Rochelle Bourns

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2019

Stories (4)

4 Stories

52 karma pts

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“Enraptured” by Rochelle Bourns

Submitted to Contest #291

1801Amesbury, EnglandLocal folk in the unruly English countryside sealed themselves inside at night for good reason. The sharp, odd winds carried past the ancient henges a phantom with them, a greater threat than highwaymen and wild beasts.Those twilight hours cast over the nearby Salisbury Cathedral an unease for which heavy slumber was meant, yet there was a rare few that seldom managed it. Sister Augustine was one of them. Someone, she always said, had to keep the vigil candles lit.Then, after the stretch of one long night, her faith amen...

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“White Rabbit” by Rochelle Bourns

Submitted to Contest #234

It was hitting off as one of those days where Lucy Clare could have really used a psychic. Another one, in fact, since she herself was listed as “psychometrist” under the NSA’s experimental assets category. Ideally, this other clairvoyant could walk into the underground lab facility armed with an arsenal of sarcastic quips and no emotions compromised.“Nick Sheridan,” Georgia Phillips, head of the NSA’s classified psychic division, announced by way of greeting as everyone settled into their seats in the conference room.The image of a happy co...

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“Mentality of Magic” by Rochelle Bourns

Submitted to Contest #198

It was an afternoon of waiting. The day had been as bright as pearls so far, with the December mist hanging in the air. All of it was cement-colored bricks underneath slate skies. All of it looked like the same old, same old. Except that the spinning red and blue sirens now sang outside instead of the birds.It seemed like every student, parent, and neighbor was out there to watch and listen. Meanwhile, Brian had been in the principal’s office ever since the high school had rung a release for its students one hour ago. One whole hou...

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“Fortune, Flower & Falcon” by Rochelle Bourns

Submitted to Contest #29

A flower is burning within my mind. It is – was – a rose, soft and white as a dove on its stem. Now it runs coal-black all the way to the base, its edges alive with angry gold embers. The phantom scents of floral and ash fill my breath, spinning my vision off into a stomach-churning dance. This has happened before, and I cannot even state a preference on whether it means something as an omen or merely that I am going mad. Yet the rose is still there, and it is dying, and I can do nothing to save it. Instead I must watch it slowly burn away, ...

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