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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jul, 2024
Submitted to Contest #293
A man died on the train today. I have never wanted to see a dead body, or to ease the passing of someone so close to the angels. I know how to do CPR, but I am wary of performing such an intimate and selfless act in the service of another.He was in the opposite aisle, one seat down and facing me. These are the people you study the most on a train, because to observe someone directly opposite you is so boldly confrontational. I have seen him before because we both favour the same carriage, although it’s ridiculous, because they’re all alike.I...
Submitted to Contest #292
Two Years BeforeBetween fear and hope is where most people spend their lives. For the citizens of Graustadt, the balance is unequally applied. They may nurture a single flame of the latter, but are daily consumed by the former. In this linear dwelling place of half-timbered buildings, three-deep at most, the Florian provides the immediate focus. The river, in the slow march of time, has carved a V-shaped valley through the rock. The slopes are now densely wooded, and beneath their canopy, the grey wolves roam. It used to be called ...
Submitted to Contest #291
‘What’s the deal with this bloke you sent me, Ron? I’ve got his resumé in my hand, and frankly it’s thinner than my wife’s skin. A corpse in Casualty, a rioter in Silent Witness, several ‘passers-by,’ and — oh! fucking stellar! A speaking part in an arthouse silent movie, for which his only verbal contribution was to say, “The End.”'‘I hear you,’ said Ron Lumet, agent to the stars. ‘But you have to admit, he is seriously handsome. The man’s a vision. Never seen anything like him. Not so much as an open pore.’‘Can’t be denied’ said Vinni...
Submitted to Contest #290
A woman, slightly past her prime, drapes herself in a cardinal red wingback. Her Slavic features, or at least those details which constitute a recognisable face, are inscrutable. Only the eyes, dancing with malice, betray her hauteur. She wears a long string of pearls, which form a seeded rope between her sagging breasts. They are the only notable detail of the pose, for the woman, dark-haired and dark-eyed, is otherwise naked. At her left shoulder the sun forms a square of light on her already pale flesh. It lends an angularity to her ...
Shortlisted for Contest #289 ⭐️
(Staff Quarters): The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here. Normally when I wake up like this, there’s a man by my side, or a man recently vacated, leaving a warm hollow in the mattress. Normally, when I wake up like this, I’m in an unfamiliar house belonging to man I don’t know. A man I don't recall meeting, but must have done. But this time it’s different. Normally when I wake up like this, it’s because the unfamiliar man has gone to work or gone to get croissants, and each time I wake up wandering where I am, I have a headache ...
Submitted to Contest #288
A tall man stands in rainfall looking up at a dirty window in a dirty street. It is a biblical deluge and there is no other soul abroad. He buries his hands deeper in his pockets and flinches when a streak of lighting appears in the sky. It forks towards a downbeat hotel and is unmanned by a lightning rod on the roof. Ten seconds later there is an ionised charge of thunder. This too is biblical and fearful, like the galloping hoofs of the apocalypse. His daughter is here somewhere, and this somewhere is nowhere any father wants his daughter ...
Submitted to Contest #287
Every nation has a class system whether they admit it or not. Most allow for the concept of meritocracy, but honestly? The lines are pretty firmly drawn. Unless you’re a savant, follow the money.The upper classes, everywhere, have earned the right to be penniless if that’s the way it goes. They can live in shabby villas with elbow patches on their jackets and tortoises roaming wild in their walled gardens, and no one judges them. This class are often referred to, in fond terms, as eccentric. The most colourful 'blue collars' are less fondly ...
Submitted to Contest #286
From my spare room window, I can see Helen in the garden next door. She has her back to me, her feet planted wide apart with ham hock hands on beefy hips. She’s finally got round to dragging the Christmas tree outside, which she’s hauled on top of the brown bones of its predecessors. She’s breathless now, gulping in the still, cold air. Her sixth sense must feel my eyes on her, so she turns and waves. My friend, Helen, the ugliest woman in town. Helen of Troy’s beauty was such that it provoked men to war. Her namesake, the Helen in the ...
Submitted to Contest #285
I remember sitting in an office in 2003, surrounded by colleagues, when a tune came unbidden into my head. I don’t know why I love you but I do … We weren’t hooked up to the internet then. In fact, we were still getting our wages in cash, delicious brown envelopes delivered to our desks each Thursday afternoon.I asked around the office: ‘Who sang that song?’ - and although everyone knew it, no one could name the performer. I went to the pub after work, asked around there, and it was the same story. A familiar tune, but no clue.A couple of da...
Submitted to Contest #284
In the bible, angels don’t have wings. In fact, the moral imperative is that we should never know they are amongst us. The presence of wings would change behaviour, much like a grovelling employee before a CEO, or a plain girl who seeks the protection and the validation of the beautiful. An angel is in all things anonymous, and you will be judged in accordance with their opinion of you, and never the other way round. Of course, I am being allegorical, but isn’t that just what life is?*****Let me tell you about my mother-in-law, my ...
Submitted to Contest #281
The tall man spent some time scanning the list of names on the white marble tablet, ignoring the usual spiel at the top of the pediment. A list of thirty two men of the parish. Men of Piccadilly. He heard the footsteps, the deferent, diffident tread of a clergyman, impossible to ignore in the empty sepulchral space. ‘In from the cold?’ a voice enquired. ‘In all ways,’ said the tall man. He turned to face the fleshy vicar, and knew at once that he had been a padre in another life. The extensive decorations, the comforting smell of s...
Submitted to Contest #280
After you.Thanks. Where are you going?The ground floor. I always end up on the ground floor, like Jacob’s Ladder in reverse. I do wish they’d fire me at the beginning of the day instead of the end. That sucks. What did you do?Nothing at all, really. Rolling my eyes is what they said. For the last three years, I haven’t managed to get through my probationary period. That must make life precarious. What about a job in a call centre? They won't see your rolling eyes.Oh, but they will. It’s not the customers I have a problem with....
Submitted to Contest #279
This absurd tale draws heavily on the marvellous Hector Hugh Munro and his short story, The Disappearance of Crispina Umberleigh. Only the ending is significantly different, and it made me realise, when developing my own, just how difficult it must have been for him to write himself out of the wonderful hole he had dug!*****Twenty years ago, the wife of the Member for Cromer Heath went missing. One moment, she had been haranguing a shopkeeper in the market town where she lived with her husband and children, and the next she was gone. In...
Submitted to Contest #278
November 2008: Patti took a phone call from the care home at 11.42am on a windy day which blew the remaining leaves from their summer host. By the end of that day, Patti was at one with the leaves - because all she had ever known was blown away too. The manager collared her as she walked in, immediately irritated by the intense, stewing heat within the building. She could already feel beads of sweat on her upper lip. “I didn’t know your mother could speak German,” he said as an opener. “Nor did I,” she replied. She knew she sh...
Submitted to Contest #277
It is a curious aspect of the human mind that what it chooses to remember is neither logical nor linear. This is especially true of childhood, where entire years of nursery and school are lost without trace, and our parents’ hard work, (if indeed they did work hard), is entirely forgotten, leaving only tableaus. When we scream at them as teenagers, we are working on poorly defined resentments. But Emma does have a memory, now two decades old, of her Aunt Fay: her father’s sister, childless, but so much more maternal than her o...
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