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Rebecca Lewis

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2023

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150 Stories

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The Softness After

I drift above the floorboards the way smoke drifts from a candle that forgot it was supposed to burn out. Most nights are quiet in this old house. The walls groan, the windows shiver, and I listen to it all the way someone alive listens to rain. I do not remember the moment I died. Memory is slippery when you have no hands to hold it. I know I was someone who loved this place. I know the rose garden outside once smelled sweeter than anything in my life. I know the piano in the parlor remembers my fingers even if I no longer have any. The new...

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The Small Truths of Moving Forward

James stayed on the fire escape until the cold had settled so deeply into his sleeves that he could feel each thread stiffen. By then the couple below had vanished around the corner, swallowed by the grid of city streets. The moment was already drifting into memory, thin as breath on glass. He slipped back inside and shut the window, trapping the last bit of cold behind him like a stowaway. The apartment felt expectant. It was a strange feeling, almost like stepping into a room that had been holding its breath. He moved through it slowly. Th...

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The Shape of Quiet

The house on Wren Street kept its secrets in the quiet way old places do. Narrow and two-storied, its chipped paint curled like dried petals, and the porch rail leaned forward as if listening. Gauri lived there three months before the noises began. Not the soft settling of beams or the grumble of pipes, but a gentle tapping that traveled through the walls with the persistence of a polite visitor. She tried ignoring it. She played the radio late into the night, letting voices blur together until they formed a single, numbing haze. She layered...

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When the World Went Quiet

I remember the night the power went out. Not just in the house — everywhere. The whole grid collapsed, like someone had yanked the plug on the world. No warning, no storm. One moment everything buzzed with electricity, and the next it was all gone. Lights blinked out. Screens froze. The hum of modern life died in an instant. At first, we thought it was just our block. Then we stepped outside and saw that the entire neighborhood was dark. No porch lights. No distant glow from traffic. The sky looked huge, like it had grown overnight. My dad s...

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The Sky That Called Him Back

In the summer of 1987, in a dusty corner of a gas station off Route 46 in New Jersey, eight-year-old Dale King sat on a torn vinyl bench, swinging his legs and trying to disappear. His mother was arguing with the mechanic — something about a radiator leak and a price that didn’t match the sign out front. The air smelled like motor oil and burnt coffee. A flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead like it was running out of reasons to stay alive. That’s when Dale saw it — a quarter, face-up, right at the base of a soda machine. It wasn’t gr...

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The Summer Before I Knew Myself

When I think of that summer, it always starts with the cicadas. Their sound wasn’t just noise; it lived inside the air, inside my teeth, inside the boards of the porch. It was a kind of weather. A shimmer that made everything feel a little far away, as if the whole neighborhood was already a memory even while we were still living it. I can still see the porch. The paint curling like dried petals, thin enough to flake off onto the backs of my thighs when I sat too long. The wood held the heat no matter the hour. It smelled of old summers sunk...

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Where the Fifth Star Falls

In the kingdom of Velmira, the stars told the truth. Every hundred years or so, the sky shifted, and five stars aligned over the northern horizon. Scholars called it the Crown of Fire. Priests called it the Hand of Fate. But the people remembered it by a simpler name- the Fifth Star. Once, long ago, a child was born beneath that burning alignment. He grew up to be a warlord who scorched the land for a decade, toppling cities, turning rivers red, and crowning himself in blood. When he finally fell, Velmira swore an oath- should five stars lig...

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Rain on the Barn, Snow on the Campus Lawn

France, 1944 — Vladislav, Age 19 Rain lashes the broken roof of the barn. Vladislav hunches beside the radio, fingers trembling as he dials the frequency again. Static. Then a blip. Another. A signal. He glances at the others — three resistance fighters, soaked and silent. The youngest, barely sixteen, is holding a pistol like it’s heavier than his arm. They’re waiting for word from London- confirmation that tonight’s drop will land in the field behind the monastery. His job is to listen. Vladislav adjusts the antenna, heart pounding. The s...

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No Safe Choice Part 2

—David’s hand. The café froze. Boyink’s jaw tightened, his calm splintering into something darker. Jess didn’t breathe; she couldn’t. David’s fingers closed around hers, and in the next heartbeat, they were moving — not running yet, but close enough that every step felt stolen. Chairs scraped. Someone shouted. Rainlight flared in the windows. Then they were outside, swallowed by the downpour. The rain hit like needles. Jess barely registered the cold before David pulled her down an alley slick with puddles. “You shouldn’t have done that,” sh...

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The House on Waverly Street

By night, the house felt wrong. The air had weight — not like heat or humidity, but pressure, like the kind that settles over you just before a storm or a scream. It pressed against the windows, the floorboards, Sarah’s skin. It gathered in corners like dust, clinging even when the lights were on. She sat in the armchair again. The same one. She had never moved it — not since the funeral. Shifting it would be like giving the room permission to change, like admitting the world had gone on without her. And it hadn’t. Not really. Not in here. A...

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The Day the Cat Refused Consequences

A cat was stuck in a tree. Not just any cat — Mrs. Fetterman's orange monster, a beast of myth and menace among the neighborhood children. It wasn’t large, exactly, but it radiated an aura of entitlement so intense it warped reality. Its eyes glowed with the unearned confidence of something that had never faced consequences. The cat’s name was Tiberius. He sat on a high, gnarled branch like a Roman emperor surveying peasants — tail flicking, ears twitching, utterly unbothered. Below, chaos simmered. A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk...

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The Cat Who Waits

The Cat Who Waits I was a crow once. Then a rat. Now a cat. Bodies are like coats — you wear what suits the weather, and the weather of magic changes often. My witch is named Catherine. She has the sort of face that looks like it remembers laughter but hasn’t used it much lately. She lives in a crooked cottage that smells of thyme and burnt sugar, tucked at the edge of a forest that doesn’t quite like being watched. Catherine found me on a stormy night, naturally. They always do. She was scavenging for mugwort by the riverbank when she hear...

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What the Bottle Remembers Part 2

The laughter began as a kind of rebellion — brittle, half-hysterical, the sound people make when logic finally gives up and something larger moves in. Lavanya was the first to break. It rose from her chest in a tremor that caught even her off guard, a disbelieving giggle that cracked into full laughter. She bent forward, covering her face. The sound seemed to startle the green light in the bottle — it pulsed sharply, then steadied, like a heartbeat learning to sync with hers. Drew’s laughter followed, hesitant at first, then helpless. The ab...

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Small Errors

Kash Shaikh was not unkind. He simply misunderstood people. He had read somewhere — he could no longer remember where — that the secret to likability was “warmth.” So, Kash practiced warmth. He smiled at everyone, even when he didn’t feel like it. He nodded too often. He leaned forward during conversations, eager to show engagement. He thought this made people comfortable. It did not. On Monday mornings, when his coworkers shuffled into the office bleary-eyed and grim, Kash would be waiting near the coffee machine. “Big weekend?” he’d say, a...

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Elegy of the Eighth World

The Weaver’s Gift In the first dawn of the third world, when mountains still remembered the hands that shaped them, there lived a weaver named Ashley. Her craft was peerless- she could spin light into thread, and from it make garments that shimmered with memory. Kings came to her for robes that sang their victories; mourners came for veils that whispered the names of the dead. One day, she found a wounded serpent tangled in her loom. Its scales were cracked and bleeding gold. The creature looked at her with an intelligence older than fire, ...

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