S.E. Tomlinson

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2023

Stories (5)

5 Stories

91 karma pts

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“Remember What She Told You” by S.E. Tomlinson

Submitted to Contest #234

Dear Self, When she got her diagnosis, Grandma Harriet said, “I’ll always be with you, even when I’m gone.” You might not believe that at this moment—not with the wounds so fresh in your mind—but in time, you will find the strength to believe it again. Right now, you’re feeling lost in the aftermath of Grandma’s death. Right now, with the funeral done and the care-giving responsibilities h...

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“In His Footsteps” by S.E. Tomlinson

Submitted to Contest #232

[Contains strong language, violence, and substance abuse] A month before my eleventh birthday was when daddy would go to war for the first time. I understood why he was doing it, to a degree. But I didn’t understand why it had to be my dad, of all the dads out there—the man who had taught me to piss standing up, to shoot a bee-bee gun at a trash can, to shift gears in a manual transmission truck....

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“Apocalypse Pizza” by S.E. Tomlinson

Submitted to Contest #230

[Contains strong language] So, newbie, you’ve made it to the end of the world. Congratulations! And welcome to the other side of history! The bombs may have dropped, but there’s still work to do and bills to pay. Some things never change. Another thing that hasn’t changed is pretty simple: People are hungry, they need to eat, and they love pizza. That’s where you and I come in.

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“The Pit” by S.E. Tomlinson

Submitted to Contest #221

I sat on the weathered brick wall above the town tunnel, looking down at the occasional car or truck that passed through. It was late and traffic was light. I’d arrived in town an hour or two ago and had been sitting on that wall all the while, motionless, thinking. A mile ahead, illuminated by pale moonlight, I glimpsed the open pit copper mine—the place where all of our troubles began. I was already on ...

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“Tree House” by S.E. Tomlinson

Submitted to Contest #220

The day before Ryan died, I felt it in my subconscious, like how you can feel when a polished musician strums the perfect sequence of guitar notes. It’s strange the way the heart speaks volumes about tragedy, yet simultaneously shrouds its origins in mystery. The night before, I’d been listening to the same sad songs over and over and crying my eyes out, and I had no idea why. It wasn’t until the next day, when Ms. Deave...

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