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Kevin Lind

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Mar, 2026

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24 Followers
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19 Stories

353 karma pts

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Vino, Verdad, y Vergüenza - Wine, Truth, and Shame

Weekly Contest #350

The trouble began with the second bottle of Rioja. The four were seated at a wrought-iron table on the rooftop terrace. The air smelled of orange blossoms and jasmine. Below them, the old city of Córdoba spread out in a warm, amber sprawl, and the floodlit walls of the Mezquita rose above the rooflines like a lantern someone had left burning for a thousand years. Dr. Elias Larson was forty-one, a tenured professor at Sofia University where he taught Medieval Islamic History. He was the only man at the table, the only American, the only one ...

10 likes 7 comments 7
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Promises of Dust and Ruin

Weekly Contest #349

Dodge City, Kansas – Autumn 1934 “How bad is it?” James Whitmore asked, though he already knew. “Three thousand, two hundred dollars,” Thomas Brennan said with a steady voice. He’d practiced it. “Plus the accrued interest. We received your last payment over a year ago.” James was a big man, the kind built for work, his strong forearms darkened by the sun. He wore his best shirt. The blue one. The one he always wore to church. Three years ago, on a Sunday, Thomas had unbuttoned it in the dark of the storage shed behind the church, knowing...

18 likes 2 comments 2
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The Disappearance of Rosa Ortiz

Weekly Contest #348

The day they took Rosa Ortiz, I was thinking about my grocery list. Rosa had just relieved me at the nurses' station. She was laughing at something – a joke from one of the aides, I think – and I remember thinking how rare that sound had been in recent weeks; how the hospital had grown quieter. More of us were being cut early as fewer patients sought medical care, and as a result our earnings and benefits were being slashed. But I still needed to stop for groceries on my way home, because eating is a basic necessity. I was standing at the t...

14 likes 3 comments 3
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Little Bird

Weekly Contest #348

The smell of stale beer and chewing tobacco was violently replaced by crushed jasmine, baked stone, and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Elias gasped, his lungs filling with an impossibly dry, hot air. He wasn't on the sticky floor of The Rusty Spoke anymore. He was on a cool, tiled mosaic. He pushed himself up, his head throbbing with a rhythm that matched a distant, rhythmic clatter. Was it hoofbeats? No, it was hammers. He blinked, his vision swimming. Above him, a sky of deep, impossible indigo was pricked with stars that looke...

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