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Author on Reedsy Prompts since May, 2025
Submitted to Contest #317
Warning: You are about to be dropped into the middle of the sea. When I was a keiki, Papa taught me to hear the dead. He led me to the lanai, where olapa leaves whispered, bamboo knocked like drums in the wind, and birds sang as if the forest made mele just for us.My bare feet stuck to hot boards, splinters biting my toes. Flies buzzed over bruised mangos down in the yard, where earth was a kapakahi of color—gold goop mashed into red dirt, the air thick with sweet rot.Papa, midnight hair woven down to his calves, tilted his chin to the tree...
Shortlisted for Contest #316 ⭐️
I’m a last-pickin’s, catfaced tomato kind of girl. Not pretty, barely fit for the skillet. Still, I agreed to meet him.My stomach growls as I stare through the glass. Past the garden, plum hills and bruised, mulberry skies are sweet enough to ease my nerves—but don’t.A gecko scurries over the cracked sill paint, claws ticking like the wall clock. Thirty minutes till supper in town. I’ll finally see him. And he’ll see me, bare, no filters.Was just last week she first said his name. “He’s lookin’ for a wife,” Granny said, after she got back fr...
Winner of Contest #313 🏆
Content warning: This story includes themes of grief and the death of a child. “Are you there, God? It’s me. Help me break her heart today. And can you bring back the sun?”But the clouds burst. I breathe in earth and taste mineral tang, wet wind whipping my face. I should’ve known not to come—should’ve stopped when the steeple down the road knifed dark clouds. But she begged, and I couldn't refuse. Not today.I fumble with an umbrella before the wind yanks it, tossing it against the monkey bars. I leap from the bench. Bigger kids shriek and r...
Winner of Contest #308 🏆
Content warning: brief mentions of child abuse and domestic violence. I can’t tell if the yowling’s for the dead or the heat. It’s cicada hiss and lawn mower growl hot—so hot, it’s disrespectful. But as Dad shovels dirt over Papa, I’m cold. I can't cry, and it feels like sin.“It's alright to grieve,” Aunt June whispers. “Ain't no shame in it.”She fans herself with a program as tears drip below her sunglasses. She means it's shameful not to cry, especially for your own. But I can't put on grief like wide-brimmed hats and pearls and black dres...
Shortlisted for Contest #304 ⭐️
Content warning: Contains themes of pregnancy loss and griefSunbeams turned floating flour into glitter—too pretty for the mess I’d made. My fingers twisted through sticky dough, a ball of goop on the counter. Outside, mina birds chirped. The sea sighed against the sand across the street, breeze heavy with salt and sweet plumeria. I breathed it in like it might help.But the birds didn’t care. The sea didn’t care. They carried on, like the world hadn’t burned down.Mine had.BEEP.The pre-heated oven broke my thoughts. And so did a smack on my b...
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