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Shanna Wilson

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jul, 2023

Stories (5)

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5 Stories

19 karma pts

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The Suitcase

The suitcase sat in the center of the room, a hulking shadow against the faint glow of the streetlights streaming through the window. Lina stared at it, her arms folded tightly across her chest. It felt absurd to imagine cramming her life—and Marco’s—into something so small. The thought made her stomach churn, but the ticking clock offered no mercy. Tomorrow, they would leave, and whatever didn’t fit in that suitcase would be left behind.The apartment felt emptier already. The walls, once covered in Marco’s crayon drawings and family photos,...

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A Glass Too Heavy

Jack sat alone in the darkness of his apartment, a bottle of bourbon on the coffee table and a half-empty glass in his hand. The room reeked of stale liquor and unwashed clothes, a tomb for the life he had lived before Sophie. Her picture still hung on the wall, framed in brushed silver, the only thing untouched by the chaos. She smiled in that photo, her eyes bright, her laugh frozen in time. Jack couldn’t look at it without feeling like the walls were closing in.It had been eighteen months since Sophie died. Eighteen months since the crash...

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Be Patient

The air in the basement was heavy with the stale, metallic scent of damp concrete. My breath hung in the space between my lips and the darkness, barely stirring, barely alive. I had once imagined that being forgotten would feel like vanishing into the ether, like a mist evaporating under the warmth of sunlight. I never imagined it would feel like this—trapped in a place that felt like it could swallow me whole and erase every trace of my existence. The first thing they teach you in survival stories is to keep track of time. Mark the days. R...

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The Memoir of a Rotary Telephone

I once held the voices of the world. My brass bells chimed with news of births, job offers, and tearful goodbyes. My polished black surface gleamed under the soft light of living rooms and kitchens, and my coiled cord tethered people to their stories. But now, I sit forgotten in a dusty attic, reduced to an object of curiosity—a relic of a time when conversations mattered more than convenience. I was born in 1953, cast in a factory that smelled of molten plastic and metal filings. My body was smooth, my dial adorned with crisp numbers and l...

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Burning

Submitted to Contest #281

Note: This story contains sensitive information such as mental illness and violence. Please read at your own risk. Looking in the mirror, I spot a small bump on my face. Great—just one more thing to add to the list of worries. As I prod and poke at it, torn between risking an even uglier scar or heading downstairs to face 15 people while hoping they don’t notice the volcano of pus on my face, my brother strolls into the room through the open door to my left. Flashing his annoyingly perfect, gleaming smile, he chuckles and quips, “At least i...

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