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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jan, 2025
Submitted to Contest #287
I know exactly what we’re about to talk about and I don't want to have this conversation. I feel his eyes on me as I stand at the counter, my back to him, waiting for the water to rumble to a boil, the kettle to flick off, the hot water to splash onto the teabag, seep into the leaves, turn everything a deep red-brown. I think about making him a cup but I know he wouldn’t drink it. I know what we’re about to talk about. He knows what we’re about to talk about. At least he’s nice enough to let me make a tea first before he hounds me. We m...
Submitted to Contest #286
I'm speeding through the garden, my wings buzzing furiously, my antenna cutting through the air ahead like swords. I’d have tears streaming down my face if flies could cry. They can't, but the sentiment is still there. I clear the neighbour's fence, almost get taken out by some sheer stockings flapping on a washing line, tumble my way through the leaves of a lemon tree and almost collide with a honeybee going about his work. ‘Oi! Watch where you’re going!’ he shouts after me. ‘Bloody house flies.’ Some call me dramatic, and by...
Submitted to Contest #285
‘There’s never anything to eat here, God,’ says Chelsea. ‘Are you kidding me?’ I say, gesturing at the four boxes at my feet that I’ve already cleared from the pantry. I’ve got what I think is flour on my cheek and grains of what I hope is some spice under my nails. It smells smoky. Cardamom maybe? I’m not good at spices. ‘Oh, yes mum, please,’ says Chelsea, picking out the nearest jar, ‘let me eat some whole green pickles in brine from...’ she turns the jar over, ‘nineteen-ninety-seven.’ Horror and disgust fight for first...
Submitted to Contest #284
‘Pâté!’ Exclaims Sylvie, clattering a plate of neatly cut sandwiches in the centre of the table which clanks noisily against Judith’s best porcelain. Judith winces but manages to turn it into a gracious smile, eyeing the thick, greyish filling. ‘How lovely,’ says Judith. ‘Who eats pâté anymore, Sylvie?’ I ask. Judith has her little round table set with all her finest, as is tradition in an event such as this. Her thin, porcelain teacups with the cherry blossom design, the silver tray of her old mothers. She’s even bake...
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