it The Test,” I say before wiping the ale foam from my beard. “And I call it Hot Air,” Balur grins at me ...
Submitted to Contest #255
Fred nurses his pint as though it’s the final part of his death row meal. He stares down into the amber depths contemplating all the answers that reside there. Answers reduced in size so that he can no longer see them. The fact of the matter is that he’s suffered that reduction. He is deflated and no longer has awe for the infinite. His part in this charade was written out long ago. He finishes his pint, then looks around him. He doesn’t look lost exactly, more perturbed that this is where he’s been washed up. A useless piece of flotsam havi...
Vicky was still there. That was the kicker. That was the cause of a perpetual limbo that wore a different outfit every time John blinked. So many thoughts. And they whirled around and around in his head leaving a trail of sticky candy floss in the stead of a coherent mind. It hurt. But he loved her. He loved her and that was all that mattered. John had never stopped loving Vicky. He didn’t know how. He knew all about love. After all, he’d been practicing it since he was born. He’d read about it too. There were many stories about love. And th...
Submitted to Contest #254
The invitation stipulated the attire. John was never a fan of formal dress. Comfortable anywhere other than a suit and the places where a suit gained entry. To John, a suit was armour and he was a lover, not a fighter. He aimed at loving pursuits, not that it got him anywhere. He consoled himself with the avoidance of the fight. Even the prospect of conflict left him cold. Sometimes, he wondered whether he was a coward. He didn’t feel any cowardice trembling in his blood, but then people became desensitised to their sins, telling themselves ...
Oops, you need an account for that!
Log in with your social account:
Or enter your email:
6 likes
