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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jun, 2020
Submitted to Contest #58
The voice from behind me was one I only half-recognised. I was leaning over the balcony of the hotel’s function room, glass in hand, drinking in the view, captivated by the trail of lights across the bay, and wondering how long this place would be able to retain its unique and unspoiled charm. “Mrs King,” I smiled, with all the sincerity of a game show host. "Call me Mavis," she said, smiling back, patting her blue-rinse perm into place, evidently pleased that I had remembered her from our one and only previous meeting. “This is my husband, ...
Submitted to Contest #56
Outcasts? Or outsiders? At times there seemed to be little difference. The end-result was invariably the same. They were the type of thoughts that went through his head whenever he turned to self-reflection. Which, these days, was often. He stared into the mirror. It was not, he would have to admit, the handsomest face you would ever see. A great dome of a forehead and that large, blunted nose. Wavy hair in no particular shade of brown, and the bushy, reddish beard which, if nothing else, at least softened the jutting jawline a little. The e...
Submitted to Contest #55
Seen this in the newspaper? Macmillan's been going on about how well-off people are in Britain these days. "Never had it so good," he reckons. I've got news for you, Harold. They're not the only ones.Of course, it takes a few days for the English papers to get here, but I can live with that. It's all part of the pace of life. Mañana. Or whatever the day after mañana is. Nobody seems to bother that much. Least of all me. It took me a while to adjust, but now I've settled into a nice leisurely routine. Wake up with the sun streaming in through...
Submitted to Contest #53
The pages of the album seemed as dry and wrinkled as the old man's skin, the stiff brown cartridge paper and grainy, sepia-tinted photographs matching the colour and texture of his lined, weather-beaten face. I don't know quite how old he would have been back then. I guess I was about thirteen. At that age, even your parents seem ancient, never mind your grandfather. He was sitting in one of those high-backed cane verandah chairs, complete with a pocket on the end of the arm rest in which to place his glass of whisky, or chota peg as he alwa...
Submitted to Contest #51
"You've changed." "Haven't you?" I answered her, I suppose, with my silence. We carried on walking through the anonymous, half-empty streets, the pavements still glistening with the early evening rain, the air damp rather than the cold I had been expecting, the only iciness in the atmosphere generated by the two of us. I looked up at the stars for guidance. The stars looked down at me disdainfully. A few moments earlier, as we had crossed the street coming out of the restaurant, I had gone to put my arm around her. She hadn't exactly shrugge...
Submitted to Contest #49
He had seen it many times before, of course, in books, magazines, prints. But never the actual painting itself. In the flesh, as it were. It had genuinely taken his breath away. For one thing, he hadn't appreciated the sheer scale. It must have been twenty, twenty-five feet across, he guessed. And the colours too. Or rather lack of them. He hadn't realised. He had always assumed it was because he had only ever seen black and white reproductions. But that was all there was. Just black and white, together with a sort of blue-grey wash. But it ...
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