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Ginny Brown

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Mar, 2026

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4 Stories

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Beneath the Leaning Porch

Beneath the Leaning Porch The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the air still lingered as it can only linger in the South—heavy, warm, and unwilling to move. The smell after a rain was nearly impossible to describe to anyone who had never experienced it: wet earth, river mud, pine, and something ancient rising from beneath the roots.Tolley stood at the river’s edge, watching the current carry pieces of her heart toward the sea.Behind her, the old house waited beneath the live oaks. Its porch leaned slightly east, as though it had spent a cen...

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The Hour Before Rain

Weekly Contest #363

The storm did not arrive all at once. It gathered itself offshore for days, pulling the tide farther from the marsh than anyone could remember. Oyster beds lay exposed beneath a bruised sky, and old men stood at the landing with folded arms, measuring the wind instead of the forecast. They knew better than to trust what floated on the surface.By evening the first rain came sideways. Spanish moss whipped against live oaks like gray flags surrendering to something older than memory. The creek rose without hurry. Water here never rushed. It sim...

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What the River Leaves Behind

Weekly Contest #354

In the quiet Lowcountry of South Carolina, where tea-dark rivers wind beneath moss-draped oaks and memory lingers like humidity in the air, one woman begins to understand that survival is not the same as living. For more than thirty years, she has worked inside courtrooms and legal offices, witnessing the fragile intersection of justice, grief, and human resilience. She has spent a lifetime helping others navigate crisis while quietly carrying the weight of her own disappointments—unfulfilled love, systems that failed the vulnerable, and the...

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The Myth That Held

The ink didn’t rest on the surface; this time, it bled through, sinking into the fibers like a rising tide swallowing the reeds along the shore. I looked back at the shape in the water. It wasn’t a face. Not exactly. Just a shifting mass of shadow and silt, gathering itself into something that resembled me, though not kindly. Every lie I had polished for the courtroom. Every “inconclusive” I had used to shield a client from the weight of truth. They were all there, etched into the current. The water didn’t reflect me. It recorded me. And ben...

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