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Rebecca Lewis

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2023

Stories (295)

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Library

18 Followers

17 Following

295 Stories

420 karma pts

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Latency Drift

The Offer Elijah Crane wasn't exactly invisible — just translucent. He posted content like everyone else- meal pics, gym check-ins, reaction vids with forced laughs. But his follower count hovered at a pathetic 312, mostly bots and high school acquaintances who hadn’t unfollowed yet out of inertia.He was twenty-five, working IT support for a finance firm where he barely spoke to anyone unless Outlook crashed. Nights were worse- two beers, Reddit, and the grim little voice whispering, You’ve peaked. But that night, as he doom-scrolled through...

1 like

In Stillness

“Have We Met Before?” The man on the train platform wore a navy wool coat, the kind that made him look either ex-military or just well-organized. His hair was buzzed down to shadow, and his jaw worked on something he wasn’t chewing. Talia noticed him because he was still. In the crowd of morning chaos — coffee sloshing, headphones bobbing, voices like torn newspaper — he didn’t check his phone, didn’t shift his weight. He just watched. She would’ve looked away if he hadn’t looked right at her. He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just stared ...

5 likes

Where He Waited

Aimey stepped out into the sunshine and paused. The morning air was sharp but inviting. The sky, a flawless blue dome, stretched above her as the sun warmed her face. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel the weight. Not entirely. Not yet. But she could pretend. She crossed the cracked asphalt lot behind the diner, boots crunching on loose gravel. The old place buzzed behind her- clinking coffee mugs, murmurs of regulars, the occasional burst of laughter. That was Sara's diner, her refuge since the accident. She hadn’t planned to s...

5 likes

Pressed B3

On an unusually cold morning in mid-June, Meghan Tarmey stopped at the vending machine outside Building C of the municipal records office. She only worked there two days a week — digitizing ancient building permits — and rarely interacted with anyone beyond the occasional nod. It suited her. Life had quiet edges that way. She pressed B3 for a granola bar and heard the usual whir of coils spinning, but nothing dropped. "Come on," she muttered, thumping the glass. Instead of the granola bar, something else rattled down into the bin. Somethi...

2 likes

Ghost Soup (The Pot Will Remember)

How to Make Ghost Soup A recipe for one lonely night — or every night thereafter. Prep Time- 3 hours of regret, 1 hour of hesitation Cook Time- One eternal simmer Serves- You, and the things you cannot forget (and those that do not forget you) Ingredients 1 bruised but intact memory, sharp-edged (handle with care) 3 whispers caught in the corners of an empty room (fresh whispers preferred; stale ones tend to linger) 2 teaspoons dried regret (fresh is too volatile) 1 large handful old photographs, torn or ...

4 likes

After the Whispers

March 2, 2025 I signed the lease today. Six months. Crescent Hill, just outside of town. The house is old — real wood floors, big windows, cracked walls. Too cheap for what it is, but the landlord, Mr. Yu, was eager to get someone in. Said the place has been empty a while. I need the space. And the quiet. March 3, 2025 First night. Wind shakes the windows. House creaks like it’s breathing. I keep telling myself- old houses sound alive. That’s all. Unpacked a few boxes. Bedroom’s upstairs, office downstairs. I’ll write here. No e...

4 likes

Turn Here

The Left Turn At the intersection, I could go right and head home — but turning left would take me somewhere I hadn’t been in almost fifteen years. My blinker clicked softly in the quiet cabin of the car, ticking toward the predictable safety of my apartment, my dog, and a leftover meatloaf dinner. The rain had slowed to a mist. Streetlights cast long shadows across the wet pavement, everything glowing slightly unreal, like the world couldn’t decide if it was dreaming or not. I sat there too long. A car behind me honked once, politely...

2 likes

The Last Ten Minutes

The Edge of the Fireline We’d been driving through smoke for miles — but now it wasn’t just smoke. It was embers on the wind. Glowing flecks flared past the windshield like insects lit from within. The sun was a red blister in the sky, barely visible through the haze. Inside the truck, it was quiet except for the voice on the radio. “…—repeat, the fire has jumped containment at Sector Nine. All units, fall back to Ridgecrest. Do not attempt rescue operations beyond Fireline Delta. I say again—” Tigere killed the volume with a jab of h...

3 likes

Red Dust

THE BIGGEST LIE I stared at the crowd and told the biggest lie of my life. “My brother was a good man.” Silence wrapped around the room like fog. A few nods. A sniffle from the second row. But mostly, people just stared back, waiting to believe something they could carry home like a souvenir. I kept going. “He always put others before himself. He was kind. He was loyal. He loved this town, and he never ran from anything.” All of that was a lie. My brother, Bill, had been a lot of things. Charming when it suited him. Manipula...

3 likes

Just the Way She Liked It

You Know What? I Quit. The day Emily Griffin quit her job, it wasn’t with a dramatic exit or a chair thrown through a window. No yelling, no tears. Just four quiet words.“You know what? I quit.”She said it to no one in particular. Her manager, Matt, was in a meeting — some quarterly strategy summit with a bunch of guys who used words like “synergy” and “value prop” without vomiting in their mouths. Emily was standing in front of the break room coffee machine, watching it sputter out a stream of burned liquid caffeine, and it just hit her....

3 likes

The Woman in the Car

The retreat promised clarity, discipline, and breakthroughs. On the brochure, it showed a lodge framed by pine trees, perched above a lake like a sentence waiting to be written. The twelve attendees, selected by blind submission, were told to leave distractions at home. No phones. No Wi-Fi. Just notebooks, laptops, and the urge to write something real.Jayla arrived with two suitcases and a six-month case of writer's block. Her debut novel had made modest waves, enough to land her on panels and under pressure. She hadn’t written anything good...

3 likes

The Hidden Cell

Kelly Bruce checked the clock. 3:58 p.m.The grant application was due at 5:00 p.m. sharp, and if she missed it, her research lab would shut down in less than three months. That meant no more experiments, no more salaries for her grad students, and seven years of cancer therapy research swirling down the drain.She cracked her knuckles. Focus.The abstract was done. The budget section had been finalized last night. But the "broader impact" section — the part where she had to explain why her work mattered beyond the walls of academia — was still...

3 likes

The Hours Between

During the day, Trevor Hiltbrand was nothing special. A mild-mannered copywriter at a mid-sized marketing firm, he spent hours staring at his monitor, the cursor blinking like a metronome marking time on his wasted potential. He drank lukewarm coffee, nodded along in meetings, and typed out lifeless taglines for products he didn’t care about.But when night fell, everything changed.It wasn’t insomnia. Trevor slept just fine — just not at night. He had learned long ago to give up on a 9-to-5 schedule for anything meaningful. At 11 p.m., someth...

3 likes

The Truth Afterward

The email came at 2:14 a.m., a time when no good email ever arrives.Subject: URGENT - “The Devil You Know” EditsFrom: erika.pope@veritaspress.comTo: felixlloyd.writer@gmail.comFelix Lloyd opened it, already wincing.Felix,We need to talk. You know I don’t get squeamish, but Chapter 14? That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen. You crossed a line.Call me first thing.— Erika He read it twice, then again. His stomach turned in that cold, hollow way it did when rent was due and the bank account hovered just above zero.He knew exactly what she meant.Cha...

3 likes

The Hunger That Waits

Ashes.They floated, weightless and slow, dancing through the pale morning light. What was once a home was now a charcoal outline, smoldering and skeletal. The oak beam that used to frame the living room buckled with a groan and collapsed into embers.Taylor Robinson stood at the edge of the ruin, boots planted in the damp earth, a duffel bag at his feet. Smoke clung to his coat, woven into the threads like a curse. He didn’t move. Not yet. Not until he was sure it was done.A crow cawed somewhere overhead. He didn’t look up.The fire had starte...

3 likes

Author bio

I spend a lot of time pulling at threads most people would rather leave alone. Whether it’s writing fiction, watching films, or reading, I’m drawn to the kinds of stories that sit with you long after they’re over — the ones that unsettle more than they resolve. I like ambiguity when it feels earned, symbolism that doesn’t scream for attention, and characters who are complicated enough to make you uncomfortable. In my own writing, I’m circling around guilt, power, transformation — and the kind of dread that creeps in rather than announcing itself. I’m not interested in stock villains or easy catharsis; I’m after something a little more tangled than that. My stories tend to live in darker spaces — but with enough humanity to still matter. When it comes to film, I lean toward psychological complexity and strong atmosphere. Nolan, Lynch, Tarkovsky, Villeneuve — directors who aren’t afraid to take their time and leave space for discomfort. Same goes for music. I’m pulled toward melancholic, layered, charged stuff- Radiohead, American Football, Cigarettes After Sex, Chopin, The Weeknd. Anything that feels a little haunted. I don’t buy into neat answers. I’m not religious. I don’t think the world was designed with us in mind. But I think meaning exists in how we respond to that — what we choose to make of it. That’s what I’m writing toward, whether I realize it or not.