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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jan, 2024
Submitted to Contest #316
Leo believed the world was drowning in stories, and he was the man selling the buckets. The apartment reeked of yesterday's coffee and something sour that might have been the takeout containers piled beside the sink. Books climbed the walls like ivy, their spines cracked and faded from a decade of neglect. The desk where he once crafted what critics called "a luminous debut" now held nothing but invoices for his latest marketing campaigns. Copy for toilet paper. Headlines for diet supplements. Words stripped of meaning, sold by the pound. Th...
I bring justice to the corrupt by draining their ambition, leaving them hollow and content, but I have to put all that stolen hunger somewhere. The snow globe sits on my kitchen counter, filled with what looks like ordinary water and artificial snow. But when the light hits it right, you can see the shimmer of something else entirely. Pure greed, distilled and trapped. It belonged to Mark Veil, the pharmaceutical CEO who jacked insulin prices until diabetics started dying in parking lots. I found him in his penthouse office, counting profit ...
Submitted to Contest #315
Leo was nineteen again, but she didn’t know him—and that was the whole point. He stood in front of the cracked bathroom mirror at Murphy’s Gas & Go, staring at a face he hadn’t worn in eighteen years. The acne scars were gone. His hairline sat where it belonged. The cheap cologne hit him first—the same Axe body spray he’d doused himself in that night. His back pocket held the worn leather wallet and the guitar pick he’d carried like a talisman. Everything was exactly as it had been. August 15th, 2007. The night before Claire left for Sta...
Submitted to Contest #314
I know Arthur by his smell. Always have. His scent lives in my nose the way sunlight lives in morning grass. Worn flannel that holds decades of Saturday mornings. Old books with their patient, dusty whispers. The gentle soap he uses after his evening shower, clean and honest as rain on hot pavement. This is my master. This is home. But something is wrong. The wrongness started three weeks ago, creeping in like fog under the back door. At first, I thought it was the heat. Summer has teeth this year, and they bite deep. The air hangs thick as ...
Submitted to Contest #313
“Are you there, God? It’s me again. Yeah, still dead. Sorry to bother you.” I tap my fingers against the rotary phone’s receiver, listening to the endless dial tone. The white room hums with fluorescent light that comes from nowhere and everywhere. No windows. No doors. Just me, this bolted-down chair, and a glass table with a vintage telephone that only dials one number. God’s voicemail. “Look, I get it. You’re busy. Running the universe, answering prayers, deciding who gets cancer and who wins the lottery. But it’s been… I don’t know how l...
Submitted to Contest #312
They were both so gentle, she couldn't tell which one learned it from the other. Andrea Santiago stared at the twin chat windows on her screen, labeled simply "Red" and "Blue." The interface was clean, minimal. No avatars, no indicators, just text against contrasting backgrounds. One human, one machine. Her task was to determine which was which. "How are you feeling today, Andrea?" Red asked. "Present," she typed back. Not good, not bad. Just here. It had been her standard response for months now. "Present is better than absent," Blue replie...
Submitted to Contest #311
Rita didn't mean to stab Death in the heart, but when he reached for her husband's soul, she reacted on instinct. The scalpel was still in her hand from earlier that evening. She'd been cleaning Tom's bedsores with surgical precision, the same methodical care she'd used on shattered soldiers in field hospitals halfway around the world. Her fingers never trembled when they held steel. They trembled now. Death stood beside Tom's bed like a question mark made of shadow and bone. He wore a coat the color of crow feathers, his face neither young ...
Submitted to Contest #310
They said Benjamin Drew couldn’t spell his own name, but the words that came out of him were faster than justice and deeper than any man in that town cared to dig. He was born slow, which was the word they used in Mercy County when they meant something softer than retarded but harder than broken. His mother had fought like hell to keep him out of the institutions, but when she died, they put him in the last place that would take him—the Golden Fields Adult Living Center, a half-converted farmhouse stuck between a gravel pit and a closed-down...
Submitted to Contest #309
The kettle screamed, and so did the voice in the steam. Iris Blackwood pressed her palms against the kitchen counter, watching vapor rise in ghostly spirals. Three months since David's funeral, and she still heard whispers in every sound. The kettle held secrets. She reached for the mason jar on the highest shelf, her movements deliberate and reverent. Inside, dried petals caught the afternoon light like fragments of bone. Corpse-Blooms. The name felt sharp on her tongue, a word that belonged in old books and darker times. Yet here they were...
Submitted to Contest #308
At exactly noon on Midsummer Eve, Nora slipped from the pawnshop clutching a shoebox that glowed through its cardboard walls. The basement had been impossibly deep, carved from stone that predated the town above. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with objects that shouldn't exist—hourglasses filled with what looked like liquid starlight, mirrors that reflected different rooms entirely, music boxes that played melodies she felt rather than heard. And behind the counter, Vincent Ness had watched her with eyes like polished coal. "One perfect ho...
Submitted to Contest #307
Under the fluorescents my skin shone like kiln-fired china, and the professor finally noticed me. The archive basement hummed with climate control systems. Three in the morning, and I sat alone among temperature-regulated cases, cradling a bleu-fleur teacup that had survived two centuries. The porcelain felt warm against my palms, as if it still held echoes of the Qing courtesan who once sipped jasmine tea from its rim. Hairline fractures mapped its surface like tiny rivers—crazing, the conservators called it. Battle scars of time. My thesis...
Submitted to Contest #306
Mom - Today 8:32 AMHoney! I started that sourdough starter you wanted. Named him Gerald. He’s ready for pickup! 🍞Me - Today 8:35 AMWhy did you name the bacteria colony Gerald?Mom - Today 8:36 AMBecause he’s got character! He’s so bubbly when I fed him this morning!Me - Today 8:37 AMThat’s literally just fermentation, Mom. It’s cellular respiration.Mom - Today 8:38 AMDon’t lecture me, Professor Yeast. Gerald’s special.Me - Today 8:40 AMFine. I’ll pick him up after work. How hard can sourdough maintenance be?Mom - Today 8:41 AMFamous last word...
Submitted to Contest #305
The night smelled of burnt earth and gunpowder when Dan Hicks said, "You know what? I quit." But that came later, after the world had torn itself apart one more time.The trenches stretched like infected wounds across the landscape, carved deep into ground that had forgotten what grass looked like. Dan pressed his back against the muddy wall, feeling the vibrations of distant artillery through his spine. Each explosion sent tremors through the earth, through his bones, through what remained of his sanity."Christ, Danny," Jamie whispered besid...
Submitted to Contest #304
The clock on my desk began ticking backward the moment I agreed to write the king's eulogy. Its brass hands moved with unnatural precision, counting down the hours until midnight when my words would seal a tyrant's fate. I stared at the parchment before me, pristine and hungry, waiting to be filled with judgments that would become truth. As Royal Scribe of Karvenfall, I'd written thousands of documents—birth certificates that blessed newborns with talents, marriage contracts that physically bound souls together, death notices that determined...
Submitted to Contest #303
Every time Nurse Kylene adjusted the ventilator, the heartbeat on a different monitor stuttered. It wasn't coincidence—not anymore. Three weeks with the Mercy Switch implanted beneath her fingertip had taught her the rhythm of this macabre dance. Tonight, the pediatric ICU glowed with the soft luminescence of bedside tablets, each displaying translucent holograms of their patients' conditions. Kylene moved between them like a celestial navigator, each step calculated between islands of suffering. Blue auroras meant healing; angry crimson rev...
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