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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jun, 2023
Submitted to Contest #260
—Eve—It’s Friday, November 13th and I am on my usual Friday morning hunt for food. Currently, I’m hunched behind a pile of rotting garbage; the scent of spoiled sandwiches and shredded dreams clouds my senses. The only thing grounding me to reality is the ceaseless rumble of my stomach. My hunger was the thing that pulled me from the comfort of sleep; it forced me onto the lonely streets of Blackridge on this hellish Friday morning. A relentless wind tears across the city, hurling itself into overflowing gutters, kicking up the dirt of...
Submitted to Contest #237
**This story briefly mentions suicide and physical abuse. Reader discretion is advised.** The first kiss wasn’t anything special. Just a peck. The next day, he left her—changed schools. They find themselves on Sunday mornings thinking about each other. What happened that afternoon. What they could’ve done. What they could’ve been. She finds herself pacing and thinking about the way he spreads Skippy peanut butter on his favorite sandwich, or the way his eyes glitter when the sun sets, or the way his nose twitches when he’s ...
Submitted to Contest #235
I grew up in a little shack bordering the Windermere village cemetery. My father was a grave-digger. My father was a silent, tall, stocky man. He had a thick beard that stuck out at odd angles and tiny squinty eyes. He always wore a flat cap, brown and dirty with weather and never washed. He wore great big boots that clunked whenever he walked. The children in the village said that he was the Reaper, and that whenever you heard the tell-tale clunk-clunk-clunk of those boots, you were next on his list. When I eavesdropped on other chi...
Submitted to Contest #221
Ghost Blue Mama used to say cemeteries were “hallowed ground.” Not to Elle. To Elle, cemeteries were a sandbox of possibility. When Elle and her sister Ana were kids, they would spend every free moment at the cemetery. They would bolt across Cherry Avenue’s four lanes of traffic, swing themselves over the cast-iron picket fence, and shelter underneath the big oak. Then, as always, Ana would ask the all-important question: “What do you hear?” Elle would close her eyes. Of course, she’d hear the sounds of a bustling New England ...
The room is dark. Black almost. Like a black box theater. Why do you remember what that’s called? It’s shaped like a Rubix cube and you’re inside it. There’s even thin white lines on the black, somewhat glassy walls that separates each wall into a three-by-three grid. Trouble is, you can’t solve this one. You remembered you used to be good at solving puzzles. When you were young (you don’t remember how young) you remember a faint voice over your shoulder. It could’ve been your mom, your dad, your brother, your sister, whatever. Wh...
Submitted to Contest #203
**This story contains descriptions of a traumatic event. Reader discretion is advised.**My toes gripped the edge of the diving board. I shivered as the early morning air rushed past me, daring me to dive in like my friends who stood behind me. I glanced over my shoulder at my four partners in crime, all giggling in anticipation. This was what I got for sticking ice cream down James’ back. I smiled. It was worth it. I was to race my brother, who was five years my senior, down to the bottom of the pool and hold my breath for thirty second...
Submitted to Contest #200
Telephone —2003— Dear Nailah, Do you remember that game Telephone? It was a game we played when we were the height of the kitchen counters we had to leap to look over, when we were children shouting to a world that remained deaf to us—do you remember? Telephone was a game played between you and I and the other four—do you remember? I suppose you might have blocked it out but that’s why I am here to remind you. We would play, whispering it from one ear to the next to the next until the story had been twisted and mi...
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