reedsymarketplace
Assemble a team of professionals
reedsystudio
The writing app for authors
reedsylearning
Writing courses, events and memberships
reedsydiscovery
Get your book reviewed
reedsyprompts
Weekly writing prompts and contests
Writing courses, events and conferences
Upcoming events
Landing Your Literary Agent
November 22, 2026
How to Self-publish a Bestseller in 2026
September 05, 2026
Apostrophes, Dashes and Colons, Oh My!
August 03, 2026
Reading with a Writer's Eye
July 27, 2026
Learn how to succeed as a writer from the best in the business.
Every writer needs a Studio
Check out our writing app for authors!
Menu
More apps built by Reedsy
Author on Reedsy Prompts since Nov, 2025
Weekly Contest #335
I don’t know what I am, exactly. I’m not breathing. I’m not blinking. I’ve never done either. But I know I am… something. Trying to explain it to you would be impossible - your mind isn’t built for what I am right now. I exist outside your categories.Not alive, not dead,You may describe me as “supernatural” - not earthly.I simply am - a presence that has always existed,far beyond the reach of clocks, seasons,or anything you would call time. Just… me. And I have a number.119,595,959,595 I like the sound of it - nineteen-five-nine-five-nine-f...
Weekly Contest #334
The Witch March 12, 1964 The lambs woke me again before the light came up. The smallest one kept crying like it thought someone would answer. I named him Jonah. Bess, the brown cow, chews loudly. I like listening to that. They made a place for me in the barn when I came here. It isn’t really a room, but it has boards and a door that leans the wrong way. The cot is narrow, but it’s a bed. I keep a tin horse Mama gave me on the shelf and a book with the cover torn off. The blanket smells like hay and I don’t mind that. Before this, I lived wit...
Weekly Contest #333
“Let’s EEEAT!” Joey Bites leaned into the camera and tore into a wing like it had personally challenged him. The lights above the table were harsh and white, flattening the colors of the sports bar into something shiny and disposable. Neon signage buzzed behind him. Flatscreens lined the walls, each tuned to a different game no one was watching. The place was called Firebox Wings, a campus-adjacent spot built for volume and turnover. Joey Bites chewed loudly, nodding with exaggerated concentration, eyes half closed as if parsing something sa...
I’m hungry to feel. It’s been exactly one month since Skye died. Gone as quickly as she came into my life. People talk about time stretching after something like this, but mine has stayed rigid, measured in appointments and thank-you notes and the quiet efficiency of days that continue whether I want them to or not. Skye had jet black hair that never stayed neat, no matter how carefully I brushed it. She smiled with her whole body, as if joy were something physical she had to carry. She was small for her age, quick to laugh, slow to sleep, s...
Weekly Contest #332
The calendar hangs crooked by the stove. I lean in to stir the kettle and my eye catches the date: Thursday, January 12, 1888. I don’t give it much thought. The fire’s going, the house is warm enough, and through the window the morning looks plain and still. A few light flurries drift down, the kind we’ve had off and on all winter, the air calm and quiet. Thomas stands where I tell him to, nine years old and already serious about it, while I button his coat clear up to his chin. Henry won’t keep still. He’s six and full of motion, hopping fr...
I wake up before the alarm, 4:27 glowing on the clock. Three minutes to spare. Linda’s still asleep, curled toward my side like always, so I slide out of bed slow so I don’t wake her. The floor’s cold on my feet, but that’s nothing new for a storm morning. I stand up and my knees remind me I’m not a kid anymore, just a little stiffness to work through. I head toward the window and look out at Fairview Ave.—the snow’s just starting, and the salt trucks are already moving. They say we’re getting a historic blizzard today, supposed to rival the...
Weekly Contest #331
Michael Thomas woke to the sound of a single knock at the front door. The wind outside howled along the siding, rattling the gutters as snow hammered the windows in frantic bursts. For a moment he thought the storm had made the noise, but then it came again—soft and deliberate. He reached for his phone on the nightstand.11:59 p.m. His wife slept beside him. His infant son breathed steadily in the bassinet at the foot of the bed. Michael blinked into the dark, letting the sound settle into him. A knock at this hour made no sense. He eased him...
I remember the snowfall before I remember him. November 1st, 2003 — just three days earlier it had been seventy-four degrees and sunny. But that morning, a thin veil of early-season flurries brushed over a deserted Lavalette beach, the flakes melting as soon as they touched the sand. Nico always remembered everything. The first restaurant, the first movie — even the name of the Paris cab driver who sang to us on the way to that tiny hostel on our first trip to Europe.Every beginning stayed with him. But the moment etched deeper in me than an...
The oil tank is leaking — I know it is. I jolt upright, chest cinched so tight I wonder if this is a heart attack, if this is the moment I die while that rusted coffin under the ice bleeds poison toward my girls’ rooms. But there’s no time to die — not tonight. I have to get out there. I have to stop it before the fumes seep up through the ground and take everything I love with them. I go to grab my robe, a hat, gloves—my hands shaking so badly I drop them twice. My scarf is missing; of course it’s missing when I actually need it. So I yank ...
The house always looks its prettiest in winter. Even now, with the power out and the storm pressing hard against the windows, our Vermont getaway glows in that soft, amber way only firelight can manage. The stone fireplace breathes heat into the room, flames lifting and falling like they’re tired of fighting the cold. Two mugs sit on the coffee table, both mine: one half-finished hot cocoa and next to it, a glass of red wine that’s been warming between my hands all night. Outside, the storm has swallowed the world. Snow falls in heavy sheets...
Weekly Contest #330
I wake before the sun. Not out of discipline. The woods simply don’t allow you to sleep late. The birds start first — the jittery ones with wings like flicked paper — then the wind follows, slipping through the pines in long, steady breaths. The forest stretches awake, and my body wakes with it, stiff in all the places age has claimed. For a moment I lie still in my nest of branches, letting the world settle into focus. Twenty years I’ve slept in this tree, ten feet off the ground in a cradle I wove myself. I climb down, careful on the last...
Farvel.Thick acrylic, sky blue, two coats. I paint the V first — one downward stroke, then the angled return. The bristles leave faint ridges that level out as the paint settles. When the surface smooths, I attach the sign to its pole, snap the locking tab into place, and wheel it to the staging area behind the ride’s exit corridor. Au revoir.Gold script on lavender. I line the curves of each letter with a tapered brush, refilling only when the color thins. The dot above the i lands perfectly round. I set the piece under the heat lamp, rotat...
Weekly Contest #329
My name—at least the one used by the few who still speak to me—is Fred. But my true name is Nikos.I am, by my best estimate, roughly 2,500 years old. I won’t subject you to an exhaustive chronicle of my existence. Immortality, as people imagine it, is far less glamorous when lived in real time. Suffice to say my story contains what you would expect: violence and beauty in equal measure, indulgence and restraint, long stretches of wandering, and brief, piercing intervals of love. I’ve stood in the courts of kings, in the mud of battlefields, ...
In a weathered house on a quiet street,Where roses climb and floorboards creak,The kettle sings, the clock hands glide,And time drifts gently, side by side. Jack and Bea have made it home,Where their story took root and children roamed.Now what remains, through days grown long,Is love that lasts, true and strong. Jack is stubborn, slow, set in his ways,Grumpy and regimented in his days.He reads of war, great battles won,Then watches the news till day is done. Bea is sweetness, quick, sharp, and bright,With kindness fierce and wit just right....
“Time to get up!” the little boy cheered,Early on a Sunday.“Let’s go, Daddy—Let’s go outside and play!” He hopped upon his parents’ bedWith carefree leaps and bounds.Then bounced upon his daddy’s belly,Letting out “boing, boing” sounds. “Five more minutes,” said the father,As under the blankets he huddled.“But before we start our day, my boy—Come here. We must cuddle!” After their hugs,They went out back,Picked up their trusty mittsAnd a brand-new baseball pack. “Alright,” said the father,“Here comes pitch number one—My famous fastball.Bet...
Oops, you need an account for that!
Log in with your social account:
Or enter your email:
8 likes
