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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jan, 2020
Submitted to Contest #187
‘I just feel bad they don’t have proper hands and fingers, you know?’ ‘Mmm,’ my husband responded. He and I were lying on our couch watching our six-month old kittens bat around the cap from a carton of milk. All around them was a junkyard of sorts of the toys we had bought them over the past three months since first adopting them—spotted and striped plush mice, multicolored feathers, things that spun, things that spit out water, things that squeaked and rolled and jumped. Instead, they leapt for wrappers. They sprung for ribbons and...
Submitted to Contest #138
I wake to the sound of running water. Jamie—showering. The bathroom door is open just a crack. Although I’m in the bedroom and not with him in the bathroom, I can imagine the eucalyptus scent of soap, warm, thick steam fogging up the mirror, the pebbled floor of the shower under Jamie’s feet. I turn over in bed to face the windows. The hair on the back of my neck prickles as the sheer white curtains flap and ruffle in the breeze. I feel as though we’ve been here forever, yet it’s only day two of our honeymoon. My toe suddenly stings under th...
Submitted to Contest #55
Fran was a sleepwalker. She hadn’t always been a sleepwalker. She seemed to have developed it out of necessity the way we developed thumbs and the ability to speak once upon a time. A sleepwalking Fran was scarier than a drunk Pete. Pete, her first husband, grew tired of slapping her around, of throwing beer bottles and fifths at her head only for her to stand catatonic, her eyes glowing green like the beams from an alien spacecraft. He dodged her lasers and left her alone and she no longer woke with bruises and cuts and broken limbs. She ne...
Submitted to Contest #47
You join the crowd gathering near the front of the visitor center. The tour guide is talking, waving his hands wildly, but you can’t make out what he’s saying because of the loud wind roaring on all sides of the group. You turn to the person standing next to you. It is the young couple on their honeymoon. You ask what is going on. They say someone from the tour group is missing. You nod your head in understanding. You think it’s probably the older couple from Taiwan. They are always late, shuffling slowly to the bus minutes after the agreed-...
Submitted to Contest #38
I had just gotten off the phone with my manager. I was being laid off. It was my third job in less than a year. I dropped two ice cubes into a glass and poured myself chardonnay to the brim. I sipped until it was no longer on the brink of overflowing and took it outside onto my balcony. I dragged the second chair closer to the table and propped my feet on it. I closed my eyes, leaning my head back. It wasn’t very nice out; a leftover chill still clung to the air from the just passing winter. I’d lost three jobs and a boyfriend in the past ye...
Submitted to Contest #34
“I bought a game,” dad says. We’re all sitting in mom and dad’s den. The fireplace roars in front of us, striping our faces in an orange glow. I stare into my brother’s eyes and trace the path inside his pupil to where the mirrored image of the fireplace crackles and burns. He stares back at me and takes a sip of his drink—whiskey, dry, just like dad likes his. I give mom a look who sits on the recliner across the room like a small raisin, her feet tucked under her legs trying to warm them. She raises her shoulders up and lets them drop back...
Submitted to Contest #30
She lived at the top of Toucan Hill in a mini mansion. The front entrance was designed with bushes in intricate swirls and a small fountain made of fish spouting curls of water. Quinn walked up the porch and rang the bell. Mrs. Goodwin answered in a long black silk robe which reached the floor. She hugged Quinn, purring Quinn’s name into her neck, sooo good to see you. The house was freezing. Mrs. Goodwin walked ahead of Quinn, her robe traipsing the floor, floating behind her. They passed the curved staircase adorned in a long red carpet, a...
Winner of Contest #24 🏆
“I can’t believe you live here.” “I know,” Sylvia says. She smiles and steps aside for me to drag my suitcase through the entrance hall. “There’s ivy trellises for chrissakes. Ivy trellises.” “I’m glad you like it.” We sit on her loveseat in the foyer. It is afternoon, and the sun is starting to wane and drip shade on the room. I take a sip of the earl grey tea she delivers on a worn gold platter. Her tea set is pretty, scalloped and covered in tiny, blood-red flowers. I rub my sweating hands on the velvet fabric of the sofa, hoping it...
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