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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Mar, 2023
Submitted to Contest #210
Duane Anderson, owner of the 200-acre farm on Sullivan Road, needed to get out of the house. It was a day of unique promise that was slipping from his grip under the influence of the TV screen. Frannie, his wife, was already installed on the sofa, a cup of coffee in one hand and a pop tart on her lap, watching the early morning talk shows. The Doctor wanted her to get more exercise, get outdoors, get the circulation back into her legs. What to do? What to do?“I'm gonna check on the corn”, said Duane, “I’ll be back so...
Submitted to Contest #209
TW: His Dad is a bigot, and it shows in his language.I’m just leaving Harrods on Brompton Road when a skinny young man waves me down. He’s wearing a white shirt, light gray suit, and he’s empty handed, so I figure he’s probably in the money business, going to the Square Mile.I twist in my seat to face the passenger, “Where are you headed, guvnor?”.He consults a piece of paper, “Saint Mark’s Place, off Wimbledon Hill….”.I’m stumped for a moment, “Isn’t there an old brick pub there? The… the Alexandra?”“Yes, that’s right!” says the m...
Submitted to Contest #208
TRIGGER Warning: This story contains every kind of horror, ancient and contemporary, including sexual violence, violence to children, bestiality, incest and more. I hang my head in shame.GenesisTheir creator reimagines the world before time, before good and evil, when men were chattel of the Gods, living in awe and constant fear, and when stories were carved in stone.At birth they will be helpless mammals by his design, protected by coats of fur or hair, feathers or scales, but in the third moon they will transmogrify, revealed in their vari...
Submitted to Contest #207
The Director of National Intelligence draws a thick black circle around a satellite photo of a harbor front factory using a permanent marker of the kind favored by POTUS. “Project GIGO” reads the headline, and “TOP SECRET” is stamped alongside in bright red ink. The Director leans forward on the plush sofa in the Oval Office, and solemnly hands the document to the President, who snatches it unaware of the sidelong glances and barely concealed smiles of the National Security Council members hastily gathered in his office for their f...
Submitted to Contest #206
It’s a summer party at the sprawling Lindorf “cottage”, tucked in among the mansions at Stoneport harbor, and Edward thinks he is in his element, slipping through the bait-fish crowd like a barracuda. A fist-bump here, a bro-hug there, his father’s attorney squeezes his upper arm as he brushes by. It’s all a blur of Brooks Brothers and Tory Burch because he hit the brewskies before lunch, and he’s high on weed. Edward snatches a glass from a passing silver tray, splashing prosecco on the sleeve of the white-jacketed server. “N...
Submitted to Contest #205
It was a monastic start to the day for Stanley Jesseps. A cup of fresh-brewed coffee, a slice of buttered toast, a banana, and on the kitchen-table lay the small white To-Do pad that called him to action, invited him to seize pieces of the day. Sometimes he might append a new task that occurs to him during the morning’s repose, but on this Wednesday he rolled with the prior-night’s draft, prescribed moments of meaning amidst the dross of an old and bereaved man’s life. It is an orderly approach to living he thought, the cadenc...
Submitted to Contest #204
The warm desert air blew through Mia's dark hair and she smiled at some silly thing that Stevie said. In front of them, Route 127 unrolled across the barren landscape as they motored south toward Vegas. Scrubby land all around, purple mountains in the distance. A Neil Young song, Cinnamon Girl, played on the radio. Somewhere far south of a small town on the perimeter of Death Valley, they turned off the road and onto a dirt track and stopped. The late April sun slid down to touch the peaks of the valley mountains and leng...
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