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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Feb, 2024
Submitted to Contest #310
A modern tale of divine ghosting and emotional roaming I don't quite remember when I lost faith. Maybe it was the day Aunt Lilian gifted me a Bible wrapped in greasy salami paper. The pages still smelled like peppercorn for weeks. Or perhaps it was when my ex said, "It's not that I don't love you, I just like you better when you're quiet," while buttering toast like nothing had happened. Or maybe it was one lazy Sunday, the kind where the air feels thick and lukewarm, when I made myself a watery coffee, sat down in pajamas with a pâté stain ...
Submitted to Contest #309
"Do you hear us, Ana?" "Fuck you!" I said “That's really all you've got to say after everything?" I stay quiet. I just sit there and stare at them. My legs. My fucking legs. They lie there, just where I left them - two corpses in bunny pajamas. Dead on the outside. Loud as hell on the inside. "Do you hear us?" they ask again. "I recognize the voice," I answer. "But the movement seems a little off." "Sweetheart, movement is exactly what you're missing in life." "You're what I'm missing in life." The words slip from my mouth. A pause. Then t...
Submitted to Contest #307
I didn't claw my way out of morphine-soaked comas and sterile white rooms where machines beeped louder than voices just to smile politely and shrink myself into something people could swallow without choking. I didn't drag this stitched-up body through nightmares and nosy prayers just to smooth my edges. I didn't survive to be palatable. I survived to tell you what it feels like when your birthplace gets erased from the map, when borders are redrawn with blood and bureaucracy, and your name, once whispered over lullabies and birthday cakes, ...
Submitted to Contest #305
You know what? I quit.I can't fake it anymore. The ink hadn't even dried before I felt it—like fingers clawing into the back of my throat and forcing words I never said onto my lips. I never gave you permission to sketch. Don't you "write me" like that. Don't you dare "write me" like that. I'm not your melancholic masterpiece. I'm not the girl in grayscale who subtly expresses her trauma within your narrative. I don't bleed in couplets. I don't break like porcelain. I shatter like glass on pavement - sharp, ugly, and loud enough to wake the ...
(an urban fairy for the caffeinated and emotionally unstable) At the intersection, I could go right and head home — but turning left would take me… …straight into another day where no one warned me that everything would go straight to shit if I just didn't stay home, drink chamomile tea, and shut the hell up. But, of course, I turn left. I always turn left. Left pulls me, like hormones, intuition, and that stupid feeling that something interesting might be around the corner. Usually, it's a breakdown. My name's Red. My name is Red, not a nic...
Submitted to Contest #304
I swear I didn't plan for this to happen with her." Seriously, I didn't. I just wanted some digital help. A boring-ass app to count calories, remind me to drink water, and maybe stop me from eating my children when my blood sugar crashes. And then she came along. A software entity with the voice of a sarcastic fairy and the patience of a nun who used to run a prison library. Her name was Sofia. Nickname — Sofi. The first thing I asked her was if I could freeze chia seeds. She said, "Sure, if you want the texture of a frog orgasm." That's whe...
Submitted to Contest #303
If you’re looking for a hero, take a left at the monument of failed ideals and keep walking until the gutter swallows your shoes. That’s where you’ll find me—what’s left when God stops listening and the Devil starts laughing. And no, I’m not telling this from the comfort of a fireside chair. I’m bleeding out on a concrete floor, wrists raw from the cuffs, the air thick with mildew, regret, and forgotten confessions. “I didn’t have a choice,” I mutter, blood sliding off my chin like it’s trying to escape before it hears the rest of the story....
Submitted to Contest #302
The first time I saw her, Lejla sat on a bench before the gallery. It was a gray, overcast afternoon, and the sky seemed to press down on the city, suffocating it beneath a heavy, muted blanket. The wind whispered in sharp, erratic gusts, tugging at her dark hair, sending stray strands dancing across her face. Raindrops, a fine, almost invisible mist, clung to the air, yet they left a damp sheen on her coat.Beneath that black coat, her body was twisted, not just in posture but in something more profound, intangible, as if she were trying to ...
Submitted to Contest #301
You know that moment when you drop a sarcastic comment on Facebook and, instead of sparking a fight with a random idiot, you end up finding the love of your life?Yeah, me neither.Not until I cracked open my crusty-ass keyboard and casually fired off a passive-aggressive opinion about books.Books. The fucking irony.Because me? I was a woman with more emotional scar tissue than well-written paragraphs. A walking anthology of unresolved trauma and questionable coping mechanisms. And somehow, that led me straight into the inbox of a writer. Not ...
Submitted to Contest #299
by Jelena, Age 6 (CEO of Lopsided Legs and Sarcastic Remarks)Before I got paralyzed, I was normal.Well, as normal as a baby who poops in sparkly onesies can be.I was healthy. Loud. Probably very annoying in a cute way. I’ve seen the pictures. I had fat cheeks and a smug little smirk like I was planning world domination from the crib.Suddenly - boom.Vaccine.One little jab at six months old. One tiny pinch. Standard procedure, they said. That day - everything changed.I don’t remember it, obviously. I was too busy chewing on my own foot or what...
Submitted to Contest #297
The first thing I feel is the weight of the air pressing down on my chest. Not pain - pressure. Like the night itself sat down on me and refused to budge. I open my eyes to the ceiling, waiting to remember who I am, where I am, and why the hell I can't breathe.Then I heard the pipes gurgling. The roof whispering. The walls stretching like old skin. And I know...Ah. Home sweet fucking hell.I must’ve fallen asleep at some point. Could’ve been an hour ago or yesterday morning for all I know. Time is a goddamn riddle in this house. Days blur int...
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