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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jun, 2022
Submitted to Contest #328
The air used to taste of rain. Now it tasted of copper and dust.We had been warned, of course. For centuries. The satellites sang the same melody, year after year, the rising carbon, dying algae, oceans blooming red with organisms that ate what they should have only tasted. It should have been obvious. But we were too proud to stop. Too distracted by profit and progress, and the soft narcotic of thinking we had time. We chose to be oblivious.I record this now from what’s left of the Northern Hemisphere. Our towers are empty. The atmosphere d...
Submitted to Contest #320
The wind had teeth that day. Hot, dry gusts whipped through jarrah and marri like the whole forest wanted to howl. Every time it shifted, the fire changed with it, ribbons of flame flaring sideways, leaping through the treetops in seconds. The smoke didn’t rise so much as roll, tumbling down gullies, thick and choking, so it was hard to tell where the front actually was.We had been at it since dawn. First blacking-out around farm sheds, then laying hose through a stand of pines the farmer swore he’d cleared only last week. Now the fire had j...
Submitted to Contest #309
The kettle clicked off. Margot, hands slightly shaking, reached for the chipped floral teapot with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things. Two cups. One sugar in his, none in hers. Just like always. She shuffled across the room with slow, careful steps. Harold was already waiting, sitting up straight in his chair, trousers freshly pressed, hair combed to one side. A gentleman. “Afternoon tea,” she announced, offering him his cup with a soft smile. “You always make it just right,” Harold said, his eyes crinkling. “You spoil me.” Mar...
Submitted to Contest #308
He stepped out into the washed-out light of a winter afternoon, boots sinking into black, rain-softened earth. The kind that clung to your soles and didn’t let go. Behind him, the bush whispered, not with wind, but with memory. Damp eucalypt, distant crows, the smell of wood rot and something older beneath it.The others were gone. Lost, maybe. Or had he left them?Three days, I muttered. Three bloody days, and not a soul in sight.He had come inland with maps and a rifle, a man tasked with “opening up” country for a settler’s road.. though no ...
Submitted to Contest #307
I didn’t believe in ghosts. At least not in the way whitefellas talk about them.To my professors, spirits were metaphors. Cautionary tales for primitive minds.But to my people, to the Noongar, spirits were real.Sometimes sleeping. Sometimes walking. Sometimes watching.But always there.So when I saw the artifact in the museum flyer, I knew exactly what it was. Ngarlu-Kurr. A black stone. Swollen. Intimidating.Unearthed by BarrowCorp miners near the Porongurup Range. Now on display in Perth, under halogen lights.They called it the Warding Ston...
Submitted to Contest #306
Prelude: The Forgotten War of the East Oftentimes, the Second World War is remembered as a European conflict—an arena of white armies, white victims, white heroes. We are taught to chart its beginning from 1939, with Hitler’s invasion of Poland. We learn of Nazi death camps, Allied resistance, and the fall of Berlin as if the world outside Europe were only a backdrop.Japan is mentioned—briefly. Pearl Harbor, Hiroshima, maybe the Rape of Nanjing if the syllabus is generous. But even then, Japan is cast as an antagonist whose atrocities are co...
Winner of Contest #300 🏆
I’m a miner. I dig holes for a living. ‘Dig’ is a generous word, really. I blow things up so we can go deeper. Drill, charge, blast then bog it out. Then repeat. It’s loud, dirty, and dangerous. But it’s honest work, and there’s a rhythm to it, one that makes sense. Until the day it didn’t The mine is called Kalgara Deep, carved beneath the sun-blasted hills of Western Australia, three hours from the nearest servo, and six from anything you could call a town. It’s not on any tourist map. Just a dot behind a red dirt road lined with scrub and...
Submitted to Contest #299
I swear it wasn’t my fault.Okay, yes, I was standing in the middle of the Queen’s botanical garden at three in the morning, covered head to toe in goose feathers, holding what appeared to be the missing ceremonial orb of Saint Winifred, and yelling something about the moon being a hologram. But if you just give me one minute—just one—I can explain everything.It all started with a pigeon. A very suspicious pigeon.I was walking home from work. Mind you, this was a normal Tuesday. No prophecies, no strange lights in the sky. Just me, a sad litt...
Submitted to Contest #297
The first bullet cracked past my ear like a snapped branch. Then came the rest, a hail of them, chewing into trees and mud around me. I threw myself down, breath caught in my throat, chest tight with that sudden, electric terror that you don’t think about. You just react to it. My rifle slammed into the dirt with me. My cheek stung where gravel bit into it.“Left flank! They’re fucking moving up!” Pasha’s voice came from somewhere through the chaos, maybe ten meters behind me, muffled by the roar of gunfire and the ringing in my ears. Or mayb...
Submitted to Contest #296
I had always believed my son was good. Henry was a good kid. I knew it in my heart. Not perfect. No, of course not. No child is.Sure there had been fights in school, broken windows, a stolen wallet in eighth grade. But boys made mistakes. Boys learned. I raised him to be kind, to be strong, to do the right thing. I believed in him.I believed in him once. I really did.But with the detective sitting across from me, with her eyes like polished stone.Doubt crept in. Does that make me a terrible father? Am I a bad dad for doubting my own?“We have...
Submitted to Contest #293
“Timothy, sit down and shut up. Don’t make me tell you again.”“But Dad, I want to see how far I can jump.”“Sit. Down.”“But daaad—”“Not here. Not now. Don’t do this to me, Tim.”The father exhales sharply, pressing two fingers to his temple. Three hours. That’s all he’s asking for. Three quiet, uneventful hours from Perth to Adelaide. No screaming kids, no feet kicking his chair, no running up and down the aisles. More specifically, could the one causing havoc please not be his own?Timothy crosses his arms, sulking. Flying is boring. Why could...
Submitted to Contest #292
Red.Red is love.Red is passion.It’s luck just as much as it is danger.Red is the warning before the fall.It is the colour of heat, of life rushing through veins, of the world at its most alive.But red is also the final colour. The one that stains, that lingers, that does not wash away.It’s pain. Corruption disguised as progress. It’s as much heartache as it is heartwarming.Eliza would learn this in time.At first, red was only a word to her, something the doctor described in hushed, reverent tones before the surgery.“Red is warmth,” he had sa...
Submitted to Contest #291
Hahaha!A childish giggle broke the silence.The hunter stiffened.Cloaked in darkness, hidden beneath a towering pine, he had waited motionless for hours, his breath slow, his rifle steady. A trophy buck in his sight.But now, he wasn’t alone.“Where are you, Daddy? Hahaha!” The voice was soft, playful, floating through the trees.The hunter’s grip tightened. He peered through his scope, scanning the darkness as his prize fled. A few minutes passed. The forest was still. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound, but then the voice.“Hahaha! I see you, ...
Submitted to Contest #290
They couldn’t stop looking at the sky that night. Ribbons of green and purple, pulsing above the city skyline.“Auroras here?” Anna whispered, eyes wide.Steven pulled her close, his hands resting low on her waist. “Never thought we’d see this here, of all places.”The lights were dazzling, and it wasn’t just them who took notice. On all the balconies of their apartment complex, couples and families stood, heads tilted back, faces painted in the flashing colors. A shared silence, awed, uncertain.Kuala Lumpur was normally lively with the sound o...
Shortlisted for Contest #290 ⭐️
Humans love their scripts.Get born. Go to school. Work. Pay bills. Die. Maybe squeeze in a holiday if you’re lucky. And if something shows up that doesn’t fit the narrative—something like, say, a talking platypus—you shove it in a box labeled ‘Crazy’ and move on.It takes most people years, decades even, to change their way of thinking. Catastrophes, miracles, life-shattering events. For me, it was a gray Thursday afternoon at the park. And the words:“The beak isn’t even the weirdest part of me.”I’d been happily enduring my burnt, lukewarm co...
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