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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Sep, 2023
Submitted to Contest #333
CAYLEE STANDS ALONE in the kitchen, the overhead light humming softly as water boils on the stove. The smell hits her first, garlic blooming in warm oil, familiar, deepening as she stirs. Cajun shrimp pasta. Andouille sausage. Chicken. A dish she knows by heart now, even if it never quite tastes the way she remembers.She slices the sausage carefully, evenly, the knife tapping the cutting board in a steady rhythm. Her hands move with confidence. Her thoughts don’t. They drift, as they always do, back to him.Her father used to cut the sausage ...
Submitted to Contest #278
Blood dripped from the massage table, pooling on the polished floor, tracing grooves in the wood. I stood in the doorway, taking it all in—the slick trail down Timothy Cooper’s arm, the gash across his throat, the dull glaze in his lifeless eyes. The copper tang of blood filled my nose, heavy and clinging to my senses. In the corner, Mai sat huddled, trembling. Blood smeared her hands and face, streaked her clothes. It wasn’t hers—I knew that much. She stared at the floor like she didn’t dare lift her head. Next to her, Ms. Lou, the Madame o...
Content Warning: This story contains themes of family conflict, trauma, betrayal, and self-harm, which may be distressing to some readers. “I didn’t kill him, but I handed him the gun,” my father told me. He was on hospice, on his last stretch of breath, and he had just revealed to me a deep, dark secret. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I asked, my voice steady, though my thoughts churned in shock. The room felt suffocating, as though the very air carried the weight of his words. Shadows clung to the corners, the single lamp on the bedside ...
Submitted to Contest #218
By 5:30 p.m. Earl had an audience of four gathered around him as he played Killing Me Softly on the harmonica. There was an older black couple, a young skater boy, and a sizzling brunette woman all hovering over Earl. The black couple (had to be in their thirties) swayed side to side to the tune, the young skater boy (sporting dirty dreadlocks, smelling awfully loud with the aroma of ganja) drummed his hands on his chest and hummed the words to the chorus as Earl played on: “Strumming my pain with his fingers…singing my life with his words...
Submitted to Contest #217
The room is dark, and I am in heaven. I am lying on my belly on a cozy leather couch, Terry’s knees folded on either side of me as she sits on my back, massaging hot oil into my flesh. I lied to her today. I told her I was terribly ill so that she would finally see me face-to-face. Terry is such a compassionate woman, and I knew that she couldn’t say no to that. There was, however, one condition: I had to come to her, on her terms—though the terms did include a homemade broccol...
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