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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Sep, 2026
Weekly Contest #370
CW: Violence, references to self-harm and sexual assault I always thought death would smell like the freshly turned earth of my father's yam farm. It turns out dying just reeks of stale piss and fermented palm wine. A guard shoves me into the cell. My knees tear against jagged stone, and a heavy boot slams into my ribs. I taste copper. "You swing from the executioner's rope tomorrow," he spits, wiping his mouth. He turns to the dark corner of the cell. "And you. You burn. Pity we have to waste good firewood." The heavy iron door slams shut ...
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