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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jan, 2025
DO NOT RETURN TO SENDER The package arrived on a Tuesday. Nothing interesting ever happens on a Tuesday. Tuesday is the day equivalent of beige—inoffensive, forgettable, mostly there to separate better things. So when I saw the envelope on my doorstep, it didn’t feel ominous. It felt annoying. Like the universe had picked the wrong day to interrupt me. The envelope was plain manila. No logos. No branding. The kind you see in movies when someone gets mailed something they absolutely didn’t ask for—dirty magazines, blackmail photos, VHS tapes ...
Submitted to Contest #296
What if peace was just another form of control?I used to be someone you'd cross the street to avoid. Not because I looked dangerous. I didn’t. Average height, with a forgettable face and hair always tucked under a knit beanie. But my eyes? People said there was something off in them. Like I was always watching, always calculating. Which, in all fairness, I was.But if I’d told you ten years ago that the government was slipping behavioral trackers into your smart devices, you’d have laughed me out of the room. Now, you just ask which brand of ...
Submitted to Contest #293
1I always knew the world was constructed on lies. Not minor falsehoods or innocent misunderstandings, but carefully cultivated fabrications designed to shape reality. From my earliest memories, even before my parents disappeared, I sensed that truth was not something freely given—it was deliberately hidden, erased, and rewritten.My parents were among the first to resist. They stood against the Dominion when resistance still felt possible, believing knowledge was a right worth risking everything to protect. They vanished when I was six, quiet...
Submitted to Contest #292
I. The Shop and the PaintingThe scent of aged paper, dust, and waxed wood clung to the air of Hollow & Sons Antiques. The place had the weight of history—shelves sagged with forgotten heirlooms, rusted music boxes played broken melodies, and tarnished silverware gleamed dully beneath thick glass cases.Nathan Harper trailed his fingers over an old leather-bound journal, its cover cracked like parched earth. He wasn’t looking for books today, though. He was here for something unusual—something that would speak to him.Then he saw it.The pai...
Submitted to Contest #290
The old bookstore smelled of worn pages and time itself - a rich, earthy blend of parchment, leather bindings, and a hint of cedar from the ancient shelves. Soft golden light streamed through tall windows, dust motes swirling lazily in the beams, their slow dance marking time’s tender passage. Samuel, with his calloused hands and silver-threaded hair, arranged a fresh stack of poetry collections on the central table. The rough grain of the paper brushed beneath his fingertips - soft, familiar, alive with memory.The bell above the door chimed...
Submitted to Contest #288
Caught a Light Sneeze The café doors swung open with a quiet chime, and Damian stepped inside, the hum of conversation folding around him. The air smelled of roasted coffee, cinnamon, and something warm—something familiar, yet changed. It had been months since he had last walked into this space with the weight of something unresolved pressing into his chest. Months since he had stood outside in the rain, watching Lila through the window, uncertain of where he belonged. Now, the world had shifted once again. He adjusted the guitar case slung...
Where the Rain Falls The rain had not started yet. Damian stood beneath the overhang outside the café, hands deep in his coat pockets, watching through the window as Lila played. Her violin sang in quiet conversation with the piano—another musician, someone unfamiliar, fingers dancing over the keys as if they had always belonged there. The warmth inside contrasted sharply with the chill clinging to his skin. Inside, everything was golden, the café alive with murmurs, laughter, and the soft clatter of ceramic cups agai...
Seasons Must Change The air carried the crisp and bitter scent of dying leaves, as if the world itself were mourning. The trees stood half-empty, their golden remnants tumbling in slow spirals to the pavement. The wind brushed past, cold and insistent, urging the season forward. But I remained still, watching.A man stood outside the café, his violin resting beneath his chin. The bow glided across the strings, coaxing out a melody so delicate and haunting that it nearly shattered me. Each note trembled in the air, wrapping around me like a me...
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