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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2021
Submitted to Contest #323
Ok, I’ve got you wondering. Am I writing about the pre-Big-Bang, dimensionless speck of concentrated matter, comprising everything that is now the universe? I know, I know, I go off at tangents. Explore all avenues of meaning instead of just stick to the point and get on with the story. I’m sure it’s my OCD. It runs in the family. OCD, that is, not exploring all avenues. Although that’s what got me into the events I have to write about now. This isn’t about Professor Stephen Hawking’s singularity. It’s about my singularity of habit, which I...
Submitted to Contest #307
God, I hate this exam hall. Up above the dark-panelled walls, the ceiling is so high, it makes me giddy. It smells old. How many years have people like us been filing in here, scared half to death of failing and flunking out? Floor polish mingles with stacked generations of anxiety, ineradicable, immediate, terrifying. I don’t even have Tracy for company now. My room-mate of two years, she suddenly dropped out to take a gap year in The Gambia after her interim exams, last summer. Next day, she and her stuff were gone. So I’m on my own. She n...
Submitted to Contest #305
At the intersection, I could turn right and head home. But turning left would take me the long way, around the forest side of the lake. Heck, I don’t know why, but I’ve been thinking about that old trail all day, the clearing, where so many of my formative experiences took place, under the pines’ green canopy. Warm memories. We had some great times over there, for sure, back in the days when summers and legs were long and hot, my old pal Bob and I. Before our voices broke, we’d ride our bikes round there and go fishing where the pines reache...
Submitted to Contest #304
GRIZEWATER HALL. NO VEHICLES, proclaimed the two tarnished brass sign plates on the imposing grey stone gatepost. Tom Branch reversed gingerly back out onto the narrow road. Through the rear window and a gap in the trees, he had a clear view of the picturesque Grizewater Lake, blue beneath the towering green and slate of the north Cumbrian fells, bright in the early April afternoon light. There was a lay-by almost, so he parked his car there. His was the only vehicle. He guessed none of the others had arrived yet.Dense, deep green foliage ov...
Submitted to Contest #303
Connie was used to Franks going out at funny times. Franks knew that, because after ten years of marriage he could feel her every thought, awake or sleeping. He had no belief in telepathy, but he nevertheless enjoyed certainty that two people could get to know each other so completely that each might as well be inside the other’s head. Like siamese twins sharing a brain, he thought, loving the way her dark curls fell and spread themselves so naturally over the pillow’s smoothness. Deeply, beautifully asleep, she stirred slightly, exhaled, th...
Submitted to Contest #300
When twelve-year-old Yasmin Juffail had kissed her Aunt Suhaila goodbye at New York’s John F. Kennedy airport, and walked away holding the hand of the smiling, blonde lady who had introduced herself as Candy, she had never imagined her journey would end here. Candy had reassured Aunt Suhaila, who Yasmin thought was being a bit over-anxious, that unaccompanied minors on Trucial Air were accompanied from gate to gate, until handed over to the adult collecting them at destination. Yasmin had rolled her eyes at the oxymoron but said nothing. She...
Submitted to Contest #295
So this is my diary. I’ve never kept a diary before. I’ll tell you in a minute why I’m starting one. I like writing and Sister Boniface says I’m good at it, but those aren’t the reasons. First, about me. My name is Ama. I usually have to say it twice to people. It’s short for Amaranth. Amaranth Christelle Obojo. I’m in Year 11 at Cloisters House. It’s a residential school for girls in north London. It’s pretty expensive. I go to boarding school because my parents live in Lagos. That’s a big city in south-west Nigeria. But I’m not starting th...
Submitted to Contest #275
I have to stop the man. My guide told me. At any cost, I have to stop the man.That’s my purpose. I have to. I must stop the man making a mistake. A serious mistake. A life-ending mistake. I can stop him. I must stop him. It’s my goal. It’s the reason I’m here, now, pursuing him, chasing him, across time, across the nation, forever and ever, amen, until I stop him. It’s what I have to do. It just is. It’s what the guide told me.It’s grey here. I can’t feel my feet. The man drifts in and out. Sometimes I see him clearly. Other times, he’s in t...
Submitted to Contest #272
I am sure it used to be here. Shit, there can’t be much of my break left. This is ridiculous. I get little enough free time as it is. Hell, one corridor looks just like another in this place. They’ve moved it again. They must have done. We used to have a proper smoking room with soft chairs and a water cooler, kettle, fridge and stuff. It’s no more than we’re entitled to. I know some people don’t smoke. I get that. But it’s about freedom of choice, isn’t it. You can choose whether you smoke or not. We won’t inflict our smoking on you. We’ll ...
Submitted to Contest #269
Sensitive content: suicide and assisted dying.A tear pricking the corner of her left eye, Fiona pressed the cool, disproportionately heavy metal-and-glass object into Rosemary’s palm. “Thank you, Rosemary,” she said, quietly, as both watched the mechanical, numerical display on the beautifully crafted, nineteenth-century timepiece click rapidly down from seven to zero, just as they had both known it would.Reclining into the capsule’s super-comfortable, ergonomically sculpted, reclined seat, Rosemary smiled up at Fiona. “I should be the ...
Submitted to Contest #268
Sol Crabbe blinked. He blinked again and stretched stiffly, joints popping like an old man’s. It was dark. There was a weird yet familiar smell, like a hospital. Where was he? This was a peculiar place. He didn’t recognise it. He’d awoken here, wherever here was, and he had no idea how that had happened. He was sitting - perhaps lolling fit better - in a high backed armchair, that felt like it was upholstered in vinyl or faux leather. Sol’s mind snapped back to boyhood, when he’d often slept over at his grandma’s house. Befo...
Submitted to Contest #260
As the hunter and the soon-to-be victim converged, the searing purpose of dark intent blazed black in the killer’s heart. Unshaven and unwashed, the donkey-jacketed, thick-set, bearded man, black woollen beanie pulled down over his ears, remained locked onto his quarry, his face expressionless, his pace an unstoppable march of inevitability. The slim young blonde bounced jauntily on, swinging her designer bag, the embodiment of carefree and footloose. He was certain she was unaware of her pursuer. She could have no inking of his plans. God, ...
Submitted to Contest #258
Ivan steered the beautifully smooth Mercedes E220 between the close kerbs of the single-track lane that led to the Long House, slowing for speed bumps and potholes, mindful of the fine machine’s low profile tyres and lean ground clearance. The car seemed to get smoother and quieter every mile he drove it. Right now, it was a few minutes after seven thirty in the evening. The early July Solway sun shone golden from a clear blue sky. The six-hour drive from south-west London had been the easiest he could remember in more than thirty years on t...
Submitted to Contest #238
Far within the dark panelled, richly furnished, insanely, recklessly safe lair of the Predator, the Client raised the lead crystal tumbler, luxuriating in its delicious heaviness, swirling the smoked amber nectar, inhaling the Islay malt’s rich, woody bouquet as the flickering flames from the hearth danced in its fiery depths. “Show me the tools of your trade,” she said. The Predator smiled. He had been anticipating this moment. He set down his own glass. The Client had probably guessed her host was drinking apple juice, or something equally...
Submitted to Contest #236
The Bains are a happy family of three. It’s a typical Saturday. Carl Bain and his twelve-year-old daughter Sylvia are having a day out at the local museum. Sylvia is intrigued by the cow cream jugs, moulded ceramic farm animals with a hole in their back for filling, and an open mouth for the spout. “Dad, it’s like the cows vomit the cream up,” Sylvia laughs. Carl smiles and gives his daughter’s shoulder a fatherly shove.In the next room, Carl stops. “Well, I’ll be…”Sylvia asks him what’s wrong.“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just the things in her...
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