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Rebecca Lewis

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2023

Stories (394)

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25 Followers

24 Following

394 Stories

660 karma pts

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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.Abov...

1 like

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 lik...

2 likes

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 he...

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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 abs...

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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, as ...

2 likes

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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Through the Black Window Part 2

David’s breath came in shallow, measured pulls. The room smelled like pine smoke and fear. His sister’s eyes — wide, wet, desperate — anchored him in a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.The woman from the car leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him with that unnerving calm people use when they think they’re saving you from yourself.“Sit,” she said.David didn’t move.“I said sit.”The hooded figure nudged him with the barrel of a gun he hadn’t noticed until now. He sat. The chair creaked beneath him.“You said you made her,” David said...

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Wake Up Dead

Joshua Parker used to be ordinary — an adjunct lecturer who graded too slowly, drank too much coffee, and fell asleep to crime podcasts. His life was unremarkable enough to feel safe. Until the mornings changed.It started with songs that didn’t exist. He’d wake humming lyrics he didn’t recognize, melodies too perfect to be accidental. When he tried to hum them again, they vanished, leaving only the shape of sound in his mind. He wrote them down under a heading in his bedside notebook- Dream Fragments.Dr. Lee, his therapist, called it hypnopo...

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The Deep Calls

The water looked black. Not just dark — black, like a mirror reflecting nothing. Mallory stood at the edge of the quarry, shivering despite the heat that pressed down on her shoulders like a hand that wouldn’t lift.Cicadas droned from the trees. The air smelled of dust and iron and the faint sweetness of algae.The others had left hours ago. Only the echo of their laughter still clung to the rocks — faint and hollow, as if the quarry itself were trying to remember what joy sounded like.She’d been coming here since childhood, climbing over the...

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The Shape Beneath the Waves

A woman stood at the edge of the water, the tide pulling thin lines of foam across her bare feet. The sea wasn’t calm tonight — neither was she — but it moved with a kind of rhythm that steadied her breathing. The horizon was a jagged bruise of deep blue and silver where the moon had split the clouds.Behind her, the old town slept. She could still hear the faint hum of its lights and the creak of fishing boats tied to their posts. She used to love that sound when she was a child. It meant her father was home. It meant the world was small and...

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The Patient Silence

The air tastes like iron and dust. I keep swallowing, but it never goes away. Every breath drags through grit, like I’m inhaling the bones of the building itself. Every sound makes me jerk my head toward the doorway — each creak, each echo — but it’s always the same- nothing. Silence, heavy and patient.I’ve stopped yelling. The first few hours, I screamed until my throat split into raw edges. I shouted names — my crew, my sister, God, anyone. Now I just sit and listen to the sound of my own heartbeat. It’s the only rhythm left.We were suppos...

2 likes

The Last Train Out Part 2

The train slid into the station, brakes sighing as it came to rest. Robert stood at the platform’s edge, watching the doors part. Morning light touched the steel, turning it to gold. A few passengers stepped off — a man in a suit, a woman with a suitcase, a teenager with headphones — all moving with the practiced ease of people who belonged somewhere.He still hadn’t decided if he did.Jackie’s voice drifted back- If you’re gonna go, just go. But if you’re gonna stay, then stay. It should have been simple — yes or no — but life blurs what shou...

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At 2:13

2:13 a.m. The number hums on the clock — blue, steady, absolute. Belinda doesn’t need the alarm anymore; her body keeps the time for her. She lies still, listening — the soft tick of the fridge, the wind pressing against the window, the faint hum under her ribs. The world feels paused, waiting for her to begin.She reaches for the notebook without turning on the light. The paper is worn thin at the corners, pages furred from her fingers. The pen sits exactly where it should — capped, angled toward her hand. Left thumb to spine, right hand poi...

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The Quiet That Stayed

Every Sunday night at 11:11, Tania lit a single candle. No prayers, no hymns — only the rasp of the match, the breath that followed, and the small surrender of fire to wick. She set the candle on the windowsill beside a chipped mug of water, folded her legs beneath her, and waited for the silence to settle.It began as remembrance. Her brother had died at 11:11 on a Sunday night, and the act of lighting the candle gave that hour shape, kept it from collapsing into ordinary time. But repetition has gravity; it pulled her into devotion. The rit...

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The Ninth Circle

The salt never stays white in Saint Ilya. By morning it yellows like old teeth, drinking the valley’s breath. Rachel pours another line across the church steps. Her hands tremble less from fear than from the echo of every time she’s done this before. The crystals cling to her fingers — remembering her, then forgetting.Behind her, the congregation hums the old tune — the one no one writes down because everyone swears they remember it. Each year it changes, as though the valley corrects them. Tonight it drifts between hymn and dirge, the sound...

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Author bio

I love. I don’t do things halfway, and I don’t know how to be detached when something matters to me. When I commit, I’m all in — even when it costs me, even when I know it might hurt. I notice everything- shifts in tone, small details, when something feels off. Once I see it, I can’t unsee it. I need things to mean something. I don’t skim through life or people. I sit with feelings, replay moments, question narratives, and refuse to accept easy answers just to be comfortable. I don’t trust tidy moral stories or authority for its own sake. I’m drawn to darker, moodier art because it feels honest — it doesn’t pretend everything is okay when it isn’t. I’m grieving, and that’s real, but it isn’t all of who I am. I’m loyal to my core, aware, creative, and honest. I don’t want platitudes or surface-level fixes. I want the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. I loved hard. I lost hard. And I’m still here. Bruised, human, and stronger than I give myself credit for.