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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jan, 2025
Submitted to Contest #302
Luis Santos considered himself an observer of the human condition. Others might have called him a recluse or a nosy bastard, but he preferred “student of nuance.” It sounded nobler. Less pathetic.He had once been a substitute English teacher. Then a bookstore clerk. Then, for a few years, a nighttime security guard at a luxury condo. Now, semi-retired, Luis mostly stayed home. He lived alone. No pets. No children. His brother called once a month from Arizona, always with news of someone Luis barely remembered. His phone rarely rang, except f...
Submitted to Contest #301
Clarissa Bell wasn’t your average high school principal.She wore glitter Vans with her pencil skirts and scrunchies without irony. Her office smelled like Bath & Body Works and whiteboard markers, and she blasted Lizzo over the PA system every Friday between third and fourth period. She invented spirit weeks with themes like “Meatball Monday” and “Song Lyric Wednesday.” During finals, she brought in bounce houses and handed out free Slurpees. Staff meetings happened over charcuterie boards. Hall passes were granted only after TikTok danc...
Submitted to Contest #300
Once, there was a kingdom made of plastic and wonder.It rose defiantly at the edge of a sprawling parking lot, wedged between a grocery store, a dry cleaner, and a four-lane road that never stopped humming. From the outside, it looked almost otherworldly — part spaceship, part candy factory — with its bold colors and bulbous windows that glinted in the sun like the eyes of some cheerful robot god.We called it many things — The Maze, The Tower, The Fort—but never by its true name. That was too dull, too adult. To us, it was just the place. Th...
Submitted to Contest #299
Have you heard the burnt toast theory?It’s a simple idea, really. If you burn your toast in the morning, it’s annoying. It delays you. You have to decide whether to try again or just suck it up and eat around the blackened bits. But in the grand cosmic dance of time and cause and effect, that minor delay might be the very thing that saves you later. Maybe that delay means you miss the red light where someone else gets T-boned. Maybe being late to work puts you in the right place at the right time — free coffee, a kind word, a job opportunity...
Submitted to Contest #297
The rain had begun again, soft as breath – just a hush against the windows, the kind of weather that made you forget what season it was – forcing you to look outside to the trees to see if there were leaves, or buds, or naked branches.She stood in her kitchen, one hand still resting on the edge of the counter, as if she hadn’t moved since he left. He had been gone exactly three minutes. Maybe four. The sound of the door clicking shut still hung in the air like the tail-end of a song she didn’t like anymore, played too much and too often.The ...
Submitted to Contest #295
Cassidy was always in the way.At home, the kitchen bustled with too many voices, the clatter of dishes, the wails of her younger siblings demanding things only their mother could give. The air was thick with exhaustion, her mother’s hurried movements like a windstorm around the house, rushing from one crisis to the next.Cassidy tried to help — rocking the baby, picking up scattered toys, folding laundry with hands too small to make perfect corners. But no one noticed. If she spoke, her words were lost in the clamor. If she sat quietly, she b...
Esme stood in the center of her kitchen, staring at the sleek marble countertops like they belonged to someone else. In a way, they did. This was her house, technically, but she had spent the last year floating through it like a ghost, barely interacting with the space beyond the necessary movements — microwaving pre-packaged meals, drinking coffee straight from the pot, stacking dirty dishes in the sink and leaving them there until she couldn't anymore.Her kitchen, once a place of refuge, had become a tomb. Once a place that held evening co...
They say you never really know what someone is like, not truly. Life has a funny way of showing you. Coincidences, they call them — those little twists of fate that seem too good to be true. Like how, just as the park started filling up with the wrong kinds of people, they all began to disappear. One by one. Strange, isn’t it?I’ve lived here for decades, in this little house with its flower boxes and its white shutters, watching the seasons change, watching the people come and go at the park across the street. For so long, the park was perfe...
Submitted to Contest #294
(Note: This story does include the finding of a deceased body; reader discretion is advised) I noticed him the first time at the coffee shop on 3rd Street. He sat two tables over, stirring a cup of tea he never drank. He wasn’t looking at me, not directly, but there was something in the way his head tilted, the way his eyes flickered over the rim of his cup, that made me feel observed. Every so often, he would blow on his mug, and eventually, this act became unsettling, as I knew the tea must have grown cold in the hour he sat unmoving. This...
Submitted to Contest #293
The morning is the same as it always is. I wake before the sun, peeling the sheets from my skin like old wallpaper, easing myself from the bed so I don’t wake him. The air is cool against my bare arms as I pad to the kitchen, where the coffee pot grumbles and steams, spitting out its offering. The cat brushes against my ankle, purring, oblivious. I pour my coffee into the same chipped mug, the one with the faint crack along the rim that I always mean to replace but never do. It fits my hand too well. The house is quiet. The kind of quiet tha...
Submitted to Contest #292
2020 was colorful. It was the year of pain, of growth, of loss, of rebuilding. I did not know, when I packed away the Christmas ornaments, that I was also packing away the life I had built with you. The greens and reds lingered after the holiday, a stubborn reminder of what once was. Pine needles stuck to the carpet, and the garland draped limply over the banister, as if it, too, was weary. The red of the stockings, once filled with love and excitement, now felt hollow, a whisper of the past. I packed them all away, my hands slow and deliber...
Submitted to Contest #291
[Note - this story involve a crime and crime scene - reader discretion is advised] A city never sleeps, and a police station never stops bleeding. The air inside the station was thick — stale coffee, burnt-out cigarettes, sweat from too many bodies working too many hours. Phones rang, voices barked orders, a keyboard clacked somewhere in the background. Another case. Another mess to clean up. Cops, detectives, and even secretaries sat hunched at their desks, fingers, eyes, and lips moving constantly. People brought in from the streets ...
Submitted to Contest #290
The buzz of his phone on the nightstand pulled Ben from sleep.For a second, he just lay there, blinking at the ceiling, willing it to stop. But it didn’t. His hand fumbled for the phone, and when he saw the name on the screen – Chief Cable – he exhaled slowly, already knowing what was coming. He answered in a low voice. “Yeah.” “There’s been a stabbing. Hospital’s a mess. You’re the only one answering. Get here now.” Ben swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his face. “On my way.” He glanced back at Claire, curled under the blanke...
Submitted to Contest #289
The reverse of a superhero – going in more, and coming out less.Chris Harper straightened his tie in the mirror of the dimly lit bathroom, the sharp lines of his charcoal suit crisp even under the flickering fluorescent light. He exhaled through his nose, rolled his shoulders back, and then, with practiced efficiency, loosened the knot and shrugged off his jacket. This was the part of the day he hated most. With careful deliberation, he folded his suit, placing it inside a garment bag he hung on the back of the stall door. The white button-d...
[Note, this story falls within the horror genre; while there is not specific gore or violence, it may be assumed. There is also mild language. Proceed at your own risk.] I never liked Janice. She was the kind of teacher who corrected your grammar in the break room, the type who sent mass emails about “the ongoing issue of stolen lunches” like we were in a corporate thriller instead of a poorly funded high school. If you were late submitting your lesson plans, she’d remind you. Twice. In bold. One time she told me the only good new teacher w...
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