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Author on Reedsy Prompts since May, 2025
Submitted to Contest #313
“I lost my ghost,” he says, shrugging off the absurdity like water off the smooth shingles of a roof. “Which one?” [The ones from the past are the worst.] “Does it matter?” He runs a hand through his tousled hair, eyes flickering to the sparse apartment around them. “I don’t know how many I had to begin with.” [Those don’t shy away from you.] “People don’t usually keep ghosts,” she replies, amusement dancing on her lips. “What kind of ghost are we talking about?” [They tend to sit on your shoulder and whisper.] “A regret ghost. Or maybe a de...
Submitted to Contest #310
Mentions of child abuse. I never meant for anyone to read my book. In fact, if you did read it, I still can’t decide whether that’s a blessing or a curse. But before I drown in the nostalgia of my muddled past, allow me to state one thing.I exist. I wish I could say that I typed Barren Skies on some grand platform, lofted into the ether as a triumphant anthem—maybe a war cry against those dark nights defeated by alcohol’s embrace or the hollow chuckles that reverberated through the walls of my childhood home. But honestly, I penned it amidst...
Submitted to Contest #306
Contains mentions of death, but not in detail. November 1, 2023This is my first entry in what I suppose you can call a journal, though it feels more like a confessional. Maybe it’s for my sanity—a selfish way to relieve myself of some of the guilt—or maybe it’s my selfless way of giving what I can to those I take away.Either way, it’ll be where I write little notes. Words that help me remember that every face I see through my scope is a person with a history. If anything, it’ll humanize the monsters, both them as well as me. Sender and recei...
Submitted to Contest #304
Includes depictions of physical violence and suicide.They call her Witch.Not for her magic, but for her wretchedness. And so she knew the witching hour, but often wished somebody would tell her what haunts it, because it can be a struggle to define whether she is the haunter or the haunted. Under skies that char black by the heat of the day, its darkest minutes are when she can weep for her creativity. Yet even through her tears, half-formed ideas still flicker through the bleak sea of her blank eyes. And there was her terror, and there was ...
Submitted to Contest #303
Thick dust tears across Sam’s face like an unforgiving whip, eye-stinging sand swirling beneath the waning light of a late afternoon sun. Sitting wearily upon the cracked concrete slab of his barracks, he rummages through the pack at his side, fingers trembling as they graze over familiar shapes: crumpled uniforms, a dented canteen, and then—there, a worn envelope.A smile twitches at the corners of his lips, the mere brush of paper allowing him to imagine delicate fingers penning lines upon a kitchen table. Lean hands and determined hazel ey...
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