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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Aug, 2019
Submitted to Contest #325
As mental institutions go, the Highgate Psychiatric Clinic is one of the nicer ones. The hallways are clean and brightly lit, the walls painted a soothing beige. The air is warm and dry, smelling ever so faintly of antiseptic cleaner. Only the thick rubber coating every protruding corner and the heavy metal doors with their wired-glass windows give a hint of what the place is.That and the noise, a low-level murmur of constant sound that seems to be equal parts rhythmic pounding, muted screams, and sobbing.Thankfully, I don’t spend much time ...
Submitted to Contest #319
I’ve told this story so many times. I could recite it in my sleep. Sometimes I do. Reliving the moment I lost everything I held dear. The moment I lost more than I realized.The moment I met the monster.I’m sitting in the green room, waiting for my cue to take the stage. I’m alone, the makeup specialist and sound technician finished with me. I’ve studied the cue cards and rehearsed what I’m going to say. I grip my hands together to keep them from shaking, try to slow my breathing. It’s another talk show, another interview. My first in a whil...
Submitted to Contest #315
I take a deep breath, smoothing the lapels of my tux and running a hand over my hair. The sensations still feel off, like I’m experiencing each a microsecond after it happens.Part of it is due to the Transfer, neural lag as my restored consciousness acclimates to fresh nerves. And part of it is purely psychological.After all, I’m still getting used to being alive again.Nerves settled, I push open the double doors and stride into the cavernous room beyond. A swell of noise greets me, cheers and applause from the crowd waiting there, rattling ...
Submitted to Contest #310
I sit at my desk, staring at my computer. Sweat beads on my brow. My hands tremble. On the screen is the last story I wrote about Detective John Harden, a character I created. That’s important because he’s standing behind me, a gun in his hand.“Go on,” he says, his deep, gravelly voice low and compelling. “Do it.”I lick my lips, swallow. Surprisingly, being held at gunpoint isn’t conducive to my creative flow. “I’m not sure how…”“Try.” He grates out the word past clenched teeth.I am trying. Hard. “Look, I’m sorry, but I didn’t know—”“I don’t...
Submitted to Contest #307
“Well, by that point, I was starving, filthy, and exhausted. But I’d done what I set out to do; I’d made the greatest discovery of my career.”“I see.” I take a sip from my glass of fine port and lean back into the comfortable embrace of my soft leather wing chair. “Absolutely fascinating, my friend. Sounds like you had quite a thrilling time of it.”“You can say that again.” My colleague, Dr. Arnold Mason, shudders, a far-away look in his eyes. He’s the very picture of an archaeologist: tall, leanly muscular, sun-bleached hair, sporting a tan...
Submitted to Contest #303
I’ve always known I’m a superhero. I’ve just wondered what kind of hero I am.“How could you do this?” I ask, facing someone I’ve known my whole life. Someone I guess I never really knew.“Because I was the only one who could,” he says, sighing the words. “The only way I could give you what you want.”“You think I wanted this?” I gesture at our surroundings, the motion encompassing so much more than what we can see.Because what we can see is bad enough. This used to be part of the City, a place where people made homes and ran businesses, a plac...
Submitted to Contest #299
“All right, kids,” I say, holding the pen upright with two fingers. “Watch the pen very closely.” As I wave my other hand around in vague circles, I steal a glance at my audience, and suppress a sigh of disappointment.Twenty or so kids, all of them somewhere around seven or eight years old, sit in folding chairs arranged before me. Here and there, a small face is pointed my way, an expression of rapt attention, verging on wonder, gracing their features. Most of them, however, clearly couldn’t care less. They slump in boredom, shift and fidge...
Submitted to Contest #293
I’m sitting in my office, carefully reviewing my notes for my next session. The room around me is dark, so dark that everything is just a vague hint of itself. Just the way I like it. It’s the perfect place to reflect and ponder, to look within oneself and meet the gaze of whatever stares back at you.I find this is very calming, which is most important for my patients, all of whom tend to be a bit on the high-strung side. Especially my next one.Even as I pour over the pages on the desk before me, I keep half an eye on the clock hanging on th...
Submitted to Contest #290
Sometimes I hate this world. Hate my job. My life. Hate everything.But that’s all right. Hate is allowed.Love, however, is forbidden. Love is the enemy.Without love, though, I wouldn’t have a purpose. I work for a government agency, tracking down Lovers. People who can’t control themselves. Can’t stop loving. I’d like to say we arrest them, give them a fair trial, patiently reeducate them to see the error of their ways. But mostly that doesn’t work, so we just hunt them down and kill them.You see, Lovers are sick, and love is the disease. Ea...
Submitted to Contest #286
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I could just forget her.I know, that might sound like a terrible thing, but right now I feel like that would be easier to bear. If she just disappeared from my memory as completely as she disappeared from my life. Like I could close my eyes and then open them again and it would be as if I never knew her. You see, I buried Leah, my wife of forty-four years, this morning, but she’s still all around me.It’s the books.They’re everywhere. Bookcases stand in every room, against the walls or in the corners, every shel...
Submitted to Contest #281
My first memory is of being wrapped.It’s understandable, I suppose. I mean, I am a Christmas present, after all.I know what you’re thinking: How can a present remember anything? Or have any knowledge of what’s going on around it?Good questions. Maybe it’s something about the idea, the notion, the concept of a gift. Maybe it’s simply the act of giving, the charity and generosity of spirit, that endows a gift with a certain… awareness of itself and its place, its purpose in the world.Or maybe it’s just that I’m a weird gift. Who knows? Let’s m...
Submitted to Contest #277
The guard leading me into the room gives a hard yank on the chain. Pain lances through my neck, and I snarl, baring my impressive fangs for full effect. He shies away, naked fear on his face, before remembering which of us is supposed to be the prisoner.“Watch it, mutt, or you’ll be drinking out of the toilet through a wired jaw,” he says, his tough-guy tone betrayed by the quaver in his voice and the stink of fear in his scent.I snort in contempt. “Oh, please, CO. We both know who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.”His expression hardens, mouth ...
Submitted to Contest #272
I hold higher the torches I grip in each hand, driving the encroaching darkness back a bit farther. I peer into the surrounding shadows, holding my breath to hear better. The night-bound forest around me is still and silent, ominously so. I see nothing but the pale trunks of trees and thick brush, all of it patchworked with new-fallen snow. No small creatures rustle through the undergrowth between the tall oak, maple, and pine trees. No birds flutter through the cold, dark sky or cry out. The only motion is the slow fall of heavy white flake...
Shortlisted for Contest #266 ⭐️
Okay, this is your story. I get that. You’re the writer, the creator and all that. But I’m the protagonist. The main character. The one the story is all about. So we need to talk.*I stop in front of the door to Room 451. I can tell it’s supposed to be locked, but the splintered jamb and inch of darkness showing tells me it isn’t any more. Pushing back my fedora, I scratch my head, glance up and down the dimly lit hallway, taking in the faded wallpaper and worn carpeting. This case has already been one for the record books, and it keeps getti...
Submitted to Contest #258
“Do you recognize either of the people in this picture?”It’s the question I always ask, pretty much the first thing I say to most people I meet.The woman looks at the picture I hold out to her, the glossy paper dimmed with time and handling, the edges frayed and worn. It a selfie, two people in the frame, a man and a woman, one clearly holding the camera, with a beautiful backdrop of forested mountains behind them. They’re both smiling, standing close together. Very close.She looks at the photo. Really looks at it. Not a quick glance, dismis...
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