Sam Everard

Author on Reedsy Prompts since May, 2024

Stories (4)

4 Stories

55 karma pts

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“Stick the Landing” by Sam Everard

Submitted to Contest #262

It was around 9:45am, when the sweat had already formed dark rivers in his shirt that surged down from his armpits to his belt, that he realised he might not have planned this thoroughly enough. Wiping his glasses, he checked the weather app on his phone. 95 degrees. Give it a few more hours, and it was showing 104. Not showing any cloud cover either. He looked up squinting at the sky to see if the phone was lying. Bright, untainted blue, the kind you’d get in a child’s landscape painting, stretching out over miles and miles of dust and sand...

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“Six-ish Characters in Search of a Decent Author” by Sam Everard

Submitted to Contest #257

ACT IScene 1Setting: A spacious, upscale restaurant in the centre of London. Early evening. A man and a woman, GRANT and JENNIFER, are sat at a table centre stage. There are two more tables dotted around them with other couples, and two waiters attending to them. They aren’t talking when the curtain rises, but the tables around them are. The FIRST WAITER approaches the table FIRST WAITERGood evening, can I get either of you anything to drink? GRANTUmm…maybe two more minutes? FIRST WAITERNo problem, whenever you’re ready GRANT and ...

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“The Hound Goes Back for Gold” by Sam Everard

Submitted to Contest #256

“I assure you, Ma’am, you’d be making a mistake,” he grinned, through slightly crooked teeth. “I won’t be in town much longer and you won’t get an offer like this again.”The woman shifted uncomfortably in her seat at the kitchen table. She was smiling too, but her eyes were darting to the door and her nails were leaving indents in one tightly clasped hand. She went to speak and he cut her off. “I know, you want to wait for your husband, lord knows I’d want my wife to do the same. But this is different. And a smart man like your husband, he’d...

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“A Lost Work” by Sam Everard

Submitted to Contest #252

“It’s famously lost,” you told me. “It’s undoubtedly a major work but nobody has ever read it.”“How do you know it’s any good then?” I asked you. “It’s Perrín,” you said, mouth turned down in exasperation. “It’s always good.” You took a deep breath, and explained. Cristóbal Medina Perrín, as you had intoned any times before, was a visionary. Novelist and playwright, born in Spain to Argentinian immigrant parents in the early 20th century. Released one novel in his native country at nineteen, but travelled to both th...

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