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Rebecca Lewis

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2023

Stories (294)

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17 Followers

15 Following

294 Stories

417 karma pts

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Shadow on the Ridge

Philomina moved quietly along the edge of the trees, her eyes fixed on the figure ahead. She had been following him for nearly two hours now, keeping just out of sight, just far enough back that she wouldn’t be heard. The wind was on her side today, brushing through the pines and stirring the dry leaves on the forest floor, covering the sounds of her cautious steps. It was almost too easy, though she wasn’t fool enough to believe the ease would last. He’d slip up eventually. They all did.The man moved with a deliberate stride, his boots leav...

2 likes

Secret Confession Diary Entries

September 5th, 2023I don’t know why I’m writing this. I’ve never kept a journal before, but maybe I need to now. Maybe I need to confess. To who? I don’t know. No one’s reading this, but it might help to get it out of my head and onto paper. Maybe it’ll stop the guilt from gnawing at me. I messed up. Big time. And the worst part? No one knows. At least, not yet.It all started six months ago. It happened so fast, I’m not even sure how. One minute everything was normal, and the next, I was standing in Manya’s kitchen, holding that stupid littl...

1 like

The Loneliness of the Moon

I haven’t seen her in days. I can still smell her in the woods, but the scent is faint now, like a memory fading into smoke. I know she left something behind, though; they always do. Humans shed pieces of themselves all over the world, oblivious to the way those pieces stick to the earth, to trees, to air. They never think about how we — creatures like me — can track them. Every discarded skin cell, every stray hair is a breadcrumb, a map to their soft, fleeting lives. Her scent leads me to the river, and I linger there longer than I should...

2 likes

The Things We Carry

Haley had always hated the sound of shoes on wet pavement. It was a sound that, for as long as she could remember, signaled the loss of something important. The rhythmic slap of soles against slick, rain-soaked asphalt was always accompanied by a gust of wind, a reminder that something — someone — was leaving. That sound haunted her. She didn’t notice at first when it started raining, absorbed as she was in the tightness of her breath, the erratic pace of her footsteps. Her jacket clung uncomfortably to her back, her skin hot despite the co...

2 likes

The Silent Land

Fog hung low over the hills like a blanket of unwelcome silence, and the moon's pale light struggled to pierce through it. Wen had never been one for ghost stories or small-town superstitions, but the legend of the Silent Land had clawed its way into his thoughts ever since he’d moved to this isolated village a few weeks ago. He had come for the peace, the quiet — a place to finish his book. Now, though, as the wind howled through the trees and the mist slithered between the branches, he couldn’t help but feel like he was part of one of thos...

2 likes

The Tides of Venice

The Grand Canal glittered under the Venetian sun, its water lapping against the stone edges of the city like soft whispers of forgotten secrets. Shirah stood at the edge of the canal, her eyes squinting against the late afternoon light. She was alone in Venice, not entirely sure what she was looking for but determined to find it. Her fingers absentmindedly fidgeted with the frayed edge of her travel bag. Her journey to Venice had been unplanned, a spur-of-the-moment decision after a particularly draining week back home in London. The city h...

3 likes

A Tangled Memory

The faint glow of the city skyline washed over the rooftop garden where Jennifer stood, nursing a glass of wine. She felt out of place, a lone figure among the clusters of conversations that buzzed around her. The party had long since lost its initial allure, but she stayed, tethered by a vague sense of obligation. The air carried a faint chill, mingling with the scent of lavender and the distant hum of traffic below. “Have we met before?” The voice came from behind her, soft and measured, but familiar in a way that made her heart skip. Sh...

3 likes

Old Friends, New Faces

The café smelled of freshly ground coffee and rain. It was one of those rare days when the city felt soft, as though the constant grind of horns and voices had been muffled by the heavy clouds and misty drizzle. Ken hadn't planned to stop, but something about the warmth inside pulled him in. His fingers were cold from walking too long without gloves, and his throat was parched. A cappuccino, maybe a sandwich — that would do before he headed home. He settled into a corner booth, the type where you could hide from the world, surrounded by the...

3 likes

A Face in the Mirror

The sun was setting behind the city’s skyline, casting long shadows over the bustling streets. Khasha stepped off the bus, her arms heavy with grocery bags. Her feet ached, a blister forming on her heel, but she was glad to be home — or nearly there. The familiar hum of the neighborhood welcomed her as she walked down the street, comforted by the routine she had followed for years. As she passed the corner market, Maynard, the owner, waved. “Same time tomorrow, Khasha?” “Maybe earlier,” she called back, adjusting her bags. “Have a good nig...

1 like

The Missing Spice

The savory, rich aroma of the simmering stew filled the air, a tantalizing scent that should have promised comfort. But as Angie stood over the bubbling pot, stirring absently, she knew something was off. The recipe was one she had learned from her grandmother — a dish that had always been perfect, every time, without fail. Yet tonight, despite the familiar ingredients and method, it tasted flat. Empty. The flavors, no matter how carefully she coaxed them, refused to sing. Angie set the wooden spoon down on the counter with a soft clatter, ...

1 like

A Late-Night Encounter

The kitchen clock ticked softly, its gentle sound barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. The rest of the house was dark and silent, as though the world had decided to pause for the night. Holly stood barefoot on the cool tile floor, her oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. It was nearly two in the morning, and she hadn’t meant to stay up this late. But here she was, again, wide awake while the rest of the world slumbered. The kitchen had always been her sanctuary, a place where she felt she could breathe. It was simple, sm...

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The Frigid Edge of Vengeance

It was the cold that woke Brandon every morning. Even in the middle of summer, even after so many years, the chill that permeated his bones remained, lingering like the touch of a ghost. He had learned to live with it — endured it, nursed it. After all, some wounds didn’t heal. They festered. Brandon adjusted the scarf around his neck, his breath rising in small clouds against the morning light. London was still asleep, the fog hanging low over the Thames, blurring the lines between land and river, making the city seem like a dream he c...

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The Weight of Words

The café was small, intimate, with dimmed lighting and the low hum of quiet conversations blending with soft jazz playing in the background. At a corner table by the window, two people sat opposite each other, their faces illuminated by the glow of flickering candles. Plates of half-eaten food lay between them, forgotten in the heat of the moment. "I just don't see how this can continue," David said, his voice low but firm. He leaned forward slightly, his hand gripping the edge of the table as if the conversation was a lifeline he despe...

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Recipe for an Evening

Recipe for an Unforgettable Evening Ingredients-1 tired heart, bruised but still beating1 crisp autumn evening3 strangers with heavy suitcases1 city buzzing with lost souls (New York works well, but any large city will do)A light drizzle (optional, but recommended)2 cups of hesitation1 cup of curiosityA generous pinch of vulnerability1 missed trainSeveral secret hopes (unmeasured)A handful of shared laughterA dash of quiet confessions1 memory that refuses to fadeA bottle of red wine, shared between friends Garnish-A single streetlight illumi...

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The Weight of Shadows

Asher was a man defined by his routines. He worked as a librarian in a small, unremarkable town, cataloging books that no one read, living in a two-room apartment that was as bare and colorless as the life he led. He wasn’t unfriendly, but people often forgot him, like a bookmark tucked between pages and never picked up again. He didn’t mind. In fact, he preferred it that way. His world was quiet, predictable, and for the most part, manageable. Except for the box. The box wasn’t anything particularly special at first glance. I...

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.