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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jun, 2025
Submitted to Contest #313
The scent came first. Sharp. Green. Like pine needles crushed between fingertips but bitterer, like something not meant to be touched, let alone consumed. Hemlock.Aislin knew it instantly. It was in her blood—like grief, like warning. The hemlock bloomed in the hollows behind their croft, but no one had dared harvest it since the last frost. Not since Father disappeared with the sound of hooves behind him and a rope in a magistrate’s hand.She pushed open the warped wooden door of the croft, wind lashing her curls into her face, and the scent...
Submitted to Contest #309
The kettle whistled just as the sky turned the color of steeped tea.Mae turned off the burner and wrapped her hand in a faded dish towel before lifting the old copper kettle from the stove. Steam curled in lazy spirals toward the ceiling as she poured water over the loose black tea leaves, infused with a hint of dried orange peel—just the way her gran used to make it. The aroma enveloped her like a warm shawl.She set out three mismatched cups—old bone china with hairline cracks. One for herself, one for her mama, and one for her gran. Deep d...
Submitted to Contest #307
I never intended to join a secret society. I was only looking for a decent antique map.It began in a dusty bookstore tucked behind a row of boarded-up shops in Edinburgh's Old Town, where tourists rarely ventured. I was drawn in by the smell—musty paper, wax polish, and something vaguely like lavender. The bell didn't chime when I opened the door. In fact, I wasn't entirely sure the door opened at all. One moment, I was on the street; the next, I was inside, blinking in the dim golden light.An old man sat behind the counter, spectacles slipp...
Submitted to Contest #306
April 2, 1906Morning fog still clings to the garden wall. I watched it from the third-floor window today, the one that rattles when the wind blows through it. Nurse Allen says I mustn't write these things down, that they "feed the fevered mind." But what else am I to do with all this remembering?I found this journal hidden in the bottom drawer of the old sewing room desk. The pages smelled of lavender and something else—dust, age, or maybe secrets. I've hidden it beneath the thin mattress on my cot, behind the spring that juts like a crooked...
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