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Milly Orie

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Apr, 2024

Stories (7)

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22 Followers

5 Following

7 Stories

213 karma pts

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The Color of Grief is Not Black

Milly Orie

Submitted to Contest #292

Sensitive Content Warning: grief, death of a childYou were in love with color.I could see it in your eyes. We all could, I think. Even though you couldn’t tell us how you felt with words, we could see it–the way your little brown eyes would widen, would take in the light, the way your whole face would grow brighter. I always thought your eyes looked just like Dad’s. Is it wrong to speak of you in the past tense? You wore bright orange shorts. They hung loosely about your little legs. Tell me why I can still see that flash of n...

16 likes

I Guess You Could Call This a Love Letter

Milly Orie

Submitted to Contest #276

My sister would laugh if she read this. I can see it now–her eyes crinkling up, her mouth wide, her white teeth showing. She would snort at the humor in it all. “Milly, that’s so dumb,” she might say, forgetting the number of unsent letters she’s written to boy after boy.I can’t say I blame her; she’s simply not in my head. She doesn’t know what you meant to me, once. It’s impossible for her to know.You might laugh, too, if you knew. Awkwardly, maybe, desperately trying to find a way out of the conversation, desperately trying to regain...

10 likes

Soldiers Sometimes Cry

Milly Orie

Submitted to Contest #261

~May, 1946~When Mother sent me to deliver gifts to Mr. Kent, I didn’t reckon I’d bother. I’d take the basket, sure. Fine. Then maybe I’d walk a half-mile up the road and dump the stuff–maybe eat it, actually–sit awhile in the dust, and head back home.After all, new residents shouldn’t be the ones delivering presents. That’s the town’s job, isn’t it? You know, all the welcoming old villagers and their shiny smiling faces, coming to bear gifts to the newcomers? That’...

19 likes

Momma's Axe

Milly Orie

Submitted to Contest #255

This story contains references to violence and mental health issues, and mentions of blood. I take my mother's axe from beside the door.It's heavy in my hands, the wood smoothed from use and yet still rough enough to cause blisters. The blade is dulled, like my reason. We’re about the same age, this axe and I. It makes sense that we would be a little worse for wear. I'm not used to the idea of weapons, especially in my own hands. It's not a thought that's crossed my mind until recently.Momma would not have categorized this as a weapon. ...

13 likes

The Invincible Clementine Finch

Milly Orie

Submitted to Contest #250

This story mentions violence and death. May 1, 1902In retrospect, it would have been safer for me not to investigate the case.I was bold–perhaps too bold. Years of being nicknamed the Invincible Clementine Finch had softened my reserve, probably. Or perhaps I wasn’t born with any. The name didn’t come without reason–not that I’m one to boast. I fell off a train as a girl with hardly so much as a scratched knee. I chased down an armed robber once with nothing but a hat-pin as a weapon. No need to fret, of course; he was just fine.&n...

12 likes

The Wind in the Willows-Katherine's Spring

Milly Orie

Katharine dangled from the apple tree, her golden hair sweeping against the grass. The rough bark would have been painful against the inside of her knees if she hadn’t been wearing her denim overalls, the ones embroidered with colorful little flowers at the hems. The breeze tossed her hair and the branches of the trees, showering white blossoms to the ground. On the branch beside her, a boy twirled on the rope swing, kicking up dirt. Spring, the most glorious time of year. The perfect time for frolicking outside, breathing in the fresh wind....

3 likes

Cities Always Sleeping

Milly Orie

Shortlisted for Contest #247 ⭐️

Winnie didn’t know what a city was like. She asked me about them, one night, her voice floating up from the bottom bunk in the darkness, drowning in the sea of cricket song. The windows were open, like they were every evening. We might as well have been sleeping out in the swamp for all the noise. Leaves rustled as frogs trilled to one another, and the heavy air vibrated with the wings of moths and mosquitos–but we were safe from them. The screens were closed. The sounds of the marsh were our lullaby. They also hid conver...

30 likes