Maxwell MacDonald

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jul, 2022

Stories (4)

4 Stories

81 karma pts

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“The Orpheum” by Maxwell MacDonald

Submitted to Contest #156

(story contains salty language) Perfunctory meals. Astronaut food. Bright lights. Loud music. Tables jammed together so close the neighboring conversations sat in the back of their throats.“Why do we torture ourselves?” Davis asked.“Well, what do you want to do?” Kate replied.“Let’s head to the Orpheum.”“Now? I thought Drew said not to until later.”“Drew says a lot of shit.”“Well, this seemed important.”“Yeah, it is. It is. But this,” Davis held up a blanched, undercooked asparagus stem that bent at the wai...

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“Fleck” by Maxwell MacDonald

Submitted to Contest #155

Bobby Fleck couldn’t understand why he was getting heat about his performance. He wasn’t just doing his job; he was crushing it. Things running so smooth that he barely needed to get involved at all. That was the problem. The work was getting done, but Bobby wasn’t technically doing it. The words his boss used repeatedly during the twenty-minute railing were negligence, blatant lack of ethics, and massive sociopathic tendencies. They all took even turns in the burning circle of his speech, but negligence stood o...

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“Deferred Sentence” by Maxwell MacDonald

Submitted to Contest #154

If you had a pulse you were promoted. Ryan Hament was nothing if not a man who could wake up in the morning with an active, beating pulse. He’d been doing it his entire life. All twenty-eight years. It was a point of pride. Letting his heart beat and not getting in the way of that plump, fleshy life fist clenching and relaxing. Moving the blood along where it needed to go. Never letting too much of it spill out at one time either. That was the trick. Keep the blood on the inside. Once it got ...

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“The Final Acquiescence of Stanley Sprout” by Maxwell MacDonald

Submitted to Contest #153

Inside the violin case was a bottle of champagne with a faded label, two dusty flutes, a key, and a slim stack of letters that Stanley Sprout had all but worn through. On the outside, the case showed spots of soft, beige skin through its black leather belly and spine. The kitsch stickers from trips to different cities randomly placed over it had all peeled up in the corners. Stanley had the habit of flipping them with his fingers, usually during an argument, only making them worse. He wanted to laminate them to preserve the memorie...

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