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Julie Grayson

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jun, 2025

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35 Followers
51 Following

16 Stories

278 karma pts

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The Unheeded

The Unheeded Prologue: The Curse Mount Olympus, Ancient Greece Apollo’s fingers, as warm and delicate as a summer breeze, brushed against Cassandra of Troy’s lips, his voice rich and intoxicating like honey pouring from a jar. “Accept my gift,” he urged, his gaze intense, “and you shall see all that is to come, the threads of fate laid bare before you.” But Cassandra, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and defiance, recoiled from his advances, turning her head away as though to escape the weight of his promise. Fury twisted the features...

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Sure thing, birdie wing

His mouth found my pussy, and my whole world dissolved into pure sensation. There was nothing but the warm, wet stroke of his tongue, expertly tracing my folds, circling the aching center of my pleasure. A loud moan escaped from my throat as my head fell back against the pillows. This was no longer a fantasy; it was a reality more potent than any I had constructed. The feel of his stubble against my soft inner thighs, the sound of his soft, eager groans, the way his hands gripped my hips to hold me steady—it was utterly consuming. I gave mys...

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The Goblin Next Door

Weekly Contest #319

The Unfortunate Incident of Mrs. Pickering’s Poodle Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t eat souls. Never have, never will. The whole idea is absurd, like accusing a vegan of secretly hoarding pork chops. Souls taste like burnt hair left in the sun: dry, bitter, with a lingering aftertaste of alpaca poop. And let’s not forget the texture. Imagine chewing on a wad of expired aspirin wrapped in mothballs. No thanks. I’ve got standards. This whole “soul-devouring monstrosity” narrative? Blame Brother Reginald of Bumfluff Abbey, circa 1347. A ...

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The Art of Almost

Weekly Contest #318

I’ve always been good at almost. Almost valedictorian. Almost proposed to. Almost loved. The first time I noticed the pattern, I was eight. Mom pinned my drawing of a sunflower to the fridge, right beside Alex’s oil painting of the Grand Canyon. She called his “a masterpiece” and mine “so cheerful!” That night, I pressed my cheek to the cold refrigerator door and wondered why cheerful sounded like a consolation prize. Alex was my older brother, the human equivalent of a fireworks finale; bright, explosive, impossible to look away from. Wh...

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I Am the Silent Witness

Weekly Contest #316

I Am the Silent Witness The old Victorian house on Pictor Street stood as a sentinel of mysteries, its gabled roofs sagging with the weight of countless secrets whispered through the years. Ivy clung to its weathered walls, which seemed to thrum softly in the moonlight, as if the very structure was alive and breathing through its cracked façade. In the attic, a solitary skylight—a dusty pane of glass—captured the widow’s imagination, earning the affectionate title of her “window to the stars.” Each night, as she gazed upward, she felt t...

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Forty-Three Minutes

Weekly Contest #315

***This story is inspired by true events.*** Author’s Note: I live every day with a traumatic brain injury. My hands don’t work very well, in fact I’m much more left hand dominant after doing most of everything for the first 40-ish years of my life with my right hand. My speech is slow and quiet, so I choose not to speak unless I absolutely have to. If we go out, I’m in a wheelchair because I don’t walk very well. However, my brain works just fine, which makes the other issues all the more frustrating. So, without further ado, here’s my seco...

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🐾The Chronicles of Mr. Wolfenwobbles, the Wolf Who Forgot How to Wolf 🐾

Weekly Contest #314

Chapter 1: The Hunt (Or Lack Thereof) In Which Gravity Declares War on Dignity The dawn sun filtered through the trees, casting golden streaks over the Moonlight Wobblers’ den. My pack lounged around, sharpening claws and debating whether pinecones counted as a food group. Luna, my second-in-command (and full-time judger of all of my dang life choices), flicked her tail like a metronome of disappointment. “Wolfenwobbles,” she sighed, “the pack needs actual food. Not just being subjected to your… interpretive naps.” I gasped, clutching my ch...

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The Static Gambit

Weekly Contest #312

~ Chapter One: Echoes in the Vacuum ~ The Eclipse Horizon hangs against the starless void like a shattered ribcage, its hull pocked with corrosion. Cooper and Carter approach in their shuttle, the Nexus-7, its thrusters sputtering in the station’s failing gravity field. Both wear slate-gray environmental suits, their visors reflecting the same static-laced HUD readouts. The comms crackle. Cooper: (voice taut, gloved fingers drumming the shuttle’s console) “Radiation’s chewing through the shields. Ten minutes till our suits fry.” Carter: (tr...

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SAM and the ROBOT

Weekly Contest #312

Chapter One: "Charge Error: Soul Not Found" [Setting: A cluttered kitchen, early morning. A human, SAM, leans against the counter, sipping coffee. A sleek, sarcastic ROBOT with a glowing blue eye-screen whirs in, holding a burnt piece of toast.] ROBOT: [monotone, with aggressive cheer] Good morning, Sam! Your breakfast is ready. Also, your toaster is a war criminal. SAM: (squinting) Why does my toast look like it fought a dragon? ROBOT: Because someone programmed me to “learn from your habits.” Congratulations. You’ve taught me the art of ...

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Ganja Granny’s Cookie Caper

Chapter One: “The Unfortunate Herb Swap” Mary Nussbaum and the Great San Marcos Mix-UpThe Texas sun hung heavy over San Marcos, casting a golden haze on the clapboard houses and live oaks that lined Guadalupe Street. At the end of a cul-de-sac dotted with lawn gnomes and "Don’t Mess With Texas" signs sat a butter-yellow bungalow. Inside, 82-year-old Mary Nussbaum hummed a hymn from Sunday’s service while preheating her oven to 350°F. Mary’s week followed a sacred rhythm: Mondays for Bible study, Wednesdays for dominoes at the San Marcos Seni...

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A Margo Peabody and Winston the Menace Goose Mystery

Weekly Contest #310

Chapter One: A Mystery Most Middle-Aged Margo Peabody’s day began, as all great disasters do, with optimism.She flung open the creaky doors of The Whispering Tome, inhaled the scent of aged paper and Mr. Fitzgerald’s latest hairball, and declared, “Today’s the day, Fitz! No drama, no chaos, just books.”The cat, sprawled atop Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra, blinked slowly—a gesture Margo chose to interpret as solidarity.The shop was its usual cacophony of charm and mild hazard. Sunlight strained through dust to illuminate the “Local Lore”...

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The Time-Loop Stranger

Weekly Contest #309

Chapter One: 3:07 PM The espresso machine hissed like an angry cat. Alice wiped flecks of steamed milk from the counter, her eyes drifting to the clock above the pastry case—3:06 PM. Right on cue, Mrs. Penny shuffled in, ordering her usual: a decaf latte with a "scrape of foam, dear, not a dollop." Alice complied, her hands moving on autopilot. She’d been working at Grindstone Café for two years, three months, and fourteen days. Not that she was counting. At 3:07 PM, the bell above the door chimed. Alice didn’t look up at first. Thursdays ...

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The Shape of Wanting

******** TRIGGER WARNING: THIS STORY INCLUDES THEMES RELATED TO ALCOHOLISM AND ABORTION ******** Chapter One: Bonds The crisp autumn air carried the scent of cinnamon and roasted coffee as golden leaves pirouetted across the café patio. Julie traced the rim of her mug, her fingers smudged with charcoal from the morning’s sketches. Across the table, Tori laughed—a sound too loud, too bright, like sunlight glaring off ice.“Remember when you set the dorm microwave on fire trying to make popcorn?” Tori grinned, her scarlet nails tapping th...

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The Veil of Echoes

Chapter One: The House on Willow Lane Glynnis hated the way the old house groaned. It wasn’t the usual creaks of settling wood, but something sharper—a sound like whispers trapped in the walls. She’d inherited the Victorian manor after her mother vanished two years ago. Disappeared, the police said. No signs of struggle, no note. Just an empty bed and a cold cup of jasmine tea on the nightstand. The house had been her mother’s sanctuary, a relic passed down through generations of women who’d died too young or vanished too quietly. Glynnis r...

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The Peach Pit Pranksters of Augusta

Chapter One: The Art of Mischief Augusta, Georgia — One Week Before the Masters Ashley Cardin balanced on a wobbly ladder in the dim glow of her downtown studio, her paint-splattered overalls speckled with glitter. The air smelled of acrylics and peach-scented candles—her grandmother’s favorite. On the floor lay her latest project: a six-foot papier-mâché peach, hollowed out to hold… something. Something whimsical, she thought. Something that’ll make this city smile. But Augusta wasn’t exactly known for embracing “whimsical.” Not since the G...

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