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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Apr, 2020
You are a miserable wretch. You are a wounded scoundrel. You are a vile insect, creature of the underground. You walk with a sloping gait. You dress in tattered black. You reek of sweat and cigarettes. You speak in a garbled rasp. You are a spiteful thing.No one understands you. No one wishes to. No one deigns to look at you. No one gives you a second thought. You have no friends, no family, no hopes for the future. This, you tell yourself. You are lying of...
“That’s known as the witching hour,” Sarah spoke to her younger brother as she fanned out a deck of tarot cards before him. The two were seated cross-legged on the hardwood floor of the sunlit dining room. Nicholas nodded and looked over the semicircle. Between them, flimsy motes of dust played in the air, glimmering among the mullioned shafts of light and shadows.“The time between three and four o’clock,” Sarah continued. “It’s when the supernatural is most apparent.” She drew ...
He was an old man who lived somewhere in New Jersey, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, and it happened to him one day that he would speak at length with a squirrel about the meaning of life. Now, the old man was tall, gaunt, and stolid, and in his face there showed a rather remarkable physiognomy – a furrowed brow, brooding eyes, an avian nose, and pouted lips, all of which spoke to a fretted mind. And, truly, beneath the surface of these sullen features was the spirit of a man who might well be ...
“Do you hear them?” the old woman said to us around the campfire. “The wolves in the night? Howling at the moon, at the stars?”A silence filled the air, broken only by the crackle of flames, the noise of the forest, and the murmur of the lake. The old woman looked up at the night sky, where the moon shone and the stars twinkled with brilliant radiance, as if listening to a sound that none of us could hear. “I don’t hear a thing!” Sarah spoke at length.“Then listen c...
Sarah ran into the woods with tears welling in her eyes. She had just discovered that her brother had died. Through the thicket and the bramble, she made her way with nothing more than her bare feet, the soles of which now bled and bruised from the cuts she received. For a long time she ran, and she went as far as her breath would allow her. When she could go no farther, she collapsed to her knees in the understory and heaved sobs to herself. Time passed, until her weary heart grew calm, and, curling up into a bal...
I have been writing fiction on and off for a few years now and hope one day to complete a book. I appreciate any criticism!
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