Menu

More apps built by Reedsy

Assemble a team of professionals

The writing app for authors

Writing courses, events and memberships

Get your book reviewed

Weekly writing prompts and contests

Menu
Prompts
Contests
Stories
Blog

Hazen D

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Sep, 2019

Stories
Comments
Library
114 Followers
61 Following

19 Stories

239 karma pts

?

Rewired

Write a story from the POV of a witch, corpse, or supernatural creature. A deep, cold darkness hugged my body. My bones stiff and sore. The smell of fresh soil, and soaked oak filled my nostrils. I’ve been planted again. It was not the first time I’d been a corpse. For as long as I could remember, I found myself in this endless cycle — death, life, death, life. I am fairly certain it had to do with a certain woman who was accused of witchcraft that I was interested in courting during the thirteenth century — I was on my way to see her when I...

3 likes 0 comments 0
Read story

Ripened

Aubrey grew up on a farm, much like the other folks who lived in the area of Maine known as “the county”. School days off for the potato harvest, she could drive any tractor she was placed on, but her favorite was the red and cream colored Ford 8N. On occasion, she would take the vehicle to school, and put it right next to the bikes, ATVs, and horses the kids kept outside. School was school; bland and boring. Math classes with a woman who strongly resembled a stereotypical witch — crooked nose, dead eyes, a sickly smile, long creeping finger...

2 likes 0 comments 0
Read story

Cellophane

Weekly Contest #374

Sensitive Content: Mental Health, Thoughts of Self-harm, and Violence/Death. This story has three possible endings. My soul had been bruised that day. Depressed. Downtrodden. Damp. A nor’easter had soaked me to the bone with the help of late September winds. Enveloped in an icy jacket; stepping through the door to my apartment, water continued to drip. Droplets falling from my long hair, it burned my eyes as the gel I’d used that morning slid into the corners of my sockets. My fingers had wrinkled, and my shirt clung to my chest. I sat on ...

7 likes 2 comments 2
Read story

Curios

Eight months had passed since Robin had lost Malcolm. Eight months since she had seen him dragged back into a grave — his grave. Robin knew not how he had returned to the living, but she was determined to have her man back. The grave read: “Malcolm Wood Loving Husband Killed by Grady Gang 1902 - 1935” Her belly had grown much in the eight months, due for June 24th. A baby was on the way — the last gift Mal had given. Robin was still trying to work. A third-trimester dance instructor doesn’t have the same level of balance, and stamina needed...

0 likes 0 comments 0
Read story

Memento Mori

Sensitive themes: Death and Innuendo. Malcolm Wood and Robin Cousteau held hands as they walked from work that night. October sky burned orange for them as the sun set; the world made ochre. Dead leaves were strewn about the graveyard they cut through on their way home. The two would find the crunchiest deceased foliage, and compete to see who made the most satisfying sound with a stomp or step. Mal had been forced to stay late that night. He worked for the local bank, and had a loan meeting with a business owner. Robin had got off early; s...

3 likes 0 comments 0
Read story

Bayside Caretaker

The Bayside Inn was nestled between craggy coastal boulders, and while Ed tried to get seeds to grow, the salty sledge kept things like most of the island: dead. Ed had been living in Portland, Maine most of his life. Raised by one government official and one dentist, he lived in the burbs. Five cars in the drive for just three people, Ed had the privilege of wealth. He had full intentions of becoming a Maine Guide — a fairly prestigious title. According to the most folks, Maine Guides have one of the hardest and most rigorous testing progra...

2 likes 0 comments 0
Read story

Keys and Polaroids

Giuseppe went by Gus, and Gus was dead. He was on the last job of his life, freezing in an icy car, waiting for his client to appear. It was wintertime in Chicago, and Gus was blasting the heat. As the sun set from his view, over the edge of a five-story car park, he drifted to sleep. A bundled-up, shivering stranger happened to walk by, pausing for a moment to make sure that whoever was in the car was safe. “Holy shit,” he whispered to himself, “The Taxi Man.” He recognized the grizzled, spectacled face of Giuseppe Galanti. If he killed Gal...

3 likes 0 comments 0
Read story

Matches

Weekly Contest #367

Henry fingered the smooth ivory handle of his pistol. There was dust and grit in his teeth, his graying black hair slicked back from tinned grease, breath smelling of both coffee and whiskey. “Damn it Boot, I’m sorry,” cried the man who lay before him. One of Alfred Joubert’s cronies, a dumb one, had the poor sense to break into the house of Leo and Jane, during which he shot and killed Henry’s brother and sister-in-law. Leo was, as always, a little slow on the draw, and Henry came home to find his family swarming with flies, rotting in thei...

11 likes 3 comments 3
Read story

I Would For You

Weekly Contest #357

Isak was named after the pseudonym of a Danish author, Karen Blixen. He was an Art History adjunct professor in Boston, managing his time between Harvard, Boston University, and other schools. Isak was approximately six foot, with a mop of tousled, mousy brown hair. The look he had was that of a classic scholar, glasses, five o’clock shadow, and bags under his eyes from a lack of caffeine. He had a collection of tiny scars - from a car crash - miring his face which only seemed to give him the air of a swashbuckler, he hated them. Isak was fi...

13 likes 2 comments 2
Read story

Before the Dawn

Sensitive Theme: Animal Death, Sexual Innuendo, Profanity The eve of battle invades the senses. Stink of horse droppings, and the rank aroma of urine steams wafting off the morning or night grasses. The steeds seem to feel it somehow, they’re anxious for the charge. The crash of steel on steel. A pungent stench of melted flesh lingered in the nostrils when some far off creature was branded. The taste of sweet fat as what had rendered was spooned over a chop. Buttery and oily it spilled down warriors' beards and the scars of their cheeks. Al...

6 likes 0 comments 0
Read story

Finality

Weekly Contest #344

CW: Physical violence, gore or abuse; Sexual violence The first time was the easiest - painless. We had no idea what was coming. I was walking my dog, a beautiful Australian shepherd, blue heeler mix. His name was Alexander, after the emperor, but I called him Ally. I made boats for the war effort and we spent much of our time at the water's edge. He and I were strolling along the fishy harbor of Halifax. I was nearing thirty, and Ally to thirteen. His whiskers had long since turned grey, and his back legs occasionally slipped out from unde...

10 likes 3 comments 3
Read story

The Scrape

Marc could feel the presence behind him. Something peering out at him from the trees. He figured the invisible eyes belonged to a game warden, or other fisherman looking to horn in on his spot. He was used to this sort of thing. Marc had been fishing most of his life, he was primarily a ‘city-slinger’, fishing in polluted waters that ran behind old factories, streams that were filled with shopping carts and rusting cans surrounded by the torn worn tents of the homeless. He had been accosted on more than one occasion by druggies looking to ma...

2 likes 1 comment 1
Read story

Four Witness Four

It was fall when I passed and Christmas when they found me. My legs had been wrapped under a blanket and the cold of the north kept me from rotting too much in that time. I died alone. Sitting on my porch in an Adirondack chair, book pressed against my chest as I took the long nap. The porch was attached to one of the original houses of the town. Built in the 1830’s, I learned about the previous tenants upon my death. When I moved onto the middle world, limbo, whatever you want to call it, I was joining the litany of other souls who had died...

1 like 0 comments 0
Read story

Bugs and Bogs

Weekly Contest #324

Harrison stabbed his paddle into the dead water of the little stream, weeds and detritus clung to the ancient stick. He had dragged the Old Town canoe through the woods and launched into the overgrown, and unmanicured body of water. Morning was thick with a soupy fog that drifted down from the tops of the spruce trees which had disappeared from view. The corridor of the banks was lined with raspberry bushes, and reeds turned brown by the drought that had plagued New England for well over a month. Bugs were atrocious. Harrison wore a caramel ...

9 likes 2 comments 2
Read story

Riverside Breaks

Maria had dragged herself through the river six times throughout the day. The current, gentle once the dam had changed the water level, pressed against the backs of her knees. The boots of her waders slipped and skived along the algae covered stones. The river was notorious for taking things. Stealing paddles from canoeists, unfastened life-jackets, fishing rods, items various and sundry. Maria reached into the water to clutch at another artifact - this one was the underside of a boat. There was a seventeen by three inch curved piece of fibe...

1 like 0 comments 0
Read story