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Rebecca Lewis

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2023

Stories (332)

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24 Followers

23 Following

332 Stories

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The Silent Role

The play had been running for nearly an hour before anyone noticed the butler. He wasn’t in the program. He wasn’t in the script. His role, if it could be called one, was to drift in, pour a glass of wine, straighten the drapes, then vanish again. And yet, he stole the stage. Not through lines, but through knowing silences. He lingered a moment too long when someone lied. He polished silver with a sigh that made the villain seem small. He brushed crumbs from the tablecloth no one had eaten from. He plucked lint from the baron’s coat as thoug...

2 likes

Ribbon Frayed

Evan sat on the edge of his bed, the desk lamp casting a weak yellow pool. Across from him, the medals hung in a crooked line. Ribbons dulled. Silver discs fractured with light. Once he had polished them, proud. Now they looked less like trophies than parts — stamped plates, cold as coins cut from a press. He reached for one — a track medal, second place at state. Ribbon frayed. Metal icy. He turned it in his hand, listening to the scrape against his nails. A sound like teeth on glass. Like a gear slipping its catch. A token of being almost...

2 likes

Applause in the Ribs

The Bow at the Edge of the Stage Randy’s hands wouldn’t stop trembling. He pressed them to the iron’s handle anyway, forcing creases into a suit that wasn’t his. Steam curled up in pale ghosts. The hotel desk wobbled under the board until he jammed a folded magazine beneath one leg. Josh’s cologne had already seeped into the fabric — sharp as pencil shavings and winter.“Don’t scorch it,” Josh called from the bathroom, voice bouncing off tile and the hiss of the shower.“You burn it, you buy it,” Randy muttered. He set the iron on its heel...

3 likes

No Safe Choice Part One

The café smelled faintly of burnt sugar and wet wool. Rain had driven most people inside, and the fogged windows blurred the street into a watercolor. Jess stirred her coffee though she had already drowned it in milk. The motion was mechanical — something to keep her hands steady.She didn’t notice the shadow that fell across her table until someone slid into the seat opposite.“Don’t you remember me?”Her hand froze on the spoon. The voice was softer than she remembered, but the tilt of the man’s smile was the same — half-charming, half-danger...

2 likes

The Black Curtain Incident (Official Case File 24-11789)

OFFICIAL REPORT- ARCADIA COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE Case Number- 24-11789Date- October 13, 2024Reporting Officer- Deputy Sheriff J. Potash Location- State Highway 46, Mile Marker 113, Arcadia County, NVIncident Type- Traffic Accident/Anomalous Occurrence INITIAL RESPONSE At approximately 0206 hours, the Sheriff’s Office received multiple emergency calls reporting a major traffic accident involving no fewer than twelve vehicles on State Highway 46. Callers claimed that a portion of the highway had “disappeared.” Deputies arrived on the scene...

1 like

She Didn't Board

The woman was waiting at the bus stop, tapping her foot against the cracked pavement. The air had that heavy quiet before a storm, though the sky was clear. Even the birds had gone silent, as if the world were holding its breath. She glanced at her watch — late again — and muttered under her breath, more to the empty street than to herself.“Don’t take the next one.”The voice was so soft she thought it was her imagination, just a trick of her restless mind. But when she turned, there was a man sitting on the bench she swore had been empty a m...

2 likes

Moments Unfolding

The Hourglass Gift Desiree found the hourglass in her grandmother’s attic, tucked between brittle books and a trunk of dresses that smelled like rain-soaked velvet. The glass was flawless, the sand inside pale as moonlight — and when she tipped it over, the world seemed to pause.At first it was subtle- the whirring of cicadas cut mid-song, the rustle of the oak outside frozen mid-sway. Then came the pull, as though the attic itself folded inward. Desiree blinked, and she was standing in the same attic fifty years earlier, her grandmother...

3 likes

The Brother’s Face

Ani had long since stopped searching crowds for her brother’s face. Three years was enough time for the instinct to dull, to sink into the ache she carried only in quiet moments. Still, on the subway platform that Wednesday morning, when the man turned his head just slightly, she nearly dropped her coffee.It wasn’t just the cheekbones or the dark hair in need of trimming. It was the tilt of the jaw, the way his shoulders slouched against the metal pole, even the small scar at the edge of his eyebrow — an echo of the one Arthur had gotten whe...

3 likes

What the Bottle Remembers Part 1

The library always smelled faintly of dust and paper, as though the walls themselves were built from forgotten years. Lavanya loved it for that reason — timeless, safe, a place where secrets could settle into silence and never be disturbed.That late afternoon, sunlight poured through tall windows, striping the tables in gold. Stillness lay heavy, broken only by the turning of pages and the faint creak of shelves that had borne their burdens for generations. Lavanya slipped into the farthest corner, clutching her backpack as though it carried...

1 like

The Smile She Kept

The Smile on Every Screen Belinda Jasmine never wore her own smile. The one the world knew — on billboards, perfume ads, glossy spreads — was practiced, luminous, a smile that turned strangers into believers. Her real one — crooked, too quick, a little lopsided — almost never left her apartment.By thirty-three, she was the most recognizable face in New York. Not a movie star, but a lifestyle brand. The tabloids called her “the last true socialite,” though she was the daughter of a schoolteacher and a dental hygienist from Ohio. She had b...

4 likes

The Weight Between Us

I stir my coffee though I haven’t tasted it. The spoon clinks too loud, brittle as a bell. No one looks, but heat still crawls up my neck. I set the spoon down fast, steadying my hands in my lap. Jovon’s talking about her boss again, her hands slicing the air, bracelets chiming with every gesture. She doesn’t notice the tightness in my shoulders or the way my eyes won’t stay still. To her, I’m unchanged — the same friend who hauled boxes up three flights, the same one who baked her a cake when no one else did. She thinks she knows me. But ...

3 likes

Ashes of a Hero

The Price of Truth Ashwood’s Hero The Weight of a Name Kelly Largent had grown up in the long shadow of her father’s reputation. In Ashwood, the name Bryan Largent wasn’t just respected — it was revered. To the townsfolk, he was the man who had saved hundreds during the fire that nearly gutted the manufacturing district three decades ago. His face adorned murals. His name echoed at parades. His bronze likeness stood in the town square with eyes turned toward the horizon, forever noble.Kelly learned early to smile when strangers told her ...

2 likes

A Place to Keep You

When Mikki moved in, the super handed her the keys like he was passing on a burden. “Bikes in the basement,” he said. “And don’t knock on 4B’s door.”He didn’t explain why. He didn’t have to. His eyes had the worn glaze of someone who’d told that same warning before, and seen it ignored.The building was one of those half-forgotten brownstones, all warped floorboards and radiator groans. Hallways smelled faintly of dust and something sweet, like old paint. Her apartment was small but sunny in the afternoons. She’d told herself it would feel li...

2 likes

What You Carry, What You Leave

The Weight of the Restart It began with a box. Not a cardboard box, but the kind made of years — a box of habits, routines, and choices that had grown too heavy to lift. Martin had been dragging it through his thirties, convinced that if he just kept moving, one day it would stop feeling like a burden and start feeling like a life.It didn’t.The truth was, the box wasn’t full of anything worth keeping. An apartment in a neighborhood he had never liked. A job that had once been exciting but now felt like a never-ending loop of the same ema...

5 likes

Through the Black Window Part 1

The clock read 4:13 a.m. — that strange, brittle hour when the world feels like it’s holding its breath. David sat at the kitchen table, elbows braced on cool wood, eyes fixed on the phone in front of him. It hadn’t rung yet.He’d been awake since two, pacing between the window and the sink, sipping bitter coffee that did nothing but keep his hands from trembling. Outside, the street was empty except for a single streetlamp that buzzed like an insect.Somewhere out there, his sister was either still driving toward home or lying in a ditch. She...

4 likes

Author bio

I am someone who has endured more than most, yet I’ve refused to let those hardships define me. My life has been marked by secrets, betrayals, and violations of trust, but I’ve carried myself through it with resilience. Those struggles didn’t break me — they sharpened my sense of self. I have a storyteller’s spirit. I am drawn to the shadowed corners of life and imagination, to folklore and myth, to the forces unseen that shape human experience. My writing reflects that — dark, atmospheric, and purposeful. I take care with detail, with imagery, with structure, because I believe a story should feel true, even when it’s fantastical. I value tradition. I look to the past, not just with nostalgia, but with respect for what endures- patience, depth, and meaning. It is in those values that I anchor myself, both in my art and in my life. Above all, I am someone who transforms pain into art, memory into myth, and insists on living by the strength of my own terms.