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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jan, 2024
Submitted to Contest #266
In a basement, in the dim light, in a home for hungry artists. Lies a painter, with a passion, and the will to spill her thoughts out.See the easel in the dim light. See the palette by her right side. A lack of blue upon the palette, a hue the artist chose to banish. No morning skies or crystal lakes for this aesthetic’s special tastes. No gray as well. No pale or silver in her sights. No shades between the starkest black and white. Instead, red. Red for blood, for vile streaks. Every hue of scarlett: ...
Submitted to Contest #265
The intercom system didn’t work, for a start. If it had, it would have broadcast a recorded message regarding the history of the Aztec Empire: what was known about Aztec culture, fashion, system of government, and cuisine. This message would have prepared the six passengers onboard for what they were about to see while their pod traversed the dark “time tunnel” bringing them to the distant past.But the system didn’t work, and so broadcast wailing static and jumbled speech. Only the occasional word proved decipherable through syllabic structu...
Submitted to Contest #262
To a field of juneberry and hawthorn bushes, between a dense forest and the beaches of the great water humans call Superior, the goldfinches return. They fly in groups, settling on the scrub bushes, taking in the home they’ve missed while wintering in warmer climes.As each flock trickles in, they join a rising chorus, one great song only paused for sunset. Let’s listen:Home home home!Home to love, to cool and safetyHome to seeds so tough yet tastyHome to song as day beginsHome to nests and warmth thereinEach arriving group brings their own m...
Submitted to Contest #260
Once upon a time, in a kingdom most absurd, lived a Princess named Unrelia who possessed the power of the fourth wall. So whenever her parents, the King and Queen Narrat, tried to betrothe her to some goodly prince, she would turn to an oblique angle and say something like “Can you believe this folks? My parents are positively medieval!” as if there was an audience just out of sight, invisible to everyone else. Such was her confidence in these pronunciations that no one ever challenged or interrupted her. And those good princes, and their fa...
Submitted to Contest #259
I'd like to thank your Reverend, the honorable Beau Smith, for inviting me to speak at your beautiful church. And I want to thank you, the good people of Quinwood, for allowing me into this house of the Lord. I will try to hold myself to half an hour, if you can stand me for that long. But I have been known to meander.As you likely know, we have a celebrity of far greater illustriousness than myself in attendance, right here in the front row, a state senator representing this district up in Atlanta. Senator William Weathers. Good day to you ...
Submitted to Contest #253
I’m surprised you didn’t ask about the Olympics first. “What is it like to meet all those athletes? What are your favorite moments from the interviews? How did it feel to race the sprinters in mock competition? Do you think it’s fair that you’re not allowed to compete?” Those are the questions I get asked the most. Oh and then you could ask if I actually like Vitaflakes, the cereal of victory! The world needs that question answered again. Ha!Or you could inquire about the arcade games that bear my face. Gamers still ask me, ironically, if I ...
Submitted to Contest #249
Near a city on the coast, at the outskirts of that city, at a crossroads by a small town, in a tavern without a name, on a shabby, straight-backed stool at the far left end of the bar, sat a tall, slender man in a lavender suit.“How much for a Jack and Coke?” The man asked the portly bartender. His tone had a fake-innocent quality to it, like he’d never ordered such a drink, or perhaps any drink, ever in his life.“Five bucks.”“What if, in lieu of those few, petty, dollars, I showed you something? Something guaranteed to impress and amaze. So...
Submitted to Contest #247
The following journal was found in a repository room of the British Museum, translated from the original Spanish into English by the scholar Maxwell Soverington in the 18th century. The document was misplaced in a file where it remained missing until 1981. The translation is presented here, with section breaks added to distinguish separate, non-dated entries. It is unknown how this text made it to England. 13 September, in the year of our lord 1519It is on this date that Diego and I, along with a few others, received the grace of Hernán Cort...
Submitted to Contest #245
Across the galaxy, some six-hundred and forty light years from our own blue planet, sits a small, rust-and-green world as populous and strange as our own. As we zoom in on this planet, we pass through its red-tinted atmosphere, to a range of gray mountains surrounding a steaming, green swamp. Notice how many creatures fill the sky. A great host of birds, many of them as smart as you and I, coast from one mountaintop city to another. They have built a civilization comparable to our classical era, though if you go by their social media, f...
Submitted to Contest #243
A family takes a trip to a park on the first day of spring: dirt trails, a candy-colored play area, the laughter of children, high sun peeking through tall oak trees. The mother had visited this park before, many years ago, but had forgotten. As she watches her children climb the yellow jungle gym, scale the wooden mockup pirate ship, giggle as they swing on the swing set, she is reminded of that earlier trip, and that memory pulls her into the past. Now this mother watches other children playing on that very same pirate ship decades before....
Submitted to Contest #241
I draw a line down the middle of the notebook page. I aim for precision, but the line swerves in my unsteady hand. On the top left I write “Dad”, cross it out, write “Father.” At the top right I put “Mother.” Soon enough I’ll place my own name under one of the columns, take my position on one side of that crooked barrier. Because last week mom called the four of us into the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, a table older than me with dark stains so deep in the white plastic they’re part of it now. Dad was there too, pacing around, looki...
Submitted to Contest #239
I humbly request you not click away. Please don’t scroll past. Don’t close the window or shut down the app you’re using. If you’re reading this (and you are) then you’re in luck. Give me five minutes to make my case, ten if you’re a slow reader. I’m not an advertisement. I’m not selling anything. I will not ask for your credit card number. I’m offering you an opportunity to be part of a grand experiment. You get a chance to change me. Let me start with my story. I was once a simple cellular phone, labeled “smart” but not. I had an app for ...
Submitted to Contest #237
Alice felt a twinge of suspicion from the start. Their big London trip finally came, and Michael insisted on spending the first full day on activities from her wish list. That meant afternoon tea at Twinings, How You Like It at The Globe Theatre, then pints and people-watching at a two hundred-year-old pub. Michael put on a good face throughout: eye contact, bright smile, consistent enthusiasm, plus supreme politeness with the servers and ushers. He must have tipped every street performer they passed, even the living statue. But Alice knew h...
Submitted to Contest #235
A Google search, a subway right to the exurbs, and a walk through a mall parking lot led Amanda to the start of The Possum Trail. She wanted a new route for her morning jogs, to “change things up”, and the sign featuring a cartoon possum with pitch-black eyes promised something different. The trail was several miles long, paralleled a highway, and was mostly straight, with the occasional branching path. It was still dark when she arrived, streetlights still on, the lot empty. Dew glistened off islands of grass among the asphalt, the earthy...
Submitted to Contest #233
The saloon entrance bears the image of a steer's skull facing outward, defiant, its horns splayed to the high hinges. Yet the doors part with barely a push. I scoff at the cheap construction. The white noise of mass conversation envelops me. People crowd the tables, but the bar is open. I claim the 2nd stool from the left. The bartender glides into my field of view: “What’s your poison?” he asks. “Oh, I don’t drink alcohol.” “Good. We don’t serve it.” “Water to start.” He moves off. “And prune juice as well,” I call after him. I add a sh...
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