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Jamario Robinson

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Aug, 2026

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9 Stories

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THE LAMP THAT KEPT MY FATHER (Story Five: What He Kept)

By morning, Davin had decided to keep his father. He did not say it aloud. He did not have to. The decision revealed itself in small acts. He moved the Nahr Lamp away from the edge of the desk. He returned the final brass ring to its wooden case instead of leaving it beside the lamp. He carried one of the unpacked armchairs back into the study so Orson would have somewhere to sit, although Orson pointed out that he was dead and technically did not become tired. “You keep saying that,” Davin said. “It remains relevant.” “You complain a lot fo...

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THE LAMP THAT KEPT MY FATHER (Story Four: The Things a Father Regrets)

Orson learned to hide the missing hand. Smoke obeyed vanity better than flesh ever had. If he kept his right arm close to his body, the sleeve gathered itself into the rough suggestion of a wrist and fingers. From across the room, in dim light, he almost looked whole. Davin hated that. He had spent most of his life watching his father conceal weakness and had apparently inherited the habit strongly enough to recognize it in the dead. “Stop doing that,” Davin said. Orson looked up from Elodie’s Bible. “Doing what?” “Pretending your hand is st...

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THE LAMP THAT KEPT MY FATHER (Story Three: The Weight of Grief)

When the lights returned, the floor was covered in stones. Hundreds of them. They were black, smooth, and wet looking, although when Davin crouched and touched one, his fingertip came away dry. Some were no larger than peas. Others were the size of fists. One had cracked the floorboard beside the desk when it fell. Orson stood among them with both hands raised slightly, as if he had walked into a room after an earthquake and could not decide what was safe to touch. “What did you do?” Davin asked. Orson looked at the lamp. One of the three gr...

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THE LAMP THAT KEPT MY FATHER (Story Two: The House We Packed Around Him)

Davin rubbed the Nahr Lamp once. That was all. No chant. No ancient language. No three theatrical circles with his palm. He held the silver body in his left hand and moved the cloth over the dust with his right, working carefully around the green stones because nearly a million dollars had a way of making a man respectful even when he despised the object being respected. The second stroke never finished. Something knocked from inside. Davin froze. The sound came again. Knock. Not metal expanding. Not ash settling. A deliberate rap from somew...

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THE LAMP THAT KEPT MY FATHER (Story One: The Inheritance)

The first thing Davin Sorrell inherited from his father was an apology written by a lawyer. It arrived in a cream envelope three days after Orson Sorrell was cremated, although calling it an apology was generous. Orson had never trusted sentences that bent at the knee. Even dying had not improved his manners. The letter began with instructions, continued with asset numbers, and ended with a request so strange that Davin read it twice before deciding grief had made him stupid. Do not bury me. Do not scatter me. Place my ashes in the Nahr Lamp...

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The Woman I Could Not Resurrect

Weekly Contest #368

The first question mortals ask when they learn what I am is never whether I am lonely. They ask whether I can raise the dead. I have heard the question from queens with blood beneath their fingernails, from shepherds clutching tiny shoes, from soldiers kneeling beside brothers who had forgotten how to breathe. Grief makes philosophers of fools and beggars of kings. It teaches the proud to crawl. It teaches the faithful to bargain. I do not despise them for asking. I only despise the answer. No. I can build a palace from the powder beneath a ...

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When Love Fell

Weekly Contest #368

Loving her was like watching a falling star: beautiful enough to make you believe Heaven had loosened its grip on something precious, terrifying enough to remind you that even the brightest things can be burning while they are beautiful. That was how I loved Amara. She entered my life with light trailing behind her, and I stood beneath the gravity of her wondering whether God had sent me a blessing or simply permitted me to witness something I was never meant to keep. I knew better than to confuse possession with love. A man can admire a sta...

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The Flautist

Weekly Contest #368

The first person Gideon Wren ever controlled with the flute was already laughing when he decided to do it. That bothered him later. Not the murder. The laughter. Murder can be explained afterward. Governments write laws around it. Families invent softer words for it: accident, tragedy, wrong place, wrong time. But laughter is innocent. Laughter does not know it is about to become evidence. At 11:43 p.m., seventeen minutes before midnight, Gideon stood behind the register of Bellweather Music & Repair polishing fingerprints from a glass displ...

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The Things My Mother Forgot

Weekly Contest #368

The first thing my mother forgot was how to whistle. Nobody mourned it. Whistling is one of those small countries a person can lose without becoming a refugee. She still sang while kneading dough at four in the morning, still hummed old hymns into the flour, still made the kitchen windows sweat before sunrise. Only I noticed that whenever the kettle screamed, she no longer answered it with that two note birdcall she had used since I was a boy. The second thing she forgot was my father’s laugh. That should have frightened me. Instead, I blame...

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