Richard Seven

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jun, 2022

Stories (4)

4 Stories

101 karma pts

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“Road Less Taken” by Richard Seven

Submitted to Contest #209

“I'm headed to Spokane. That on your way?”“I can take you two-thirds of the way. To Odessa. There are people there.”That was good enough for me. I crawled into the passenger seat of the bare, early-model van and tossed my duffle onto the middle row of seats.“Thanks, man. You’re the first ride I’ve seen all morning.”“Yeah,” the driver said. “They call this the other-other-other Washington for a reason.”The highway, which spans 130 miles, pierces eastern Washington state’s Big Bend country. It's flat, straight, sparse and wide open. It cuts th...

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“Emergence” by Richard Seven

Submitted to Contest #206

They came the moment day turned into night.Flits of black on black. Outlines of whooshing wings. Wafts fanned by their veering and swooping. Darkness paralyzed me and their speed and commitment awed me. I sensed them dropping from their roost below a rotting pier and zooming off to gobble as many insects as they could before daylight returned.My therapist arranged this outing to help me overcome or at least temper my dread of bats. It's called Chiroptophobia and this is a stab at immersion therapy.“They aren’t interested in you,” said Jake, ...

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“Dead man” by Richard Seven

⭐️ Shortlisted for Contest #203

August heat swaddled me as I made my way home from the community swimming pool. A damp towel hung from my neck. My trunks, reeking of chlorine, drooped from my narrow hips as I shuffled on dime-store plastic flipflops.I was 11, shirtless, recklessly sunburned, and alone. That’s how I rolled as a kid in Eugene, Oregon, back in the mid-60s. My family was so large, and our house was so cramped that I grew up like a feral cat, roaming and poking around trouble without fretting about consequences.The pool was five or six minutes from our house. H...

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“Dropout” by Richard Seven

Submitted to Contest #152

“I can see it now,” Derek told the stone He pounded hammer to chisel, slicing flanks from a refrigerator-sized Indiana limestone block. The rhythmic blows - chank, chank, chank – shot shards across his three-sided studio until they smacked against plastic-covered walls. A plume of rock dust that smelled like an oily beach, hung in the air, and slathered him from his work boots to his goggles. His chest heaved. His forearms throbbed. He was 48 years old, and his art felt more like work each day. He flexed his wrists. He was sturdy at 6...

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Author bio

Former journalist

Shortlisted 1 story ⭐️

Contest #203

Dead man – read story