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Monica Patterson

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2021

Stories (4)

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4 Stories

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Hermit Crabs and Goldfish

Monica Patterson

Submitted to Contest #164

When Auntie Sheila died, we all gathered together again. Most of us didn't have far to travel. I was the closest: I only had to walk down the sidewalk to her two-story brick house. My steps, enlivened by the crunching leaves underfoot, did not seem as sorrowful as they felt inside me. I felt a little like I was walking toward a catastrophe, and my heart grew heavier with each step. The squirrels didn't mind me, and continued their chittering and scurrying. They weren't fit company for my mournful heart, but I assumed my cousins and my uncle ...

9 likes

Gramma Says

Monica Patterson

Gramma says when she was a girl there was so much water, people would fill up tubs with it and lay their bodies inside. She says they had pipes that pushed the water out above their heads and they'd let the water run all over them. There were huge, deep pits they would dig to fill up with water so people could jump in and play around—just for fun. There were pits that people didn't dig, too. Pits that had been caused by water that fell from the sky and gathered in one spot because there was so much water that it didn't have any where else to...

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The Great Change

Monica Patterson

As usual, I was close by during the impact. The crunch of plastic bumpers and squeal of metal bending reverberate around me. I hear a yell from the smaller vehicle. She calls upon her Creator. Not my creator. I move closer as other onlookers yell, record the event, or call emergency services. I am silent as I watch. There is nothing else for me to do yet. I have noticed through time that more people tend to record an event than to help or call for others to help. Documenting things seems to have become more important than the things themselv...

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From Tomb to Womb

Monica Patterson

Everything was ready for the ritual. The Supreme Priestess had begun her slow ascent toward the altar while the rest of the inhabitants of the temple moaned the dirge. It was not a loud sound, but rather insistent and low, so low even the footsteps of the lone woman making her way toward the High Place could be heard. Dimly lit orbs of silvery light had been set on each side of every few steps, giving this largest area of the temple a feeling of smallness, an emptiness: the sense of a tomb. A Handmaiden in black robes, her face covered with ...

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