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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Mar, 2025
Submitted to Contest #303
Content Note: This story includes themes of psychological manipulation, false accusations, emotional abuse, and mental health decline.Miles Yuen closed the laptop and stared at his reflection in the dark screen. Gray streaked his once-black hair, and new lines marked his eyes, heavier now. At 47, he felt ancient and hollow.He glanced across his modest apartment, eyes landing on a framed photo from his teaching days. Professor Miles Yuen, Ethics Department. Bright-eyed students surrounding him, Rachel Lin standing close by. Her gaze held admi...
The red house stood quiet under the heat. The kind of dry July stillness that made the air hum. Gavin wiped sweat off his forehead. His boots crunched over gravel as he crossed the yard. He hadn’t been here in thirteen years. Not since the fire. A tire swing still hung from the oak tree out front. Rotted rope. Flies buzzed near the screen door. No sound inside. The porch sagged in the middle. A broken step creaked under his weight. He knocked once. Waited. Nothing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key. The brass was worn sm...
Submitted to Contest #302
Jonah checked the clock. Just past 1:48 a.m.The store buzzed with the soft whine of flickering fluorescent lights. Cold, flat light spilled across shiny linoleum floors. Everything looked too neat, too scrubbed down—rows of snacks and drinks lining up like little soldiers. Jonah tugged his Astros cap lower and tried to shake off the tired feeling crawling over his skin.Outside, the fog pressed against the windows like it wanted in. Streetlights flickered through the mist, barely alive. The city looked abandoned. As if it had finally given up...
Submitted to Contest #301
Matt locked the apartment door behind him. The city’s hum filtered through the window, distant and faint, but inside, it was quiet. Too quiet. The air smelled stale—coffee left too long in the pot, paper damp with age. He dropped his keys onto the counter with a dull clatter and rubbed his face. Another long day. The microwave clock glowed: 9:14. Too early for bed. Too late for anything else. The phone rang. He flinched. The sound sliced through the stillness like a knife. Unknown number. He hesitated, thumb hovering. Then pressed answer. “H...
Evan leaned on the cracked counter at Benny’s Oven, thumb scratching at the worn edge where the laminate had peeled. The smell of old oil and scorched cheese clung to everything — the walls, the air, his hoodie. He could feel it in his hair, in his skin, like it had soaked all the way through. His phone buzzed on the counter. He picked it up, thumb swiping at the cracked screen. “Take your vitamins, mijo. You’re looking pale.” A smile tugged at his mouth, tired but real. “Okay, Mama,” he typed back, though they both knew he wouldn’t. ...
Marissa sat hunched on the sagging couch, knees pulled to her chest, her cracked phone screen glowing faintly in the darkened room. The apartment stank of damp laundry and stale coffee grounds, the kind of bitterness that clung to the walls. Unopened mail littered the table — past-due rent, shutoff warnings for water and electricity, a pink eviction notice that sat dead center, glaring like a wound. Her stomach ached with hunger. The fridge was empty, her bank account was overdrawn, and her landlord’s last text still flashed in her mind: “...
Submitted to Contest #300
The classroom lights buzzed faintly overhead. Rows of children sat in silence, eyes fixed on Ms. Lera. Behind her, a wide panel displayed the words: History Module 7C – Planet Earth. The room was clean. Too clean. The air was dry and smelled faintly of metal, like every room on Arca Nine. The walls were white and seamless. The seats were molded plastic, soft enough to sit but never soft enough to forget where you were. Ms. Lera stood at the front. She wore plain gray like all the teachers. Her face was tired, not old. She had seen forty-five...
I’d never been to this place before.The gravel cracked under the tires like bones. I parked and stepped out into silence. Real silence—not just quiet, but the kind that makes your ears ring. The trees stood still. The wind didn’t move.I always thought cabins were sanctuaries. Quiet places tucked far from the noise. A place to breathe. To think. To write.I was wrong.By the time I booked the cabin, I was a wreck. I hadn’t slept in weeks. Missed three deadlines. My agent stopped returning messages. I owed rent. My fridge was empty except for ex...
NOTE: This story contains the following• Mild blood (self-harm)• Child endangerment• Psychological horror• Supernatural elements Sam heard the whispers long before he ever dared set foot in Hollow Wood.They came at night, curling in from the crack in his window, slipping beneath his covers like cold fingers. The words were too soft to catch, but the feeling they left behind wasn’t. Restless longing gnawed at his chest, the kind of ache he couldn't explain. Something inside him ached to answer the call.Adults in town acted like the woods di...
Submitted to Contest #299
The balloon squealed under the twist of latex. “Look, it’s a dog!” said the clown, red lips stretched wide, eyes fixed on the boy with the tiger-painted face. The kid squealed and bounced in place. Chuckles the Clown—real name: Leon Greaves—handed the balloon animal over with a practiced flourish. It squeaked in the boy’s grip.Around him, the Saturday afternoon buzzed with cheap jazz and the light chatter of distracted parents sipping fizzy cocktails. One leaned over her phone, another filmed a shaky video while chewing a chicken skewer. Nob...
NOTE: This story contains Abduction, psychological trauma, implied torture, and emotional abuse. The subway car rocked gently, its fluorescent lights flickering overhead like a dying pulse. The kind of light that made everything look slightly diseased. Natalie sat alone on one end, her tote bag tucked between her knees, earbuds in—but no music played. She hadn’t listened to anything in months. Not really.She liked to observe people, undetected.Her reflection in the smudged window watched her back: dark eyes, shadowed from too many sleepless...
Lyle Stanford woke up with a seagull standing on his chest.This would’ve been concerning if he lived near the coast—or even remotely closer than 140 miles inland. But Lyle lived in apartment 3B of a building that leaned slightly to the left and had been cited twice for “accidental rooftop goat yoga.” The bird stared at him, cocked its head, and squawked directly into his face.“Okay,” Lyle said, wiping drool off his cheek. “I definitely need to stop buying expired NyQuil off Craigslist.”The seagull flew out through the open window like it had...
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...
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