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Olive Silirus

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2022

Stories (24)

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24 Stories

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mad girl

Inspired by the poem “Mad Girl’s Love Song” by Sylvia Plath. i. I live in a forest where every tree says your name. They say it soft sometimes, like a wind that played with my hair but never pulled too hard. And then sometimes it crescendos and I am on a wave, yanked and drowned in remembering you too much and not nearly enough. I think I will die, and I wish I would, because dying is like sleeping, but I never do. I only fly under the water, a bird with a broken wing. Then the sound quiets and I am safe again. I lie on the soft moss and p...

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The Edge of His Cloak

That day by the lake, as hundreds of eyes watched a small boat draw closer to shore, expectancy rose from the crowd like a song. Voices of men, women and children murmured, cried, and fluttered through the air. They jostled each other, each head surfacing over the next then disappearing back into the sea of bodies. Each eye strained for a glimpse of the man disembarking from the tiny wooden vessel, like his countenance was the very air they breathed. Each of them caught it, if only a glance, except for one woman. She was drowning. Bent over,...

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Lidy's Poem

When I walked into the coffee shop, sunlight was pouring in through the windows like steamed milk into a cup. Tables glistened, computers and phones and silver pens reflected the glaring brightness and a girl was laughing while trying to blind her older brother with a shiny coin. The building was filled with soft noises: gentle chatter, the burble of the coffee machine, a bit of jazz playing quietly from the speakers. I breathed it in and went to the counter. “A cup of your Ethiopian roast,” I said, “and how about one of those orange scones,...

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The Drive Home

It’s dark out, except not really. There are so many street lights and glowing signs, it’s less like they’re popping out of a sheet of darkness, and more like the darkness is sneaking into the corners that are left unoccupied by their shine. Artificial yellows, reds, and greens blur together into a soup of colors and words. Most of them are familiar to me, in a way that makes me think I’m always going to remember the scene. After a year of being away from it, though, I’ll probably forget it, and only recall a few odd details, like the illumin...

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Caring About the Colors

Tink. Essie didn’t have to look to know what that sound meant. She did anyway, head snapping up in time to see a small red car driving slowly away, as if it didn’t have a single care in the entire world. The woman in it had one hand on the steering wheel, the other behind her head as she languidly took the corner onto a narrow dirt road bordered by two open, grassy fields.  “Oh, no you didn’t.” Essie growled, dropping the tennis ball she had been throwing for her dog. Missy looked at her, slightly confused, before diving for it again an...

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The Classic Writer's Cheat

“Step one: type the quotation marks! Actually, scratch that. Step one: change the font. I hate Arial.”“What good is either of those going to do?”“Changing the font will make you not want to throw your computer against the wall halfway through writing your story!”“And the quotation marks?”“Just something to get you started.”“That’s stupid.”“It says to your story brain, ‘hey, I’m ready! Let’s get this show on the road!’”“One, that still makes no sense, and two, I don’t have a story brain.”“‘Course you do! Everybody does.”“I’m amazed that as a ...

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The Promise

Warning: contains mentions of miscarriage and themes of loss (but mostly hope)There are some stories that you just know are somewhere inside you, probably fully formed, simply waiting. I couldn’t tell you where they live. Your heart, if you’re a romantic; your brain, if you’re not. Maybe your gut. I don’t know. But they’re somewhere in you, and you can sort of feel their presence, pressing against your noggin or ribcage or whatever, wanting to come out. Stories always want to come out, don’t you know? From your mouth, your hands, the ink of ...

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I Commited Murder Today

*This story contains brief mentions of physical violence*“There will be a time when we must choose between what is easy and what is right.”-Albus DumbledoreIt’s so easy to hate someone.People say “hate” is a strong word, but it’s not, really. It’s a too-often used word, sure, but only because it’s a too-often done thing. We’re quick to anger, and anger quickly turns into hatred, and by then it’s just a downward spiral into a pit few know how to climb out of. And by then, it’s normalized. It’s okay. We convince ourselves that it’s okay. We’ve...

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Learning to Fly: A Tale of Two Ducks

Wednesday morning, Girl put Crest on a diet, and Dwyn suffered for it. Dwyn was an exceptionally thin, sleek duck. She had a small shiny head and little half-moon eyes. The dark line running across her face made her look regal, like an Egyptian princess. She ate luxuriously, like any reasonable fowl would, but was not, in any means, fat.But Crest was, and consequently there was an unmistakable deprivation of food. Dwyn, like Girl, disapproved of her comrade's proudly worn chubbiness. This did not, however, signify it was time to cut the meal...

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The Flight

The sun shined through the window that morning, hitting her full in the face. It seemed to be struggling to get up, to rise past the trees that lined the yard. The light flickered in between leaves and branches, rays of that strange, magnetic glow reaching to touch her through a thin glass pane. It filled the room, giving the impression that the walls had turned into tiny, flickering flames. Huddled under the blankets, Lana was warm for a moment, comfortable and comforted. Then the warmth turned to heat and in a second she was burning.S...

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A Peculiar Correspondence

Mrs Lillian M. Atherton881 S Wildcreek RdBidvillage Dear Mrs Atherton, I am sure that you were in no way expecting a letter from me. It did not, after all, even occur to me to write you until last night, when it struck me that, though we have never met, we now share a common plight, one that should be properly addressed and dealt with; my dear lady, we must be the ones to do it.  We have, in fact, been neighbors for some time. If we had not, of course, none of this (and I am sure you know what I refer to) would have ever happened. That...

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Her Name (An Epilogue Story to Mountain Flower)

The girl was gone.Deamus knew it the moment he stepped away from her. He did not look back; he did not have to. He had felt the way the darkness came for her, swiftly and quietly. He knew she was not in pain. And the strange ache in his heart would only grow more painful the longer he stayed with her. She had asked one thing of him, in a way that only a person who knows they cannot carry out the task themselves would. She had asked him to take the flower to her mother. He had promised he would, to the girl, and to himself. That he would...

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Mountain Flower, part III

“Wake up.”The dream vanished as if it had been blown away by the wind the moment she looked away from it. She forced her eyes open. She was still sitting exactly where she had fallen asleep, her hands stiff and cold again. The kind-eyed man was standing next to her, but he was looking up, at something in the distance. Ruth clambered to her feet, feeling even more tired than she had before her brief rest. “The clouds moved. We should move while we can still see the top of the mountain.” The man set off behind his companions, who were alr...

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Mountain Flower, part II

The first time Ruth had heard the tale of the mountain flowers, she had been seven years old, and her mother had asked her to sell flowers for a bit of extra money. They had been especially poor then, with no man to provide for them, and so few people in the village who offered work to a woman. Ruth’s mother offered that Ruth keep busy while she was away at work, and since she already liked to pick wildflowers, why not sell them. Ruth had wanted to protest that wildflowers were for giving to your mother to put on the dining room table, somet...

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Mountain Flower

Ruth woke to her mother gently stroking her cheek, feeling her forehead, as she always did on the mornings when Ruth was sick. She whispered softly, perhaps something about a warm breakfast, hot lemon tea to soothe Ruth’s aching throat. The room was strangely cold, but mother’s hand was warm, so Ruth ignored it. “I’m alright, Mama” Ruth murmured, turning away from her mother. But instead of meeting the end of her straw-stuffed pillow, the edge of her own bed back home, instead of hearing the sweet lull of her mother’s reply, she hit her head...

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