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Sophie De La Fuente

Author on Reedsy Prompts since May, 2026

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23 Followers
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5 Stories

135 karma pts

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A Long Proof

Weekly Contest #373

Author's note: A Long Proof is a standalone story featuring Edith Marsh, the main character first introduced in my story "Room Fourteen." You don't need to have read the first story to follow this one. Edith Marsh touched the doorframe of Penhale's Bakery before she touched anything else, as she did in every building, and the wood answered with a warmth she had not expected. It was the last week of October, the rain coming sideways along Harrow Lane, and the shop had been shut for eighteen days. Yet the frame beneath her glove held the dry,...

19 likes 2 comments 2
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Me Neither

Weekly Contest #372

At 1:43 in the morning, Alison checked where her daughter was. She did this without putting on her glasses, which made the map bloom softly around the edges: France was a pale shape beneath her thumb, roads dissolving into one another, town names requiring more commitment than she was willing to give them. The blue dot was still in Lyon. Good. She put the phone facedown on the bedside table. Beside her, Neil made the small clicking sound at the back of his throat that had accompanied twenty-three years of marriage and, according to him, did...

22 likes 14 comments 14
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Room Fourteen

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 w...

23 likes 14 comments 14
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Carrying Capacity

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...

14 likes 6 comments 6
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Pink Glove

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 fold...

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