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Sheng Liang Kuan

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2026

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The Weight Behind Me

I always knew when someone was behind me. Not footsteps, exactly. Footsteps are honest things; they announce themselves and leave you the dignity of turning around. This was something else, a pressure at the base of my neck, like a hand held an inch from my skin, close enough that I could feel its warmth and never once its touch. It started when I was twenty-six, the winter after my father died, and everyone had a ready explanation. Grief does strange things, they said. Grief makes the house breathe and the dark lean in. I accepted that for ...

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The Dream Wolf

The digital clock on Kelvin Somnia’s nightstand bled a baleful 3:17 AM. Insomnia was a familiar, unwelcome guest, but tonight it felt particularly stubborn. His remedy, as always, was on the shelf: a small, neat flock of ceramic sheep figurines. He’d line them up on his duvet, a fluffy white battalion against the dark, and count them, one by one, until the rhythm lulled him under. He placed the first one. “One.” A placid, woolly face stared back. He placed the second. “Two.” This one had a tiny, painted bell. “Three.” A lamb, mid-prance. He ...

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The Incident in the Cemetery

The morning light, pale and indifferent, cut through the grime on Larry Lifespawn’s window. It illuminated the empty space in the safe, a dark, velvet-lined void where his legacy had rested. The Reawakening Potion. Eighteen generations of Lifespawns had guarded it, a single, shimmering vial of viscous silver liquid that could pull a soul back from the brink, just once. And now, it was gone. Larry’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. He had checked the lock, a complex mechanism of his own design, three times. No scratches, no signs of...

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The Last Vampire

The Last Vampire The dust of three centuries coats my throat like a second skin. It is not the thirst—that hollow, scraping ache behind my ribs—but the ash of the library’s tomes that I have not touched in decades. I am Vamie Valsokia, and I am the last. The title sits on my shoulders like a shroud. Outside this crumbling estate, the world has moved on. The forests are quieter, the moon is a paler silver, and the wolves are howling at our borders. My father is in the east solar, the one room where the morning sun, in its cruel arc, has begun...

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