Lynn Cunningham

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Nov, 2024

Stories (4)

4 Stories

70 karma pts

?

“Descent ” by Lynn Cunningham

Submitted to Contest #285

The Descent “I think it’s a real bad idea, Karl.” “I don’t disagree…” “But?” “If I don’t do it, someone else will.” “Well, let them stain their hands.” The line is quiet for a moment, and I feel the miles between us, as I twiddle the cord, wrapping the coiled harvest-yellow plastic around my finger. I wish my brother was at home, instead of in DC, some two thousand miles away. “Karl?” I ask. I didn’t hear him hang up, but the silence had gone on long enough to check to see if he was still on the line. “Sorry, Bud. I’m still here. My...

Read story

“Solitude (with the Spectral) ” by Lynn Cunningham

Submitted to Contest #284

Hoarfrost crystalised the valley. Early this morning, as the front rolled through, I shivered under my heavy electric blanket, the howling wind shrill as a lonely coyote. The sudden drop in temperature froze the rising fog, and now, white ice clings in puffy clumps to naked gnarled oak branches, giving an illusion of softness to the ridge. It’s impossible not to admire. Even as it solidifies I will spend Christmas alone. Just me and the ghosts. Part of me wanted this. The dark parts. The cynical demon who made pie crusts, gravy, and m...

Read story

“Wick in the Rot” by Lynn Cunningham

Submitted to Contest #277

Wick in the Rot The burn on my wrist isn’t bleeding anymore, but it still secretes a watery, golden fluid, the color of honeysuckle nectar. The color of sunlight on a winter morning. The color of codeine cough syrup before the most exquisite sleep. No stench. That’s a good sign. I redress the wound, carefully keeping the bandage beneath my gray sweater cuff. I don’t want questions or pity. There’s no story to tell, anyway. I glance at the clock on the nightstand. I have 20 minutes before bus N8 arrives. Just enough time for a coffee ...

Read story

“Wick in the Rot” by Lynn Cunningham

Submitted to Contest #277

Wick in the Rot The burn on my wrist isn’t bleeding anymore, but it still secretes a watery, golden fluid, the color of honeysuckle nectar. The color of sunlight on a winter morning. The color of codeine cough syrup before the most exquisite sleep. No stench. That’s a good sign. I redress the wound, carefully keeping the bandage beneath my gray sweater cuff. I don’t want questions or pity. There’s no story to tell, anyway. I glance at the clock on the nightstand. I have 20 minutes before bus N8 arrives. Just enough time for a coffee ...

Read story

Author bio

Lynn Cunningham is a fiction writer living in Fayetteville, Arkansas with her husband and two sons. She draws from her experience working in government, law, and politics—and raising a family—to write stories about justice, hope, and interconnectedness.