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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2019
Submitted to Contest #325
Content note: Contains brief scenes of physical violence and blood. A gentle breeze tousles Olia’s hair and teases the hem of her yellowing slip while a trace of grey fur bobs in the distance. Its full shape is disguised by soft ripples as the North Sea rolls towards the beach. A voice croons behind and lures her gaze to the right. Her chin angles over the expanse of speckled sand, stretching for miles, farther than her companion’s eyes can perceive, farther than hers too, which blur a little more with each passing day and the weight of her ...
Submitted to Contest #95
“There are two doors in front of you, Mr Matthews. It is your choice which door you choose to enter.”“What is this place?” Eddie asked, fear shrouding his voice.“The place in between your past and your future. Some people call it the present. I liken it to that little place Christians call Hell.”Eddie swallowed deeply. His dull blue eyes idled back and forth between the two doors. One white and royal purple, the colours of his beloved team, the only consistent thing he’d ever known. The other was black and white and filled him with dread. Hi...
Submitted to Contest #88
The best day of Hans Brandt’s life was a quiet sunny day on a stage in March 1890. He halted down-stage. His brown eyes peeled wide with wonder as Amalie Bauer swept past. Pale pink tulle ruffles flowed around her ankles. Ivory ribbons adorned her legs. Red hair spiralled about her shoulders, radiant curls brighter even than the sun. A smile lit up her lips, and a twinkle danced behind her eyes as she turned to him and extended her hand. Every bone in his body screamed at him to pick up his own pace, that his steps were due mere seconds away...
Submitted to Contest #70
Tower Hill, January 22nd, 1552. The first thunk of Edward Seymour’s head as it hurtled downward from his shoulders and bounced perfectly into a straw-clad basket, haunted Marcus Atticus. In all of his two thousand years of tortured glory, nothing had quite seared itself into the surface of his brain like the scene before him. Marcus’s eyes swiftly clammed shut at the first sight of clumpy crimson fanning out from the bone-ridden stump left behind by the executioner’s tissue-drenched axe. The vicious scene rolled on and on in his head, playin...
Submitted to Contest #55
THERE WAS NO BRONZE BELL above the door anymore. It had been removed three weeks prior to Will Delgado beginning his contract at a musty old bookstore housed in a former church off Inverness’s high street. From what little ramblings he’d caught since arriving, the bell was some three hundred years old, and had been whisked off to a specialist for repair. Nothing more could be gleamed about this bell, and so he buried his curiosity and tossed away the key. His first three months idled away uneventfully, but were nonetheless strenuous as he cl...
Submitted to Contest #23
The thermostat by the bedroom door reads 71°F but the bitter winter weather still permeates the thin windowpane as you stand by the heater, stuffing plaid shirts into a worn-out hold-all for the trip ahead to the log cabin in Wisconsin. In a short let-up from the sharp rattle of hailstones upon the roof in dire need of repairs, you can hear squealing tyres and a wheezing car engine struggling up the snow-ridden driveway of your ailing father’s dairy farm.You drop the sweater in your hands, nudge your boots out of the way, and venture to the ...
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