Robin Davidson

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Mar, 2022

Stories (4)

4 Stories

109 karma pts

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“Falling Dice” by Robin Davidson

Submitted to Contest #149

Blake formed his plan almost immediately after hearing the sound. He didn’t expect such a simple noise to affect him so much, but that layered, striking sound—that clacking of dice falling against a wooden table sent his mind spiraling backward to a year ago, to the last day his friends were all together.                “Next week, same time?” Christian had asked. Blake closed his notebook              &...

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“Bitter Tea” by Robin Davidson

Submitted to Contest #140

I remember the first day Gram let us pick out our own cups. Nennie and I twirled through the tearoom, giggling as we brushed our tiny fingers along the display. Fifty years’ worth of teacups lined the walls—every color, every pattern. Nennie chose a pale-yellow cup with purple pansies and matching saucer. I picked out a squat, blue one. "Oh, Nennie,” Gram cooed at my sister, “That's very grown-up teacup. You have wonderful taste!” Gram turned to me. “I forgot I had that one, Deborah. Your grandfather gave that to me years ago.” She scrun...

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“Come into the Light” by Robin Davidson

Submitted to Contest #138

        Kyra swallowed a mouthful of coffee, hiding her grimace with the newspaper. Why anyone drinks this stuff when it tastes like soap and burnt toast was beyond her. Still, she would make herself finish the entire cup; it’s what an adult would do. And Kyra, having turned 14 a week ago and due for her freshman year of high school in exactly one month, decided that the only way to prepare herself for the next stage in life was to do everything her mother (a real adult) would do.    &nb...

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“The Tree in the Backyard of a House on Russet Street” by Robin Davidson

Submitted to Contest #137

I stacked my dad’s books in the doorway of his office, pretending to build a brick wall. His office should be sealed off, anyway. No one else belongs here on Russet Street, in our house. I blew some dust off the bookshelf, the part where I’d carved my name with a butter knife 13 years ago. When my dad found the carving, he called me an asshole and told me if I were going to carve my name into his beautiful, reclaimed wood shelf, I could at least spell it right. I’d forgotten the ‘e’ in Davey. Besides me and mom, my dad loved only two other...

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