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Olive Silirus

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2022

Stories (27)

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Library

12 Followers

6 Following

27 Stories

71 karma pts

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Quiet

In the sharp waning light of an early autumn day, a boy stood staring out over long-empty fields. He was very still, clutching a hole-ridden, dirty plastic bag in one hand, a shining apple in the other. A cold breeze dashed around him, but he hardly shivered. His eyes, the sort of dark eyes that gave away nothing about a person, remained fixed on the horizon. He could have been dead, for the emptiness of those eyes. The nearly black irises kept everything concealed. The sky, a blazing, brilliant expanse of blue, seemed to swallow the small f...

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Coffee Ruminations

I woke up late this morning to sunlight streaming through my window. I was tired in a pleasant sort of way, stretched out and snug in a mess of blankets. I had been sick the night before and taken a few NyQuil; consequently, my brain was in a haze this morning. That was fine by me – I have the day off and need to do nothing but laze in bed or write or drink coffee or all three. I am at Grammy’s desk now, with none of my candles lit for once because the aroma of coffee is drifting all around my head. I drink it, black, from this big mug that...

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One Moment

For people all over the world, there is that moment - that perfect, indescribable moment - when not only are there no words to say what must be said, but no words at all, about anything. There is only the air around you, the sounds you no longer hear, the stillness of everything. The beating of your heart. Words have abandoned you, because they are just as afraid of this feeling as you are, and slightly less enamored with it. They are wonderful, bold things, but they have no courage sometimes. So they leave you to yourself and your moment. P...

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The Promise

Warning: Mentions miscarriage The Promise They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. He who was seated on the throne said “I am making everything new!” Then he said “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” Revelation 21:3-5There are some stories that you just know are somewhere inside of you, probably fully formed. They’re simply waiting. I coul...

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mad girl

Inspired by the poem “Mad Girl’s Love Song” by Sylvia Plath. i. I live in a forest where every tree says your name. They say it soft sometimes, like a wind that played with my hair but never pulled too hard. And then sometimes it crescendos and I am on a wave, yanked and drowned in remembering you too much and not nearly enough. I think I will die, and I wish I would, because dying is like sleeping, but I never do. I only fly under the water, a bird with a broken wing. Then the sound quiets and I am safe again. I lie on the soft moss and p...

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The Edge of His Cloak

That day by the lake, as hundreds of eyes watched a small boat draw closer to shore, expectancy rose from the crowd like a song. Voices of men, women and children murmured, cried, and fluttered through the air. They jostled each other, each head surfacing over the next then disappearing back into the sea of bodies. Each eye strained for a glimpse of the man disembarking from the tiny wooden vessel, like his countenance was the very air they breathed. Each of them caught it, if only a glance, except for one woman. She was drowning. Bent over,...

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Lidy's Poem

When I walked into the coffee shop, sunlight was pouring in through the windows like steamed milk into a cup. Tables glistened, computers and phones and silver pens reflected the glaring brightness and a girl was laughing while trying to blind her older brother with a shiny coin. The building was filled with soft noises: gentle chatter, the burble of the coffee machine, a bit of jazz playing quietly from the speakers. I breathed it in and went to the counter. “A cup of your Ethiopian roast,” I said, “and how about one of those orange scones,...

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The Drive Home

It’s dark out, except not really. There are so many street lights and glowing signs, it’s less like they’re popping out of a sheet of darkness, and more like the darkness is sneaking into the corners that are left unoccupied by their shine. Artificial yellows, reds, and greens blur together into a soup of colors and words. Most of them are familiar to me, in a way that makes me think I’m always going to remember the scene. After a year of being away from it, though, I’ll probably forget it, and only recall a few odd details, like the illumin...

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Caring About the Colors

Tink. Essie didn’t have to look to know what that sound meant. She did anyway, head snapping up in time to see a small red car driving slowly away, as if it didn’t have a single care in the entire world. The woman in it had one hand on the steering wheel, the other behind her head as she languidly took the corner onto a narrow dirt road bordered by two open, grassy fields.  “Oh, no you didn’t.” Essie growled, dropping the tennis ball she had been throwing for her dog. Missy looked at her, slightly confused, before diving for it again an...

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The Classic Writer's Cheat

“Step one: type the quotation marks! Actually, scratch that. Step one: change the font. I hate Arial.”“What good is either of those going to do?”“Changing the font will make you not want to throw your computer against the wall halfway through writing your story!”“And the quotation marks?”“Just something to get you started.”“That’s stupid.”“It says to your story brain, ‘hey, I’m ready! Let’s get this show on the road!’”“One, that still makes no sense, and two, I don’t have a story brain.”“‘Course you do! Everybody does.”“I’m amazed that as a ...

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I Commited Murder Today

*This story contains brief mentions of physical violence*“There will be a time when we must choose between what is easy and what is right.”-Albus DumbledoreIt’s so easy to hate someone.People say “hate” is a strong word, but it’s not, really. It’s a too-often used word, sure, but only because it’s a too-often done thing. We’re quick to anger, and anger quickly turns into hatred, and by then it’s just a downward spiral into a pit few know how to climb out of. And by then, it’s normalized. It’s okay. We convince ourselves that it’s okay. We’ve...

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Learning to Fly: A Tale of Two Ducks

Wednesday morning, Girl put Crest on a diet, and Dwyn suffered for it. Dwyn was an exceptionally thin, sleek duck. She had a small shiny head and little half-moon eyes. The dark line running across her face made her look regal, like an Egyptian princess. She ate luxuriously, like any reasonable fowl would, but was not, in any means, fat.But Crest was, and consequently there was an unmistakable deprivation of food. Dwyn, like Girl, disapproved of her comrade's proudly worn chubbiness. This did not, however, signify it was time to cut the meal...

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The Flight

The sun shined through the window that morning, hitting her full in the face. It seemed to be struggling to get up, to rise past the trees that lined the yard. The light flickered in between leaves and branches, rays of that strange, magnetic glow reaching to touch her through a thin glass pane. It filled the room, giving the impression that the walls had turned into tiny, flickering flames. Huddled under the blankets, Lana was warm for a moment, comfortable and comforted. Then the warmth turned to heat and in a second she was burning.S...

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A Peculiar Correspondence

Mrs Lillian M. Atherton881 S Wildcreek RdBidvillage Dear Mrs Atherton, I am sure that you were in no way expecting a letter from me. It did not, after all, even occur to me to write you until last night, when it struck me that, though we have never met, we now share a common plight, one that should be properly addressed and dealt with; my dear lady, we must be the ones to do it.  We have, in fact, been neighbors for some time. If we had not, of course, none of this (and I am sure you know what I refer to) would have ever happened. That...

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Her Name (An Epilogue Story to Mountain Flower)

The girl was gone.Deamus knew it the moment he stepped away from her. He did not look back; he did not have to. He had felt the way the darkness came for her, swiftly and quietly. He knew she was not in pain. And the strange ache in his heart would only grow more painful the longer he stayed with her. She had asked one thing of him, in a way that only a person who knows they cannot carry out the task themselves would. She had asked him to take the flower to her mother. He had promised he would, to the girl, and to himself. That he would...

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