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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Feb, 2020
Submitted to Contest #301
When that midnight phone call came, during a sky-splitting thunderstorm, I should have ignored it. But it could have been something serious–Mom’s nerves or Dad’s heart. You never know. “Bruni, you’ve gotta help me.” The hoarse voice on the other end sounded familiar but I was too sleepy to recognize the caller. “Can I crash at your place?” said the low rasp. “I just—I just—”Crash. Ah—that was the giveaway. “Where are you, Liuva? Are you okay?” I sputtered. What new emergency was this? My sister was contacting me four years after she’d sworn ...
Submitted to Contest #300
The plan made sense on every level. Eric Keane stood, watching the strong north wind judder naked tree branches outside the bedroom window. Far in the distance the white cliffs stood sentry along the seacoast. Indoors, he heard the bang-clank of Mrs. Potts’ arrival as she dragged the vacuum up the carpeted stairs. He massaged his eye sockets with the heels of his palms then opened his eyes again. I must hold on, he thought as he dressed.A tornado of sorts had already swept through the master bedroom: dozens of flung-about clothes, wads of sc...
Submitted to Contest #298
As the final prayers were intoned at Amanda’s grave site in the dry grassland cemetery, Paul gazed at his fellow mourners: their son Noah, a college student; Amanda’s two sisters, who co-owned the local gas station; and the six pallbearers, who were fiftyish farmers like himself, except they were all divorced or bachelors, because the farming life was tough on modern marriages. He stared at the pile of freshly turned soil: thick, damp, brown-black loam, a richness that could grow anything, given proper rain and sun. How promising that mound ...
Submitted to Contest #297
As the date approaches, Louise swings between anticipation and dread. On the appointed day, she catches the 32 Bus, headed from the suburb of North Montreal toward the Metro. Mid-morning shoppers and overslept students gaze dully as the world passes by the windows. The bus rumbles along Lacordaire Boulevard, until it screeches to a halt at the light beside a building where she used to work in the days of faxes and photocopies. The days of pantyhose and pussy-bow blouses, skirt suits and kitten heels. The dress code said no bare legs, no visi...
Submitted to Contest #294
It’s never just about the mascara.I followed the directions of the night watchman to the backroom of the pharmacy, my briefcase bucking against my leg, and the smell of pine-scented cleanser intensifying as I hurried. I had just delivered my regular Thursday evening history lecture and my suit felt rumpled, sweaty, still humming with debate. Sniff. In the backroom corner a wiry green-haired girl was wound like a worrywart’s twist-tie on a high metal chair. I knew better than to expect a hug from Sue, or even a small “Hi, Dad.” She contorted ...
Submitted to Contest #293
Agnes Beaulieu looked out her window as the Shinkansen, or bullet train, pulled out of Tokyo station. Harsh late-morning sunlight alternated with shadows from buildings and tunnels: light-dark, light-dark-dark, light-dark-light, with increasing frequency as the train picked up speed. She gave a heavy sigh. For four years she had been accompanying young Katriona on trips from her father’s place in Seattle to her mother’s place in Kumamoto. It was not unlike bronco busting, with Katriona bucking and pitching the whole ride while she, Agnes, si...
Submitted to Contest #292
Gran drew out a long acrylic strand from the canvas knitting bag and continued her day’s work: the rhythmic yarn-over and loop-through motions of her crochet hook. The telly was airing a documentary. Lives of Master Painters: Winslow Homer. Painted seascapes exploded onto the big screen as the camera, like a lover’s eye, caressed the textures and colours of Homer’s paintings. It zoomed in on brushstrokes of waves, then zoomed out to show the people. Desperate people! Men trapped on flimsy boats on stormy seas. Murky blues, jagged whitecaps. ...
Submitted to Contest #291
FRANKI was taking our baby, little Tabitha, out for walkies and allowing Lyndsay some time for herself. As a new father and somewhat less new husband, I was already in the doghouse. According to Lyndsay, I was a careless, inattentive parent. She accused me of wantonly dropping baby garments throughout the neighborhood. My negligence toward the darling baby socks was on par with letting a toddler play on a superhighway.So, yeah, I was a little stressed.The problem was, I had put Tabitha in the stroller, wearing her Oshkosh overalls and a pair...
Submitted to Contest #290
The tour bus took a different turn than expected and ended up in an old part of the city where there was a verdant park, a tinkling fountain, and comfortable wrought-iron benches. Various small shops lined the streets. The doggy spa rested beside the eyeglasses boutique; the pastry shop wafted its aromas toward the vintage clothing bazaar; and the bike shop did while-you-wait repairs for café customers next door. The driver parked the tour bus and announced, “Everybody, half-hour break!” Although some might buy a spare bike headlight, purcha...
Submitted to Contest #289
The room is unfamiliar, I don’t know how I got here. I am seated. I feel the chair against my butt. My back. I look at my feet. I lift one, then the other. They are inside big-toed, thick-soled black boots. When I lift one up, I see small puddles of dirty water under it. My hands lie on the table in front of me. The table is big enough for only one person: me. I can wiggle my fingers but it’s strange, my hands are inside puffy cloth bags. Like the puffy cloth thing I am wearing. “Settle down,” says a big man. He is about twi...
Submitted to Contest #288
The plan was to leave campus early, before the snow set in, while light still filled the sky. But Aidan had fallen into a rabbit hole of online references and blogs and comments-on-blogs while researching his essay on indigenous land claims in northern Canada. Just an undergrad essay for an optional class, but it had suddenly become make-or-break, the piece he would regard forever more as the point when he committed, the point when he actually took up the cause to work for justice for his people. The library closing-time signal had chim...
Submitted to Contest #284
It was the last day of Christmas holidays. There was so much to do to get the kids ready for tomorrow. Sierra planned to wake them up in an hour. They would be grouchy, but it was better to get on to the school-time schedule a day before they actually had to do it. She bit her lip, wishing she didn’t have to be the Grinch, wishing the fire emergency was over and that Pat could be home, safe and sound—and helping corral the kids. Fire season used to be April to October, so Pat normally had time off over winter. It had been a shock when the fi...
Submitted to Contest #279
Faelyn dug the blade of her chisel into the wood, one chip at a time. Her brother, Sammy, sat on a crate beside her, snipping at a folded paper. In the bunker around them, the shelves were so laden with supplies they curved under the weight. Canned foods, hardware goods, and metal replacement parts jostled for space with tins of biscuits and sacks of beans. The contents of an average-sized house had been shaken out and crammed into a space one-tenth the size. Uggggh, she was sick of that room.Bits of wood and paper drifted onto the scuffed c...
Submitted to Contest #275
“That’s it,” Joe yelled. “Final straw—I can’t connect!” He darted from kitchen table to rickety verandah, holding his laptop: the dance of the fading WiFi. “Hello, sweetheart,” Griselda crooned as she sidled up the path to their cottage. In the distance two ravens cawed and a motorboat hummed across the wide blue lake. A bucket swung on her arm; it held her beloved stinky newts and toads under bunches of noxious herbs. “Were you talking to me, dear?”Joe averted his eyes quickly—before she could mesmerize him. He forced himself to look only a...
Submitted to Contest #273
Don’t tell anyone. I’m not supposed to be living here in the McKillop mansion. But when Mrs. Mildred McKillop invited me, an undocumented refugee, to stay in her home, what was I supposed to do? She caught me when I was at a low point, a few years ago, going door to door offering to rake and sweep leaves in the fall. “Ten bucks a pop,” I would say to whoever opened the door of each fine, gracious home in the ritziest enclave of Denver. They’d take one look at me, a sixteen-year-old kid with a bad haircut, wearing an outdated Denver Dynamite ...
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