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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Sep, 2019
Submitted to Contest #277
tw: blood, language, self harm (kinda?)Beneath my collar, the skin is red and raw, the deepening scratches burning with absence. Halter necks, collars with buttons at the hollow of my throat, or piles of laces that frill across my skin or hike up to my jaw—these have been my uniform for the last few weeks.When I'm home, I swap these exorbitant veils for the comfort of a faded pink crewneck sweatshirt. Age has loosened the collar. Not noose-tight, but it's tight enough. The sleeves are unraveling at the end: I can hook my thumbs through the t...
Submitted to Contest #261
Tw: substance abuse, mental health, cussingTo: Harrison My therapist said I should write you a thank you note. A THANK YOU NOTE. Un-fucking-believable. What am I supposed to say? Thank you, for leaving me? Thank you for breaking my heart into thousands of pieces and stomping on them in your wake? How is she even allowed to have a degree? A thank you note. It makes more sense to write you a “fuck you” note. God. Thank you, Harrison. Thank you so much for being the perfect fiancé until you weren’t. Thank you for being so goddamn...
Submitted to Contest #187
Cinders glowed, a dim orange tinging the darkness around her. Snow fluttered, kissing her cheeks, her nose, her lips—kissing her where no one else would. Once more, the Nameless Woman—because that’s what she was now—brought the poorly-rolled joint to her mouth. Inhaling deeply, she relished the scorch in her lungs, the heady taste of herbal smoke coating her tongue, sticking to the back of her throat. Her nose ran, and her eyes watered. One…two…three… Release. Plumes of smoke coalesced in the frigid air. She used to fight back her co...
Submitted to Contest #186
I had been staring at the screen for hours. TAKE A SNIPPET. MAKE IT SLOW. MAKE IT DIFFERENT. EXPERIMENT. My professor’s instructions. Vague. Embarrassingly difficult. If I didn’t pass this assignment I’d lose out on the opportunity of my dreams. Between Luis and I, only one of us could fill the empty spot at the most prestigious writing conference in New York City. And he was a far more productive writer than I was.I hadn’t changed a thing about the snippet in my novel. It’s an important turning point, a heart-wrenching death. I bl...
Submitted to Contest #113
cw: violence She wants to kill him. Or, at least, she wants him dead. The silence has left us suspended in time. Javiera stares at me expectantly. I shift my position, retie the ribbon at the end of my braid, smooth the creases of my skirt; anything to avoid looking at her. If she was a paying customer, I’d have no issue delving into her dreams, send her on her way with the knowledge that her psyche lusts for murder. But Javi isn’t a paying customer and she isn’t just anyone. “So?” Javi chews on her lip, a hypnotizing tic ...
Shortlisted for Contest #103 ⭐️
It wasn’t English. Not Spanish either. сегодня ночью. Mira traced the faded characters with her little finger, a delicate touch she feared might make the photograph crumble. Yellow stained the edges. Between her fingers it felt like parchment, a scratchy sort of repulsion; she had to fight to keep from tossing the photo. The front was no better. She could barely make out the face in the old black-and-white, which by now was mostly white with age. Towers stood tall behind the woman in the center of the photo. Even by a...
Submitted to Contest #9
Halloween was particularly cold this year. Light snow blanketed the busy city streets—the first snowfall of the year. I’d long since stopped trick-or-treating, but the kids who still had hope for the world ran about, asking fro candy with their adorable enthusiasm. Teenagers such as myself more often than not weren’t cute enough to get more than a stale carrot. With reddened hands stuck in my pockets, I trudged down the sidewalk, avoiding as many costumed children as I could. Icy wind nipped at my face. I buried my face into my warm ja...
Submitted to Contest #8
Whispers are the only thing you can hear in the dark streets of Amoa. They say never turn your back on the main street church. Especially if you’re alone. Their cold, breathy warnings are the only company you’ll find as you wander the asphalt coated with a thin layer of late fall snow. Wind ruffles my hair. I stagger as the strong gusts push me into the street, as if telling me to stay away. Pulling my beanie lower over my reddening ears, I right myself. Nothing is going to stop me. Not the whispers, not the wind. Certainly not rationa...
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