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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jun, 2021
TW: emotional and physical abuse "Are you gonna love me?" My voice little more than a squeak, "We haven't been intimate in some time, I..." "What? Is it this you want?" He jumped up, grabbing my hair, not in the good way, and spun me around. "Here," he ripped open his fly just enough and tore up my skirts. "Shhhh... No! Plea...se! The kids!" My whisper was strained. In ten quick movements the deed was done, "There are you happy now? He threw me down, his face contorted in disgust, and puffing his chest like one of those rufflin...
Submitted to Contest #101
"Get me the minutes of the minute minute, I mean the exact time he spoke the words, 'Out of the belly, and into the abyss.'" He needed no gavel to pound, the podium shook as he landed his fist heavy on the corner, "I want a time-stamped, agenda record of his statement in writing." I preferred the Spui, with all its cobblestones and bungalow architecture known for its seductive intelligence in design and charm. Spui, larger than life, compared to its more famous cousin Amsterdam, which counterintuitively, was more heady than The Netherland'...
"Get me the minutes of the minute minute, I mean the exact time he spoke the words, 'Out of the belly, and into the abyss.'" He needed no gavel to pound, the podium shook as he landed his fist heavy on the corner, "I want a time-stamped, agenda record of his statement in writing."I preferred the Spui, with all its cobblestones and bungalow architecture known for its seductive intelligence in design and charm.Spui, larger than life, compared to its more famous cousin Amsterdam, which counterintuitively, was more heady than The Netherland's in...
Submitted to Contest #100
"I'm full! Really!" I stopped on the boardwalk, my arms heavy with leftovers. A thermos with left over chicken noodle, not the good kind, and somewhere underneath the activewear jacket hung over from my mother's era, the straps of a Walmart salad bag, contents now slightly wilted, twisted around the two smallest fingers of my left hand, a local roaster's day-old espresso with a white layer bloom like chocolate gets when it sees moisture. And notebooks. Five or six notebooks with bits and bytes of data, some strains of old songs, right brain-...
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