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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Feb, 2020
Submitted to Contest #264
Maggie settled down in the reserved pew, second from the front. Listening to the organ prelude, she smoothed and re-smoothed the skirt of her new dress. Dove gray or pearl gray, she couldn’t remember what she’d finally decided on. Keep it together, she reminded herself. Do not embarrass your daughter. This day was about Sasha and Devon—those two gung-ho, madly-in-love young folks. She adjusted the pin of her corsage, an ebullient display of lily, chrysanthemum, and baby’s breath.“Go ahead, turn around, have a look,” a familiar quiet voice wh...
Submitted to Contest #263
Willa would never forget that day. She was coming home, carrying the new kill, with the fine jackrabbit fur tickling her nose, and the iron taste of blood still warm in her mouth. She planned to show the kill to her three cubs, Winken, Blinken, and Nod. She planned to use her razor-sharp teeth to tear the skin away, letting the blood sprinkle in their quivering little noses. She needed to wean the growing cubs off her milk and onto good, life-giving food. Fresh prey. Rabbits, mice, voles. She arrived at the rocks and bramble that concealed t...
Submitted to Contest #262
During the hottest summer on record, I was in a terrible slump. I could find only part-time work, so I volunteered as much as possible. “Please,” I begged, “that batch of incoming mail for the city councilor simply must be processed.” I was appointed summer relief, in charge of sending personalized responses to the councilor’s snowbank of letters and cards, chiefly well-wishers, due to recent news of her lymphoma. I replied, rephrased, and, whenever possible, redirected the concern to different departments of the city. Yes, it was a mentally...
Submitted to Contest #260
Change is in the air. Mr. Smith is back home, and he is singing his number one song, Amazing Grace. His warble falls flat in some places, and he mangles some words, but it’s recognizable by all. Mrs. Smith is sick of Amazing Grace. So sick of it. She hopes tonight they do not have the personal support worker named Grace, a plump young woman who wears too much jewelry, who is always snapping bracelets on and off. Although surely Grace is sick of that song by now, too. Isn’t she? Sometimes Mr. Smith sings Amazing Race instead. The first time h...
Submitted to Contest #259
Excitement was in the air. The Little Theatre was mounting its biggest production ever. The crew was erecting the stage for the show called Heaven on Earth. A two-week run, for starters. Sketches in hand, I walked onto the stage amid the whine of a buzzsaw and the scent of freshly sawed pine.Stuart, the set designer, and Bob, head carpenter, were deep in discussion and didn’t notice me at first. As I approached, Stuart moved away from Bob. When I stopped, Stuart flashed an irritated glance at me. “Looking for Wardrobe?” I paid no mind to his...
Submitted to Contest #258
“Break time’s over,” Mrs. Haggerty yelled out the backdoor of City Central Goodwill. She stared hard at Marty and Nadine, as if wondering who had dripped cheese all over the brand-new toaster oven in the staff room. “Nadine, you’re Check-out. Marty, go to Intake.” The teens whined and were slow to move inside until Marty recalled his probation officer’s advice: “Community hours go by quicker if you cooperate.” So he stubbed out his cigarette, as did Nadine, on a long, filthy snowbank near the backdoor and they went inside to their assigned a...
Submitted to Contest #257
Far away in the city of Thunder Bay, two brothers, Duke and Fred Jones, owned and operated a trailer park. Duke, the elder brother, was sly, scrawny, and a whiz at customer relations. Fred was beefy, strong as a moose, and could kick out undesirable tenants faster than you could say, “Hit the road, Jack.”Big changes were afoot in King’s Court Trailer Park because one night, while listening to a televangelist, a lightning bolt of revelation hit Fred Jones: “The meek shall inherit the earth.”“The meek? That’s me!” Fred shouted. His burly physi...
Submitted to Contest #256
Out of habit, I awaken every day with my running clothes laid out at the foot of my bed. I pull them on first thing before I’m fully awake. My eyes are still crusted with gunk while my body lunges through the dark, stumbling down three flights of stairs, the handrail my savior as I lurch from side to side. On the final stair I sit to pull on each shoe. The big gray door has one slender window through which I peer as I double-knot the shoelaces. And stretch against the stair railing. S-t-r-e-t-c-h. For two months of the year, the window...
Winner of Contest #250 🏆
Dad did not like summer. “A little respiratory problem,” I overheard him tell the neighbour on one side of our house, but that was not why; I could hear the regular sigh of his breath when we watched TV together. “A minor circulatory thing,” I overheard him tell the other neighbour, but that was also not why because I could hear the steady ba-dump of his heart when I put my ear on his swollen belly. He just did not like the heat, I decided, like he did not like Coke but I did. The afternoon heat would drive us to the depths of the old stone ...
Submitted to Contest #249
Leaving his father’s funeral, Joe was on autopilot, barely registering his wife Francesca and two daughters in as everyone piled into the old Volvo. A Stoic does not cry. Blinking rapidly, stern-faced, he had delivered his section of the eulogy, rather more eloquently than his brothers but not quite as ardently as his sister. Still, he had “kept it together”—how Father would have wanted. Not like Rita, who spoke of the childhood things: old-forest hikes with Father, spooky tales around the campfire, funny faces and silly-yet-wise sayings tha...
Submitted to Contest #247
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today.” The stocky sunburned man pulls out a folder with my résumé and letter of application in it. “You have successfully completed phase one of your admissions interview.”“What?” My heart sinks. I have just been arguing with this guy, thinking he was another candidate for the same position I’m interviewing for. Then he comes clean, says he’s the one hiring people. “Just had to test you.”At his invitation, I come inside to the control room of a medium-sized boat, its large observation win...
Submitted to Contest #246
Trigger warning: Themes of illness and death. On the fifth round of Hide and Seek, that’s when Eddy found it—a secret room at the end of a long, sloped closet. The closet was in the room where five-year-old Eddy and his six-year-old sister Carli shared a bunk bed. If you only looked in the closet, dark and jumbled, you couldn’t see the room. But Darkness was there all along, waiting.The four Manderley children were running out of good places to hide. Ten-year-old Adam was It now, and Eddy was in a panic—that’s why he clambered over boots and...
Submitted to Contest #239
“Time to head out,” John said. “Have a nice evening.” He rose from his desk, packed his laptop and left. Sue said, “You too,” as she switched her footwear from office ouchy to commuter comfortable. Then she, too, packed her laptop and left. The second hand of the clock journeyed once, twice, thrice around. Clock said, “Talk. Talk,” and a low-level vibration began to fill the room. Remington, the manual typewriter, thumped out from the closet, moving sideways to the middle of the floor. Brrrrt! Brrt! went his carriage return as the platen rol...
Submitted to Contest #235
Rosa checks her fanny pack: keys, subway pass, bottled water, and a carefully wrapped sandwich: it’s all there. Nearby, a line of pink feather boas undulates, as seven women wearing Fun Run T-shirts break into a rhyming cheer: Who are we running for? Who do we adore? It’s Ginnie, Ginnie, Ginnie Moore! Each repetition of the name is louder, and the boas are shaken higher. Wasteful enthusiasm: these women should conserve every nanowatt of energy if they want to finish the race, as sixty-year-old Rosa is planning to do. The doggerel ends wi...
Submitted to Contest #234
The morning commuters at Gate A distributed themselves along the concrete station platform like crows on a wire. Finance was a solemn business and the men and women who waited for Train 1 were clad in funereal attire: overcoats of black, navy, dark gray, with one or two exceptions in beige—and one poor soul with no overcoat whatsoever. Mallik shivered as he stood in the cold misty air. Why on earth did I forget my blasted coat at work? He recalled yesterday’s noisy debate in the stuffy little meeting room crammed with screens, whiteboa...
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