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Miri Liadon

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Sep, 2025

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23 Followers
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33 Stories

154 karma pts

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The Waves Did Not Accept Him

This story contains: mentions of abuse, an implied death threat, and someone wearing another person's skin. This story begins as others have, with a rowboat, a soon-to-be-pirate, and a sky full of stars. Ronan lay in bed, trying to sleep. Trying to kill the sick anticipation growing in his stomach. He wished his da’ were home. At least, he wished he’d never left to visit the stinking Splintered Hull. He was a good father when he was sober. At least, a better one. He needed to fall asleep now. Before his da’ came back. Before his parents ...

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This Was His Favorite Part

On quiet days, Triggs rose before the sun. He left his bed in disarray, at least for the first moments of the morning. Dren had always been a light sleeper, and stirred even at the creaks of the beds at times. Triggs did not expect Kels to wake up. He exited the bedroom, and entered the commons. The box sat where he’d left it. Where he always left it at night. On the slightly unstable table. Triggs approached, and lifted the lid. He smelt straw and wood. Specifically, he smelt the dried straw that surrounded the teapot, and the somewhat a...

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The Seal Lover

This story begins as many do, with a tavern, a selkie, and a sailor. Róncobar stumbled across the cobblestone street, away from The Bay Inn. He’d tried to drink a pint for each of his fallen crewmates. He’d only managed five. This was a pitiful attempt. Some balladeer sang of a ghost ship called the Shadow. A crew hanged. A man blinded. Oddly cheerful for a ballad. He felt the street sway. Was he at sea again? Róncobar caught himself on a wall and vomited. No. He reached The Bay. Salt on his tongue, mixed with the sour taste of vomit and al...

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A Handful of Flour, and a Little Oil

This story contains mentions or themes of: Grief, death, and, more specifically, a mother's grief pertaining to her child's death. There was little food in the city. The drought had taken the plants. Without rain, the brooks had dried up and the rivers had dwindled. Crops died for lack of water. Animals died for lack of food. People died for lack of all. Frima was fortunate to possess flour and oil. Enough to sustain herself and her son, Refael. She did not know how long that would last. How long until the last particle of flour was gone...

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In Other Words, Pol

Violet: Even in late summer, the Wallow was wet. Violet kept her maps close to her chest, stepping over a puddle. She strode past the short buildings of the outer rings, eyeing the storm clouds. Hopefully, it wouldn’t rain before she made it to the command room. Really, she was lucky the drizzle had stopped so early. The yellow of False Day had barely faded. Normally, it rained for weeks after a Storm Moons. Violet passed the Nest, resisting the urge to pop in for a greeting. She would have loved a couple warm words. But she had to hurry, ...

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A Face Like a Sock Full of Soup

Contains Themes or Mentions of: Racism, homophobia, and a girl who needs to set her standards higher.Summer was over, and so were we. I never should have kissed that boy. So many people would have told me that. Milly. Sue. Xaden. But I don’t think I would have listened. Still, they never told me how wrong it felt to hear me talk about him. They never told me that I deserved better. Maybe they wanted to be happy for me. Wanted to approve of one of the only people who had ever dared to like me. To make a move romantically. Someone who thought...

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The Lying Smile

Iosef Ladokis was not the richest man in Laokeia. In fact, if one asked the wealthiest men what they thought of him, few would recognize his name. Persephone wasn’t sure she cared. After all, he was wealthier than her father, though of a slightly lower rank. And he was said to be a kind man, at least by the less wealthy yet well-respected people who were lucky enough to cross his path. Her father’s match might not have made her happy, but she saw the practicality of it. Perhaps she could manage indifference. Persephone ran a brush through he...

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The Cypher

The gym was dim. It was also loud. People danced in several scattered groups of varying sizes. Two cyphers had formed. One large one in the center of the room, and a smaller one to the left. Anne joined the cypher in the center. Three guys were doing push-ups in the center of the circle, to the beat of the music. Anne joined in cheering them on. She wasn’t about to tell them that wasn’t real dancing. That would feel elitist. The cheers grew louder as the guys kept going. One guy dropped off, grinning and mumbling something Anne couldn’t he...

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There Are No Empty Spaces

I have eleven things to remember my younger brother by. First, his name. James. His middle name shared with my grandfather. Of Tongan origin. His last name is mine as well. Second, a memory. Faint and blurry. A day that might have been his funeral. I was so little. I didn’t understand. My family and I, we stood in the cemetery, holding balloons. I loved balloons. Everyone let theirs go. I didn’t want to let mine go. I refused, and my mom yelled at me. I released the balloon, and it floated, up, up and away. I remember crying. Was that day a ...

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All the Legs

“Nobody believed in me. That was their first mistake,” Pranee took a breath, a serious expression on her face, “It was the summer of my four-” Harriet cut her off, “That’s not true.” Pranee dropped the public speaking tone, “Excuse me?” She folded her arms, leaning back against the green park bench, “Your parents have always believed in you. Ms. Breen believed in you. Rad believes in us. Trevor believes in us. I believe in us.” Pranee sighed, “That’s not the point.” Harriet shrugged, “Sounds like it’s the point.” Pranee rolled her eyes, “I o...

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Making Up the Difference

It was never the child’s fault. When the world died, the light dimmed. Not fully. Certainly not. But enough that lines of morality blurred. Enough that one couldn’t quite tell right from wrong, until the guilt of one’s mistakes tore into oneself. The child’s father was a copper smith. He sold bowls, and pans, and jewelry, mostly. He used to sell clockwork toys, but there was no time for those anymore. What had once been symbols of human ingenuity now seemed tacky in comparison to the useful firefly fluid or greytack. Every day, he took the ...

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Waking to a Nightmare

Marit: The night was bright. Light flickered throughout the village. Unsteady. Dangerous. Terrible. Fire. Marit ran. Her feet fell haphazardly along an old hunting trail. The one which her papa had shown her. The wind whipped at her face. Smoke burned in her lungs. The trail wound around an old elm tree, the one with the face-shaped knot. Past the brook where she’d thought she’d found gold once. Past the hill she’d rolled down countless times. These places were a blur. She couldn’t see them past her tears. Her memories were a blur. She co...

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Planted in a Pickle Jar

Restington, West Virginia was not the sort of place people flocked to. It wasn’t well known by the people outside of its area. And the people who did know about it rarely desired to live there. After all, it was dangerous. Supposedly. Naethan wasn’t sure he believed the rumors of magical happenings and eerie laughs. Of course, that didn’t stop him from jumping at the opportunity to see one of the Eternal Ladies for himself. Naethan watched Lydia as they walked down the path to Little Island. Her shoulders were tight, raised slightly. The kno...

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It Formed in the Absence of Stars

This story contains mentions or themes of: physical violence, gore, or abuse, and sexual violence.The first time, it was formed in the wind. Was it alive? Perhaps. It wasn’t sure. It had no body. No eyes to see. No hands to feel. No ears to hear. Yet, it heard.It heard a call in the distance. One of desperation. Of pain. Of fear. So, it answered swiftly.It rocketed through the stagnant forest, running through the air. Invisible in its beauty. The air might have rushed past it, had it been of substance. Instead, it simply moved. Past time and...

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The Brilliant, Lovely Things

Embla hummed an old song as she sat by the hearth. She was glad for the warmth. Particularly so late in winter, when the wind howled and tore at the house mercilessly. Embla had hated winter as a child. They way it broke things. The way it seemed to bring the world closer to death. The way it crept in, slowly, banishing warmth and growth. Nowadays, practically nothing grew, even in spring. Nothing except people. Mateo slept soundly in her arms. His breath whistled with each fall of his tiny chest. She smiled, the lines at the corners of her...

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