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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Mar, 2025
Submitted to Contest #298
The cemetery sat on the edge of town, behind a cracked wrought-iron gate that never quite latched. Gerald liked it that way. If the gate squeaked open late at night, it wasn’t his business. The living came during the day. The others never gave him any trouble.He came in early each morning with a thermos of coffee and a slow limp, settling into the caretaker’s shed for a minute before starting his rounds. The grass always needed trimming. Leaves always needed raking. Headstones leaned more each year, like tired old men. Gerald found comfort i...
Submitted to Contest #297
The clock above the nurses’ station clicks from 2:42 to 2:43 a.m.Lance dips the mop into the bucket, the gray water churning with a lazy swirl. The plastic bucket squeaks as it rolls forward, one wheel clicking every few inches. The hallway is empty. Too quiet, even for graveyard shift. He hums something low and tuneless—half lullaby, half static in his brain.Left side of the hallway, then right. Mop. Rinse. Repeat.That’s the rule. That’s the routine. That’s what keeps things quiet in his head.Room 214’s door is cracked open.He stops mid-swi...
Submitted to Contest #296
France, 1943. Nazi-occupied Lyon, Marie Delacour moved through the alleyways of Lyon like a shadow, the soot-stained walls absorbing the click of her worn boots as if the city itself conspired to keep her secret. Her scarf, a pale violet thing once owned by her mother, fluttered slightly with every breeze, releasing a faint trace of lavender. It was the only softness she allowed herself these days—an echo of a time when flowers still meant beauty, not graves. Snowflakes drifted gently from a pearl-gray sky, coating the rubble and ruin in a...
Submitted to Contest #295
He found the door on a Tuesday. It was late afternoon, and the basement smelled strange—wet stone and something older, like metal that had been buried too long. He’d been unpacking all day. The new house was small, quiet, and just worn enough to feel forgotten. The kind of place that held onto old sounds. The shelf in the basement had been there when he moved in. Pressed wood, warped along the edges, covered in a powdery coat of dust. He hadn't touched it before. Too many boxes. Too many other things to do. But that day, the air shifted. He ...
Submitted to Contest #294
Hey Jamie,I don’t know why I signed up for this pen pal thing, but here we are. You’re my first letter in this experiment, so congrats, you win absolutely nothing (except my terrible handwriting, sorry in advance). Anyway, my name is Alex Carter, I’m 20, currently suffering through college, and trying to balance my part-time job with my overwhelming need to do absolutely nothing productive.What about you? What do you do for a living? Any hobbies? Honestly, I signed up for this because I thought it would be cool to talk to someone outside of ...
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