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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jun, 2020
Submitted to Contest #99
I caught fire. My heart exploded like a firecracker being thrown for the first time. When I saw her, my breath whooshed out of me, faster than a toddler escaping a spanking. Pure adrenaline and heat coursed through my veins. It was, absolutely, love at first sight. She was stunning. Soft, strawberry hair, mimicking that of a robin’s breast; milky skin, mimicking that of...well, milk; deep brown eyes resembling that of chocolate milk. A lot of milk. Like I said, love at first sight. ...
Submitted to Contest #49
The sky is cerulean. Crisp, clear, and cloudless. It’s nearly 10am, and I’m waiting. Again. It’s always been like this: I’m ready to go—walk, run, jump in the car, tackle errands—but I wait. And wait. And wait some more. Until he’s finally ready. Roger is slow; really slow. One could think he hails from a long line of tortoises. He has a schedule for anything and everything, but is just not fast enough. For my liking anyway. One time we were packing for a day trip, and I was ready to go the moment he suggested it. To no surpri...
The ellipsis in the gray bubble loves to haunt me. I am so impatient. Antsy. I can hardly wait to find out more, more, more. It’s what makes me a great journalist—or so people have told me. But I can’t handle the mocking pulsation of the gray bubble that appears in an iMessage chat. It flashes to remind you that information is coming, but you don’t have it yet. I honestly can’t stand it. And today, it’s infuriating as ever. Except today, I’m waiting on very important information. Very. And all I have to show for it is a pulsin...
Submitted to Contest #47
As you check your mail, you notice a letter that makes you stop in your tracks. You stare at it. You don’t dare touch it as a mint green envelope stares back at you from the shadowy depths of your lighthouse-styled mailbox. Nervously glancing around, you check to see if your nosy neighbors are creaking in their porch rocking chairs. Your street is quiet, peaceful, and void of any porch-rockers. It’s Tuesday morning, nearly lunchtime, and Roger the mailman waves to you from the mailbox across the street. You lift your palm in response and...
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