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Mariyam G

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Aug, 2019

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751 Followers
661 Following

9 Stories

1183 karma pts

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Genesis-Zero: Extraction

The alarms began as a low vibration beneath my feet, a tremor that shivered through the colossal bones of the HelixCore Spire like the first breath of something ancient waking from sleep. The floor — a vast expanse of polished obsidian composite — hummed with a rising frequency, and the air thickened with the metallic tang of ozone. Then the sirens erupted, a deep, resonant howl that rolled through the corridors in waves, bouncing off monoliths of steel and glass that stretched upward into darkness so high the ceiling was lost in shadow. The...

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Two Spoonfuls

Mara shivered violently, her jacket dripping onto the reclaimed oak floorboards. Without speaking, Leo peeled the soaked fabric from her shoulders, fingers brushing the nape of her neck where rainwater had crept under her collar. The touch lingered a half-second too long before he reached for the faded quilt Eli kept draped over the reading chair. He wrapped it around her, his hands briefly pressing into her shoulders through the fabric. Mara clutched the edges, the wool scratchy against her palms, but the weight of it - the way he’d tucked ...

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Fruit-Adjacent Matters

A mind of their own they have. How shameless. I only came out here to grab some fruit. Something quick, something easy- a peach, maybe, or whatever was closest. But somehow my feet carried me further than I meant to go, past the neat little rows of things I’m comfortable handling, all the way to the fig tree at the back. I don’t even like figs that much. Or at least that’s what I tell myself, the same way I tell myself I’m not thinking about all the things I’m supposed to be doing- which is laughable, considering the mental gymnastics I’ve b...

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Infestation

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of illness, body horror, hallucination, and self-harm. The old architect had fingers like twisted roots, knuckles swollen from decades of clutching pencils too tightly. He’d lean over his drafting table in the university’s studio, lips moving silently as he sketched, as if whispering secrets to the lines taking shape under his hand. Adrien watched him sometimes from the back of the room, the way the man’s shoulders hunched forward like a question mark, like his spine had given up trying to hold him...

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The Weight of Blossoms

The award sat somewhere in Emily's chest- not as triumph, but as weight. She had accepted it with both hands, smiled at the right moments, said the right things into the microphone. The applause had been warm and genuine, and she had hated herself a little for wanting to disappear into it rather than stand in it. So when the formal presentations dissolved into cocktail chatter and the room filled with the particular noise of people congratulating themselves on having attended something significant, she picked up her bouquet and walked. She d...

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This Living Grave

Content Warning: Contains claustrophobic imagery, intense psychological distress, and unsettling bodily descriptions. This skin I wear… it clings to me. A wretched thing. It scowls, yet tightens its grip- like a blanket left to mildew in the rain, steeped in stains no water could lift. I catch my reflection as I pass the stacked shops. My eyes gape like gutted windows, carcasses of themselves- frames where something used to look back. Not human exactly, but something with a sliver of pride, a flicker of warmth. Something I can’t seem to find...

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Wolves in Silk

"You're not tying them right," Marta muttered, crouching beside Lina in the shadow of an overflowing laundry cart. The younger girl's fingers trembled around the laces of her boots- boots that weren't hers, boots stolen from a drunken guest's closet three nights ago. "Tighter. Like this." Marta grabbed the silk-tipped laces and cinched them in one sharp pull, knotting them just above the ankle. "If they come loose while you're running, you're dead." Above them, the estate hummed with the pre-hunt gala. Crystal laughter dripped through the ai...

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The Garden of Unturned Faces

The shears paused in mid-air, blades half-parted around a stray peony stem. His hands- browned by seasons of earth and sun- stilled, though his pulse did not. Silk whispered against dew-damp grass behind him, a sound as unmistakable as birdsong. He didn't turn. Couldn't. The weight of her presence settled between his shoulder blades like sunlight made solid. Her skirts pooled like spilled cream around the wrought-iron bench, its curved legs sinking slightly into the soft earth beneath the willow’s swaying curtain. She never chose the marble ...

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Roots Beneath Rubble

October 12th, 1940Found a hole in the fence today. Not just any hole- one of those gaps that doesn’t look like much until you’re already halfway through. Wasn’t even supposed to be out this way, but the patrol route got shifted after last night’s raid, and now here I am, staring at a garden that shouldn’t exist. Not just a garden. A whole greenhouse. Glass panels cracked, and inside- plants. Real ones. October 14thWent back. Couldn’t help it. Saw her this time- woman in a mud-streaked coat, kneeling in the dirt like she was arguing with it. ...

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