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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Nov, 2020
Submitted to Contest #243
Trigger Warning: This story contains a scene of a character with a mental health issue using racist language.While I charge my batteries in my silk-lined box and wait for my person to finish, I organize the list of lovers he keeps in a drawer inside his bedside table. I ignore the ratings.After his rapid grunts end in a moan of climax, he immediately turns over to grab me. His bedmate also reaches for her Kyūtai from her discarded jeans, its ruby surface gleaming beneath the moonlight from the open window. They lay together, not touching, wa...
Submitted to Contest #241
The drums of revolution echo beneath Shadow’s feet. No, not a revolution. His revolution.Beneath a sickle moon and her attending stars, Shadow stands on the edge of the city of Montauvers’ grandest cathedral. Spread out on the roof before him are men Shadow would’ve gladly died for, men who share his island skin and exotic, emerald eyes, now pointing crossbows at his heart. At their center, Cassia stands with red curls whipping in the evening breeze, her crossbow pointed at her husband’s face with a steady grip; Hoa ...
Submitted to Contest #240
A hot breeze from Red Mother’s crater trickled through the bars of my cell window, barely strong enough to move whatever hairs remained on my head. The gentle wind was miserable and full of sulfur, like my damned soul.The Sister of Lamashtu hovered nearby. She was tall and lean, like me, with bone-white skin and a bald head, also like me — though I had little choice in that regard. Her purple hood was pulled far over her face, hiding all but her pale, pink lips. They were peeled back in a sneer as she gazed at the pitiful form of the convict...
Submitted to Contest #199
Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of childhood sex abuse and drugs.Unlike other Terrans, I never dreamed of dancing in clubs on the moon; the music sounds like static, Loonies are snobs, and their blue milk swill tastes like sour gravy. But it’s the only place to kill demons.Standing outside Chandra’s thumping doors, the crackling music zig-zagging in the OxDome, I shift my heavy, clanking sack to my other shoulder. I walk into the dark club, looking for an old friend among beams of pastel light. Tiberius is across the gravFloor, p...
Submitted to Contest #166
The city street was buzzing. Hot dog carts were smoking, pedestrians swarmed the crosswalks, and the downtown high-rises caught the morning hour in their dark windows. Paolo felt it all; everything had clarity. Today, Paolo was a winner. As he stepped smartly into his office building, he saw the only person that could bring down his mood. Blaine bounced through the marble lobby in his tailored suit, with high-water pants proudly displaying fire-red socks that matched his suspenders. His smiles at everyone, from custodians to upper man...
Submitted to Contest #146
Virginia Woolf valorizes the present. Why can’t I? That thought bubbled up one humid morning as I stopped, in a rush-hour fugue state, and picked up a thin, ivory pamphlet from the train station floor. It laid on its back like a wounded animal – I connected with that. It outlined the practice of meditation. The edges were torn and folded, and the sketch of the sitting monk was Xeroxed in an ancient, American fashion. Whoever had it wasn’t very mindful. It said, “Watching one’s breath symbolizes the relativity of voluntary and involuntary eve...
Submitted to Contest #126
Sprawled across the Emerald Fields’ rolling hills, Oakwood had once been a beacon of festivals and parties. It attracted everyone from the lords and ladies of the High Court down to the lowest barflies of the Shade Barrows. Now, its stone roads and curved side streets, hugged on either side by shops shouldered on top of one another, were silent save for the echoes of swinging shop signs. Where wooden street carts once stood with promises of sweets for children, there were now mountains of bodies under greasy brown tarps, waiting to be transp...
Submitted to Contest #125
Beneath the gilded ceiling of an old theatre, a young woman’s violin sang a dancing melody. She played a New Age style of Gregorian chant and hip-hop, every song crescendoing with flair and pomp. The violinist’s energy pumped Robert’s will. He sat in a dark corner, dozens of rows away from the stage, gripping the arms of his chair, his tuxedo drenched in sweat as he heaved in time with the music. Those sitting nearby gave him nervous looks. As the violin’s melody rose in excitement, Robert inhaled deeply. He yelled. Loudly. Brutally. ...
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