reedsymarketplace
Assemble a team of professionals
reedsystudio
The writing app for authors
reedsylearning
Writing courses, events and memberships
reedsydiscovery
Get your book reviewed
reedsyprompts
Weekly writing prompts and contests
Writing courses, events and conferences
Upcoming events
How to Write a Synopsis
August 26, 2026
Finding Your Edge in Commercial Fiction
August 31, 2026
How to Self-publish a Bestseller in 2026
September 05, 2026
True Stories with Michael Finkel
September 14, 2026
Learn how to succeed as a writer from the best in the business.
Every writer needs a Studio
Check out our writing app for authors!
Menu
More apps built by Reedsy
Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jan, 2024
Weekly Contest #369
Walt watched from the kitchen window and let his coffee go cold in his fist.Below him, Jacob sat cross-legged in the grass. The dog sat beside him, black and still. Neither moved. The boy's hand lay flat on the dog's back, and both heads turned together, slow, tracking something in the treeline Walt couldn't see.Ten minutes. Not one sound.When Walt was ten, this same yard had been a racetrack. His father's hounds wore ruts in the dirt chasing nothing at all. Jacob sat beside a dog that had never once chased a stick. Walt drained the cold cof...
Weekly Contest #368
Water foamed over the rim of the pot and hissed on the burner. Scalded starch, burnt garlic. Her laptop sat open on the counter to a column of numbers she still hadn't checked. From the living room, a cartoon chase blared, xylophone notes hammering through the wall."I can't," Micky said. His voice was a small, frayed thing. "The nines are wrong."Marla turned from the stove. Her son's pencil was a pale stick in his grip, his knuckles tight. His math worksheet was a field of smudged graphite and angry erasures. On the refrigerator behind him, ...
Weekly Contest #367
I am extremely good in an emergency. This is not a boast, it is a job description, printed on a laminated card I keep in my scrub pocket, right under Universal Precautions and right above Signs of Compassion Fatigue. I have been doing this for nine years. I know how to look at a person bleeding out of somewhere and say, calmly, "You're going to be okay," while doing math in my head about whether that's true.So when Danny came through the back door at 9:40 on a Wednesday, soaked through, though it wasn't raining, I did what I always do. I ass...
Weekly Contest #366
The broth has to simmer slow, or it separates. I discovered that the hard way, back when I first brought Carrie home and burned the first pot black. She deserves better than a burned pot. She deserves patience, and patience is the one thing I have surrendered my whole life to give her.Morning light comes through the sheer curtains and settles on the kitchen tile. I stir. The spoon knocks the sides of the pan in a rhythm I no longer hear. Outside, the fields run flat and yellow to the treeline, and no car has passed on that road in three days...
Weekly Contest #365
They have me preserved in amber down at the clinic. Not literally. But in the waiting room, where the talk flows faster than the coffee at Dottie's Diner, I'm a specimen pinned to a board. The Heartbreaker Vet. A man so charming he could talk a cat out of a tree and your girlfriend out of her phone number in the same afternoon. The stories get passed around with the flea collars and the heartworm pills.Twenty minutes ago, I was arm-deep in a constipated sheep, which is about as glamorous as it sounds. The sheep won. I've still got lanolin in...
Weekly Contest #364
1. I Own Exactly One Lucky ObjectI'm good at exactly three things. Rolling a pie crust thin enough to read a newspaper through. Guessing a bake time within thirty seconds, no timer. And lying to myself about how much either one actually matters.Here's the other thing you should know about me before we start: I don't tell a story straight through, start to finish, all the cards face up. Never have. I let things land when they're ready to land, which means some of what's coming is going to feel like it came out of nowhere, right up until it do...
Weekly Contest #359
She has forty-seven freckles across the bridge of her nose, and I have counted them on seven hundred and twelve separate nights. This is not adoration. This is what I tell myself.The moment she falls asleep is the moment my work begins. I pour through the dark of her flat the way cold air finds the gap beneath a door. No sound or ceremony. Only the threshold of her sleep, and then I am beside her bed, and the contract settles over me like a harness cinched in place.The paralysis takes her promptly tonight. Her chest stops its easy rise. Her ...
Weekly Contest #314
I know Arthur by his smell. Always have. His scent lives in my nose the way sunlight lives in morning grass. Worn flannel that holds decades of Saturday mornings. Old books with their patient, dusty whispers. The gentle soap he uses after his evening shower, clean and honest as rain on hot pavement. This is my master. This is home. But something is wrong. The wrongness started three weeks ago, creeping in like fog under the back door. At first, I thought it was the heat. Summer has teeth this year, and they bite deep. The air hangs thick as ...
Shortlisted for Contest #252 ⭐️
Jack Thompson’s fingers drummed a chaotic symphony against his cluttered desk, surrounded by the remnants of unrelenting perfectionism—crumpled paper mountains, an army of empty coffee cups, and the flickering screen of his laptop displaying the solitary bulwark of his creative struggle: one stubborn sentence. This single line of text, which he revised with the same unyielding dedication some might reserve for disarming a bomb, had been his nemesis and companion for five torturous years. “The sun erupted over the horizon like an overzealous ...
Shortlisted for Contest #246 ⭐️
Once, in the recesses of Josh’s cluttered study—a space so densely populated with crumpled papers and half-finished manuscripts it could have been mistaken for the lair of a particularly literary breed of dragon—a plot of exquisite pettiness took root. Josh, an author whose disposition was as sunny as a thundercloud, and whose success in the literary world was comparable to a lead balloon in an origami competition, harbored a grudge. This was no ordinary grudge; it was an epic, monumental, could-be-the-subject-of-a-Greek-tragedy kind of grud...
Oops, you need an account for that!
Log in with your social account:
Or enter your email:
4 likes
