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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Feb, 2020
Submitted to Contest #153
Crack! Crack! The blade of Branden Bannerman’s icebreaker chipped at the mound of ice in his backyard. The snow had been thick this year, smothering everything, including the flimsy carport roof. After every snowfall, he had shoveled off the roof, creating a gargantuan snowbank, which the kids called “our iceberg.” In the freeze-thaw cycle of early spring, it was far too icy for the kids to ride their toboggans on as they used to do, so now it sat there as hard and cold and immutable as misery. “What on earth are you doing?” Audrey shouted, ...
Submitted to Contest #150
“Think about others? I am sick and tired of thinking about others!” Barb Ellacott posted to the main message board of her favorite chatroom, SundayPainters.com. In person, Barb was meek and mild with everyone in her seniors’ low-rise condominium, but she loved SundayPainters (motto: “For Artists 9 to 90”) and felt she could let her hair down in the chatroom, even if it were long tangly tresses instead of the practical grey bob she had worn for years. “Why are you sick and tired?” The reply from Habib, another member, floated in from cy...
Submitted to Contest #149
The coal-fired power plant is closing, ready to turn off the lights forever in its industrial complex, and Petra shudders before the winds of change. She gamely attends the half-day retraining sessions, preparing to “deploy her skills in other sectors of the economy.” Late at night she seethes with the question Why me? but in daylight she obeys the poster plastered everywhere: Stay Calm and Carry On. She slows down as she rounds the curve of the highway, mindful of the bald tires that need replacing. An intermittent chirp reminds her that th...
Submitted to Contest #148
The property agent cancels at the last minute. “But the key’s in a lockbox so you can still go in and have a look at this beauty,” she assures us in her breezy, overconfident way. With some key-jiggling, I unlock the door to the recently advertised “Your New View Awaits - Classy 1 BDRM Walk-up” I step inside, looping my finger around my purse strap, stretched as tight as it will go, and feel the purse’s weight bump against me, heavy as doubt. Dave barges into the middle of the biggest room, clacking his hard-soled boots, and cocks an eye a...
Submitted to Contest #147
They sat in the flickering darkness, watching the final credits. For two hours, Mark Dirac had shared part of the universe with Blanche, breathing in her scent, listening more to her small creaturely noises than to the Japanese movie, After Life. Two hours of bliss. Oh sure, he had worried a little about his body, about not mouth-breathing and not tongue-smacking, and not being overcome by the occasional hardening that he had learned to disperse by thinking about solving first-order differential equations. But unlike other dates, he hadn’t w...
Submitted to Contest #146
The memo goes out a month after I join EasyCo: everybody must attend the team-building exercises. I must remember to bring my opener. My group includes Jaden, also a new hire. He’s cute in a J.Crew unstained T-shirt kind of way. Six big sleek buses trundle us out to a rustic hideaway, a monster log cabin where we assemble in the frigid air conditioning. Perch on chair-sized wooden cubes, we watch the opening ceremonies. “It takes teamwork to make the dream work! People are our most important asset!” People are our most important resource! G...
Submitted to Contest #145
Year 0 He dies during lockdown, on his way over to feed the cattle of a sick neighbor. The funeral was rushed and ill-considered, like a battlefield amputation. Two months later, when gatherings are greenlighted again, we decide to hold a memorial service. When we can’t find a decent photo of my notoriously camera-shy father, the event co-ordinator suggests we “highlight a personal item, something to focus on, maybe a favorite mug? His pipe?” Her hair is perfectly coiffed; her suit is immaculate. I become aware that I haven’t slept in two da...
Submitted to Contest #144
In the hot, crowded market at Takapuna, sweat trickling under my arm, I pull out my sleek little Nikon 35Ti. It is the final month of our sabbatical in Auckland. Four-year-old Daniel is leaning toward a tray of baked goodies, small glazed confections slathered with gooey white, dotted with teasing reds, sprinkled with edible glitter. On the first Saturday every month, this vendor comes by with tray after tray of exotic delights—and is sometimes mobbed by people “in the know.” But we are not; this is a spur-of-the-moment occasion. “Look this ...
Submitted to Contest #143
“The trees encountered on a country stroll Reveal a lot about that country’s soul… A culture is no better than its woods.” ― W.H.Auden Katrina and I were strolling down Lake Road, licking the stubs of the tiger-stripe ice cream cones we’d bought at Green’s Grocery. We were surrounded by the flicker and buzz of an idyllic summer day, one of many we spent at the family cottage during summer vacation. The drone of a motor far out on the lake; the rustle of small creatures in the shaded forest we walked beside: we were oblivious to these noise...
Submitted to Contest #142
The world is awash in words, short words and long words, hasty words and well-thought-out words, words that cluster to form books and magazines and all kinds of semi-permanent media. What, then, to read? What teaspoonful to sip at while the tsunami breaks over your head? Behold Conan the Librarian. Conan is ready to recommend what you should read next. He is a librarian par excellence but is most brilliant at recommendations. His spectacles sparkle, his mouth moistens as he matchmakes a reader with what ought to be read. He recommends to an...
Submitted to Contest #141
We walked along the wind-blasted shore, where the scimitar wings of a lone osprey sliced great arcs through the late-winter sky. Syrita was about to drive back to the city. She shoved her hands deep in her pockets, cheeks ruddy from the breeze. “You’ve got Room 201 for the long weekend. No car, no cash, no credit card. No Wi-Fi. Just get the damn thing done. Okay?” I nodded. I felt immeasurable gratitude for her “tough love” approach but between us, it was taboo to say anything sentimental, such as “Thanks for rescuing me, yet again.” During...
Submitted to Contest #140
“I remember the shooting… but even more… I remember the silence once the guns stopped,” Grimsby said. He paused and fixed an eye on his son, Grimsby Junior. “Does this speech sound like a barnburner or what?” The two men were in the side room to the stage, getting ready before the school assembly. Centering his tie knot, Junior grinned at their reflections in the full-length mirror. “Sounds great… go on.” Grimsby adjusted his service ribbon pin, newly transferred that morning from Fred’s old moth-eaten uniform that had hung in the back of th...
Submitted to Contest #139
Today I dropped off three boxes of outgrown clothes: toddlers’ tops and pants; girls’ size-six summer stuff boys’ size-twelve shorts and tee-shirts. Not a tear shed, not a single sigh. My secret, you ask? Arm’s length. All were donations on behalf of my clients to the local Goodwill. I’m a professional packer-upper. My number is posted in the drop-off zones of every school and daycare in the city. Feeling overwhelmed? Your children are in college and you still can’t bear to part with the first communion dress? You need some clothing donati...
Submitted to Contest #138
Pete never knew his dad lived in a palace. Like, a real palace, a magnificent shining palace of opalescent stone within sight of Mount Olympus, a palace with a grand hall that he would have to walk across one day. Luckily he was wearing his Dodgers’ cap and the long bill protected his eyes from the worst of the glare as he made his way inside. A palace attendant came running forward, saying, “Tut-tut, no hats in the presence of His Royal Highness King Helios.” Pete shrugged the attendant away and said, “I’m his long-lost son—Dad won’t mind...
Submitted to Contest #130
I was taking my evening constitutional through a well-kept graveyard when I saw, at a distance, the tombstone bearing my name. The Hamilton marker stood there, gaunt and gray, like a foul-smelling intruder loitering at the edge of a convivial garden party, an intruder keeping an eye on someone who owed an impossible debt. I was already in a somber mood, what with constant news of the pandemic, and my recent heart irregularities, which had led my cardiologist, Brent, to recommend this daily walk. So yes, the tombstone gave me pause. I asked ...
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