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Kristina Warlen

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jun, 2020

Stories (19)

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16 Followers

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19 Stories

312 karma pts

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Paper Sky

Kristina Warlen

Submitted to Contest #310

The river didn’t even touch her knees.She lay in the cold for a while, pretending to be dead, because it felt worse to explain. The dog barked from the shoreline. The boy, maybe sixteen, shouted something that didn’t matter. When the EMTs lifted her onto the gurney, she finally spoke. She asked for her notebook.They didn’t bring it. The pages must have floated downstream, pulped into something unreadable.She was dry by the time they reached the hospital.Later, a counselor asked why she chose that spot.Andi looked at her hands and said, “It w...

4 likes

Jonah Before the Whale

Kristina Warlen

Submitted to Contest #309

The boy known as Jonah wasn't born with that name; he discovered it in a small motel Bible hidden in the laundry chute at the halfway house. The pages were thin enough to roll smokes. When he first read about the man swallowed whole, he laughed because being devoured felt more genuine than being saved.He ripped out the first page and folded it into a little boat. He sent it drifting in the puddle behind the chain-link fence. It didn’t stay afloat. The water soaked in and dragged it down like a rock."Nice metaphor," he muttered, giving it a k...

13 likes

Midnight Affairs

Kristina Warlen

Submitted to Contest #306

"Let me tell you about my day," you type in the subject line. You woke up before Dan, as you always do. You moved quietly, taking great care not to stir him. It’s as if your presence is a nuisance. You make coffee and sip it alone while drafting an email to Midnight. Dan wouldn’t understand, and you’re not sure he’d even care at this point.Like every day, Dan stirs only when his alarm tells him to. He rolls out of bed, showers, dresses, and barely acknowledges you. No hint of remembrance from last night's discussion. You can’t shake it; Dan ...

11 likes

Performance Art Object #72

Kristina Warlen

Submitted to Contest #306

Note: This story contains the themes of physical and sexual violence. ENTRY ONE~I was still.I wasn’t inert, and certainly not forgotten. But I was kept. In the hush of a drawer where I was held, nothing changed and nothing needed to.The touch I received hadn’t carried the weight of intention.Then, I was lifted.Without spectacle or ceremony, or even sound. A hand found me, weighed me, turned me and twisted me in its fingers as though memory could be traced into me. I didn’t know how long I had waited. And I also didn’t know if I had waited a...

8 likes

The Department of Lost Futures

Kristina Warlen

Submitted to Contest #305

Samuel stood at the intersection, hands deep in his jacket pockets. The early April wind stung his ears and sliced his neck, clinging to winter. The wind paused, then resumed sharper. The streetlamp above flickered like a struggling eye.To his right was his apartment. Inside, a kettle sat on the table beside a half-finished set list and an unopened letter from his mother, who preferred letters' intimacy over texts. The last one was full of advice: "Eat better. Call your uncle. Think about your future." This one remained sealed.To his left, s...

9 likes

Filed Under Aesthetic

Kristina Warlen

Submitted to Contest #304

Thank you for calling the 24/7 GOD HOTLINE. Your call is important to us. Your soul, less so. This conversation may be recorded for purposes of celestial litigation.Belzebub used to command legions.Now he worked in a cubicle with angelic duct tape holding the corners together, a coffee ring that had bled into three dimensions, and a landline older than original sin.It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. Technically, this was a “transitional role” while HR figured out what to do with his unique combination of charisma, noncompliance, and inciden...

6 likes

The Quiet Things That Die

Kristina Warlen

Rick Mallory received the citation on a Thursday morning, just before sunrise. The mail carrier hadn’t bothered to knock. The envelope was crammed halfway into the box, plastic window already smudged with the dirty thumbprint of whoever had handled it last. Rick tugged it loose and carried it inside like it was a trap and he knew it. He stood at the sink and balanced the letter on his palm like a bad coin. The paper felt too thin. Government mail was always printed on paper that felt ashamed of itself.Behind him, the kids sat quietly at the ...

3 likes

Not For the Archives

Kristina Warlen

Submitted to Contest #302

Marion Cagle sent the email at 11:42 p.m. on a Thursday, five minutes after deleting a file labeled “Final_Letters.docx” and replacing it with “Final_Notes.docx,” which he assumed was the correct template. His eyes were dry from reading twenty-two stories in succession, and his wrists ached from annotating PDFs that he would forget the moment he closed them. He did not check the file. He did not need to. His commentary, written in a tone that confused incision with intellect, was thorough.The last story had been about a girl who drew horses ...

7 likes

Where The Quiet Lives Now

Kristina Warlen

Submitted to Contest #301

This story contains substance abuse and recovery, reference to overdose, mental health struggles, and illudes to suicidal ideation. The morning started, as it always did, with the clatter of an old percolator sputtering to life like it was coughing up secrets. Riven Mirewood padded into the kitchen, hardwood cold against their feet, and flipped on the overhead light. The bulb buzzed before settling into a low, reluctant glow. Outside, the sky still wore its midnight blue. The neighborhood was quiet but for the long, familiar call of a mourn...

4 likes

Sunlight and the Bones of the City

Kristina Warlen

Shortlisted for Contest #300 ⭐️

Every solstice, the city forgets itself—then remembers.It’s built on ruins: layers of failed empires, lost languages, ancient tech, and stubborn hope. And every year, when the sun crests the old spires and the veil thins, the past returns—hungry and bright. People come from across the continent for the ancestor festival. But for my family, the day is everything.In this city where time frays at the edges, where buildings hum with the echoes of rituals once sung in a dozen forgotten tongues, we hold onto what we can: the scent of citrus and sp...

23 likes

Excuses for the State of My (Unfinished) Life

Kristina Warlen

Submitted to Contest #299

Monday: Grand IntentionsAt 8:59 a.m. on Monday, I’m already late for the weekly Zoom meeting of my writing group, “Rough Drafts Anonymous.” The name is supposed to be a joke. Sometimes it feels like prophecy.I log in just in time to see Marcie’s face filling the screen, makeup immaculate, coffee mug color-coordinated with her sweater. Shari, as always, is sitting at an angle that reveals the tornado behind her: piles of books, laundry, an actual violin case. Jasmine has that look like she’s about to say something profound or admit she hasn’t...

7 likes

Sunday Sins

Kristina Warlen

Submitted to Contest #298

She left the house at 4:12 p.m. No bag. No note. Just keys, boots, and the silence that settled behind her like a closing door. It wasn’t a sleepover. It was a breach. The road was long enough to change her mind, short enough to convince her it wouldn’t matter. Three hours, give or take—a highway, a back road, then something thinner. Gravel by the time the trees thickened and the cell signal disappeared, like even satellites refused to witness whatever this was. She always came on Sundays. Saturday was his Sabbath. Sunday was for sin. The ra...

11 likes

196 Minutes

Kristina Warlen

Submitted to Contest #297

At 1:22 p.m., her phone buzzed. Once. A single vibration in the pocket of her apron—brief, polite. The kind of alert that usually meant a school delay or a low lunch balance. She didn't check it right away. There were eight two-year-olds in the classroom. One adult. She was the adult. There was no stepping out.Her heart thumped irregularly as she wiped yogurt from a small chin. This was the third day this week she'd been alone with the class. Breaks had become theoretical. Even bathroom visits required strategic planning.The lullaby loop pla...

6 likes

Project Black Flag

Kristina Warlen

Submitted to Contest #296

The flag in Simon’s hands was heavier than it looked. His mother had held it first, trembling as she pressed it to her chest. Then, she passed it to him. The cloth was smooth beneath his fingers, crisp from careful folds, but it felt wrong—like something stolen, something that shouldn’t be his. The stars on the blue field left indentations in his palms, as if the weight of a nation’s lies were pressed into his skin. Twelve years old, Simon barely understood the words the colonel said—“noble sacrifice,” “just cause.” The man’s voice was pract...

4 likes

When God Left

Kristina Warlen

Submitted to Contest #296

Father Daniel sat in the dimly lit rectory, the weight of silence pressing against his chest like an old, unwelcome friend. The Bible lay open before him, its gilded edges catching the glow of the lamp. He traced the familiar words of Matthew with his fingertips, but they felt like echoes from a faraway place. He had read these passages a thousand times, preached them from the pulpit, guided others through their meanings. But now, as he stared at the verses, they seemed to stare back at him, hollow and distant. Doubt had taken root in his he...

4 likes