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Ferralye Dube'

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jan, 2025

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12 Stories

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Dear Diary

October 17thDear Diary,Okay, so NO ONE is going to believe this. Like, seriously. I’m writing this down because, like, I need proof that it actually happened or else I’m going to think I dreamt the whole thing, which would be the WORST. Today… today was INSANE. In the best way possible, obviously. But also in the way where I think I might have actual sweat tears from stress.So, it’s the day before my wedding. THE wedding. To Liam. Liam! Can you even believe it? I’m going to be Mrs. Gallagher. It sounds so grown up. Too grown up, maybe? My st...

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Broken Reality

I guess I should start at the beginning. My name is Farrah. My math teacher, Mrs. Bennett, was blabbing on and on about the angle of depression and lighthouses and whatnot. I have no clue what she was talking about and I’m not trying to remember. What I am trying to remember is what exactly happened afterwards. From my memory, I saw Bitsy Hadley’s hand shoot from the crowd of heads and shuffling feet to answer the question. Then, she stopped. Matter of a fact, everybody stopped. Heads stopped humming, hair stopped brushing, feet stopped ta...

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The Yearning

The ache in Elias’s chest wasn’t a sharp, sudden pain, but a low, persistent thrum. It was the kind of ache that settled in your bones, the kind that music couldn’t banish and sleep only temporarily dulled. He was searching for it, he knew, this elusive thing that felt like a missing melody in his life. He didn’t have a name for it, not precisely, but he felt its absence in the quiet hours of the morning, in the way sunlight slanted through the dusty windows of his workshop, in the hollow echo of his own footsteps on the cobblestones.His wor...

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Elara's Yearning

Elara traced the condensation ring on the polished mahogany of the cafe table, a silent testament to a forgotten latte. The murmur of conversation around her – laughter like tinkling bells, hushed confessions, the clatter of ceramic – was a foreign symphony she could never quite conduct. Her own voice, when she used it, felt like a clumsy instrument, out of tune with the easy rhythm of others.She yearned for a certain weight, a certain warmth that she’d only ever glimpsed in the periphery of her life, like sunlight through a dusty windowpane...

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The Grandfather Clock

The scent of aged paper and forgotten ink was Elias Thorne’s sanctuary. His study, a cramped room overflowing with books, felt less like a space and more like a living entity, breathing tales of centuries past. Sunlight, when it managed to pierce the dusty panes, illuminated floating motes, each one a silent testament to the passage of time. Elias, a man whose own hair mirrored the silver streaks of his beloved tomes, found solace here. He was a historian, a collector, a man who’d dedicated his life to preserving the faintest whispers of his...

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Bartholomew's Idea

The hum of the fluorescent lights in Bartholomew’s attic was a dull thrum against the frantic beating of his heart. Outside, a cacophony of screams, cackles, and the occasional distant “trick or treat!” announced the arrival of Halloween. Inside, Bartholomew was engaged in a far more personal, and arguably more terrifying, battle.He was wrestling with a giant, shimmering, iridescent fabric. It was meant to be wings. Glorious, magnificent, dragonfly wings. The problem was, the wire framing seemed to have developed a mind of its own, contortin...

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Lonely Heart

The air in the grand ballroom shimmered with the effervescence of champagne and a thousand whispered secrets. Laughter, bright and unrestrained, cascaded from a cluster of guests near the ice sculpture, a majestic swan carved with impossible detail. At its heart, two figures were locked in a particularly boisterous exchange. Lady Anya, her emerald gown a cascade of silk, was leaning into Lord Harrington, her hand aflutter near his chin, a playful glint in her blue eyes. Harrington, a man known more for his stern pronouncements than his mirth...

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The Elm Street House

The old house loomed at the end of Elm Street, a skeletal silhouette against the bruised twilight sky. Its paint, once a cheerful buttercup yellow, had peeled and cracked like sun-scorched skin, revealing a patchwork of weathered grey beneath. Windows, like vacant eyes, stared out from beneath heavy, drooping eaves, some boarded, others gaping black holes into the interior. Locals whispered it had been empty for decades, ever since the incident. No one spoke of the incident directly, not anymore, but everyone knew its shadow.Sarah had inheri...

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Oakhaven Village

The village of Oakhaven clung to the side of a restless mountain, its houses built of sturdy, grey stone that seemed to absorb the perpetual mist. Life in Oakhaven was dictated by the mountain, a silent, hulking entity that provided sustenance and often, a stark reminder of its power. For generations, the villagers had practiced the Ritual of the Offering, a tradition steeped in reverence and, to outsiders, a chilling display of appeasement.Elara, with her bright, curious eyes and hands that preferred the gentleness of weaving to the rough w...

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Arthur Penhaligon

Arthur Penhaligon considered himself a connoisseur of human interaction. He’d spent years observing, analyzing, and cataloging the subtle dances of conversation, the unspoken agreements, the intricate tapestry of gestures and expressions that painted the true meaning behind spoken words. The problem, a fact he remained blissfully, infuriatingly unaware of, was that Arthur’s interpretation of this tapestry was akin to a blind man trying to appreciate a stained-glass window. He saw only smudges and abstract shapes, mistaking vibrant hues for m...

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The Curious Quill

The scent of rain, thick and earthy, clung to Elara’s wool coat as she pushed open the door to ‘The Curious Quill’. It was a smell that usually comforted her, a herald of quiet afternoons spent with worn pages and steaming mugs. But tonight, the rain was a harbinger of a different kind of storm, one brewing within the cozy confines of her antique bookstore.“Elara, darling, you’re late,” a voice chirped, laced with an artificial sweetness that made Elara’s teeth ache. It was Beatrice, her lifelong rival, perched on a stool behind the counter,...

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The Whiskered Chronicles of Obsidian

The hearth crackled with a lazy, contented warmth, the sort that seeped into your bones and whispered of ancient secrets. From my perch on the worn velvet cushion, a throne of sorts, I watched Elara stir her cauldron. The air was thick with the scent of dried herbs, something sharp and citrusy, and the faint, almost imperceptible metallic tang of her magic. My tail, a plume of midnight black, gave a slow, luxurious sweep across the flagstone floor. It was a good day to be a familiar.My name is Obsidian, though Elara rarely uses it, preferrin...

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