reedsymarketplace
Assemble a team of professionals
reedsystudio
The writing app for authors
reedsylearning
Writing courses, events and memberships
reedsydiscovery
Get your book reviewed
reedsyprompts
Weekly writing prompts and contests
Writing courses, events and conferences
Upcoming events
5 Ways to Write More Creative Sex
November 09, 2026
People on the Page: Crafting Characters Readers Care About
November 10, 2026
Write Stunning Sentences
November 12, 2026
The Art of Trope Marketing
November 16, 2026
Learn how to succeed as a writer from the best in the business.
Every writer needs a Studio
Check out our writing app for authors!
Menu
More apps built by Reedsy
Author on Reedsy Prompts since Aug, 2026
Weekly Contest #379
The Phoenix House cost forty percent less than every other wedding venue in the county, and Alicia knew exactly why, because the reason was bolted to the wall beside the front door in solid bronze. ON THIS SITE, ON THE 14TH OF JUNE 1963, THE GRAND HALVORSEN BALLROOM WAS DESTROYED BY FIRE DURING A WEDDING RECEPTION. ALL 212 GUESTS ESCAPED. THE BALLROOM, THE EAST WING AND THE CAKE DID NOT. "It was sixty-three years ago," Felix said, for the ninth time that month. "Everything here is fireproof now. The manager said so." "He said so four times, ...
Weekly Contest #377
I want to make one thing clear before we begin: I am not a creep. I am a ghost. There’s a difference, and the difference is that I can’t help it. My name is Gerald Pemberton, I died in 1994, and I am bound for all eternity to a fountain pen. Not a castle, not a battlefield, not a moody lighthouse on a cliff. A pen. A green Parker Duofold that I was holding when I slipped on a wet bathroom floor while trying to write a strongly worded letter to my building’s management about the wet bathroom floor. The irony was not lost on me. The irony, in ...
Weekly Contest #376
Let me start by clearing something up, because it’s important to me and nobody ever gets it right. I was not murdered in this house. I did not die tragically in 1887 after falling down the stairs while carrying a candle. I did not have a broken heart. I was not a lonely sea captain waiting for a ship that never came home. Every person who has ever lived in this house has invented a sad backstory for me, and every single one of them was wrong. I was born a poltergeist. My mother was a poltergeist. My father was a poltergeist. My grandmother w...
Weekly Contest #375
It started with the rain. Not normal rain, the polite kind that taps on your window to say good morning. This was rain with a grudge. It came down sideways, then upwards, then from a direction I can only describe as “personally.” I stood at my front door with my umbrella and watched a pigeon walk past, soaked and furious. It did not fly. It had given up on flying. I respected that. I opened the umbrella. The wind took one look at it and turned it inside out with the ease of someone flipping a pancake. I now held something that looked less li...
Weekly Contest #374
Nora Ekholm saw the seam before she saw anything else. It ran along the left shoulder of Professor Adeline Marsh's charcoal blouse, a thin raised ridge of thread where no ridge should be. Once Nora had seen it, the lecture hall dissolved around it. The tiered rows, the two hundred other first-years, the projector humming its dull blue light onto the screen: all of it went soft, the way a word does when you stare at it until it stops being a word. The blouse was inside out. Not dramatically, no tag flapping at the nape of her neck, no pocket ...
Weekly Contest #373
"Don't go," said my grandmother, not looking up from her crossword. "Every girl who walks into that shop after dark comes home in love, and never with anyone sensible." Nobody takes Granny Bridie seriously. She also believes the toaster listens to her and that you should never trust a man who owns more than one scarf. So when my best friend Aoife slid two black tickets across the kitchen table, THE BOOKBINDER'S BRIDE: an immersive dark romance. One night only. Come alone, or not at all. I laughed. "It's theatre, Gran. Actors. In a bookshop."...
Weekly Contest #372
Lucia Bertolini had set the long table for the large monthly village dinner herself, plank by plank, the good linen dragged out from the chest that smelled of cedar and old weddings, and she had told Marco three times (three, as if the number itself carried some protective weight) that no loaf, no roll, no heel of bread was to be set down with its belly to the sky. Upside down, a loaf on the table was a coffin waiting for its dead in her family superstition. Her grandmother had said this over every table Lucia could remember, in the same fla...
Weekly Contest #371
I came to the cinema that day just for fun. Well, “fun” might have been slightly ambitious. Mostly, I came to fight the loneliness. There are days when going home feels too quiet. When you don't necessarily want company, on those days, I go to the cinema. I don't even care what is playing. A good film, a bad film, some ridiculous blockbuster involving explosions, impossible physics and a man saving the world while maintaining suspiciously perfect hair, it doesn't matter. Once the lights go down, the city disappears. No traffic. No messages. ...
Weekly Contest #369
The Shape My Grief Takes They say grief comes slowly, the way frost climbs a window without anyone watching it start. They say it begins as a weight behind the sternum, something with no shape yet, no name, only pressure, only the sense that a door has opened somewhere inside the chest and will not close ever again. They say it takes on texture, grey at first, like an ash before it remembers it was once wood, once something that could burn and give warmth. It gathers in the throat, thick as an unspoken things always are, and settles there, r...
Oops, you need an account for that!
Log in with your social account:
Or enter your email:
3 likes
