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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Aug, 2019
Submitted to Contest #156
Liar Liar Jimmy Quinn sits on the back porch looking past the cornfields, painted gold by the hot sun, past the blacktop highway absent of cars on this Sunday before school starts back up, past the river he knows is on the other side of the road, separated by a hundred yards of thorny thistle and broke down cedar. Past it all and into nothing. He had walked across the field, over the road and down the prickly hill more times than he could count, carrying a fishing pole in one hand and a cooler in the other. Shifting his dark green eyes, ...
Submitted to Contest #154
Please Don’t Cry “We’re running out of time,” she tells him. He knew the look. He had seen it a thousand times. When she gets this way, he knew to just remain calm. Anything he said that was not a confirmation of her assessment would lead to crying. He couldn’t tolerate her crying. He loved her more than words could ever describe, but her crying was…it was just ugly. Glistening snot accompanied by the vexatious gulping of air like a beached whale choking on a truckload of sand, and then the end…the end was the worse. Hiccups always followe...
Submitted to Contest #153
Reflections By J Hirtle He had already made up his mind. He will not look at the sorry son-of-a-bitch. Not at those eyes. Eyes the color of summer rain. Nobody knows what hides behind the eyes. Everybody knows that. The endless drivel has been going on too long. He doesn't care who is wrong or who is right. A position easily assumed when one knows he is right. And he didn’t care how long their friendship went back. Hell, could he even call it that anymore? It was an ugly misfortune of latitudes intersecting at the same place at the exact...
Submitted to Contest #151
THE THIRD FLOOR By J Hirtle Fleeing like the pearls of a fractured necklace, perspiration rolls down the unhandsome, pock-marked face of Freddie Shackleman. The tick, tick, tick of the cooling engine provides metered ear candy for the car’s lone occupant. Outside, the temperature has crept past the century mark again (five days running and it is only May); inside the nine-year-old PT Cruiser, where Freddie Shackleman, wearing a white cotton shirt stuck to his too thin frame, and khaki trousers stained by grass, mustard, and unidentifiable ...
Submitted to Contest #51
“I thought it was larger than this.” “You were smaller,” my wife offers with her most infectious smile, “Do you want to go in?” The hollow rhythm of the windshield wipers mimics my thoughts; yes-no, yes-no, yes-no. Do I want to go into a house belonging to my father? My dead father. A house I haven’t been in since I was an eight-year-old boy with greasy hair and ears too large for my head. A house that had never been a home. I turn off the ignition killing the cadence of the wipers and my thoughts, “I guess we should,” I answer. On the small...
Submitted to Contest #30
The front door was standing open when I arrived at Dad’s house, his truck in the driveway. I don’t remember that ever happening before, but then I can’t remember the last time he had asked me to come over either. He isn’t here. There were three notes on the dining room table; our names scribbled across the front in old-man font, one for me and one each for my sisters. I wondered if he had called them too. I walk through his house with the unread note in my hand, looking again for my father. Opening the back door, I walk out onto the porch, D...
Submitted to Contest #9
Delectable Thanksgiving aromas fill the home, sweet cranberry mixed with savory turkey and green onion dressing. Pumpkin spices dance with fresh apple tarts announcing the season. A Christmas tree has been adorned with a handful of shiny metallic balls; a string of lights, yet to be unraveled, wait patiently on the plush carpet for someone to wrap their length around the tree’s generous girth. Football is on the television but the father has turned down the sound. The children knew that was not a good sign. Twins, a boy, and a girl, standing...
Shortlisted for Contest #4 ⭐️
I wish you could hear me. I wish you would open your eyes and see what I see, hear what I hear. Do you remember this song? You declared it our song. Remember. I thought it was silly—we had joy; we had fun; we had seasons in the sun—not a song of lovers, but that didn’t trouble you. I turn the volume up too high, praying you will hear and wake up. Too high. Now that’s ironic. The old woman upstairs doesn’t like this song. She keeps pounding on the floor. I’ll turn it down in a m...
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