reedsymarketplace
Assemble a team of professionals
reedsystudio
The writing app for authors
reedsylearning
Writing courses, events and memberships
reedsydiscovery
Get your book reviewed
reedsyprompts
Weekly writing prompts and contests
Writing courses, events and conferences
Upcoming events
True Stories with Michael Finkel
September 14, 2026
The Final Frontier: Writing Science Fiction
September 15, 2026
The Long Haul: How to Build a Writing Career That Lasts
September 21, 2026
Better Villains, Stronger Stories
September 28, 2026
Learn how to succeed as a writer from the best in the business.
Every writer needs a Studio
Check out our writing app for authors!
Menu
More apps built by Reedsy
Author on Reedsy Prompts since May, 2026
Weekly Contest #371
Edith Marsh had a rule about old buildings: touch the frame before you touch the room. Not because she believed anything lived in the wood, but because a doorway held a building's temperature longer than any other part of it, and a person who paid attention there could usually tell, before taking a single step further, whether a place had been loved or merely occupied. The Hotel Cortland kept its cold like a secret. She felt it through her glove on the brass of the lobby door, an old cold that had settled in over decades of guests leaving wi...
Weekly Contest #369
The man opposite me had brought three photographs, though nobody had asked him to, and in all three his dog was asleep somewhere inconvenient — under a car, half in a flowerbed, wedged into a gap behind the sofa too narrow for anything with a spine."He slept like that every night," he said, and touched the edge of the top photograph as if straightening it might make it more true.Arthur. A whippet, fourteen years old. Kidney failure, nine days ago."Thirty-two percent," the technician said, and the man's eyes went to the display between our ch...
The glove arrived three days after the funeral.No note. No return address. Just a small cardboard box on the kitchen table beside the unopened condolence cards and the bowl of oranges beginning to collapse into themselves.Eva almost threw it away unopened.Her mother had hated pink.Not mildly disliked it. Hated it with a personal intensity, as if the color itself had insulted her once in public.“Pink is what people use when they want to disguise cruelty as softness,” she used to say.So the glove made no sense.It lay inside the box folded care...
Oops, you need an account for that!
Log in with your social account:
Or enter your email: