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Susie Bennett

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jan, 2025

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29 Followers
20 Following

44 Stories

682 karma pts

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LOCAL INVENTOR CLAIMS TOASTER CAN TRAVEL THROUGH TIME

THE DAILY SPARK — Front Page, 3 March 2026 Harold ‘Toast‑Maverick’ McAllister, 42, of 7B Spruce Lane, allegedly programmed his kitchen appliance to ‘rewind burnt toast to a less‑charred past’. Police are still trying to determine whether the evidence is a broken appliance or an elaborate prank. ‘We’ve never seen a slice of bread return from the 17th century, perfectly buttered’, said Officer Ramirez, shaking his head while holding a soggy English muffin.Harold McAllerton's Personal Journal – 28 Feb 2026Dear Journal,I've finally done it. Afte...

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The Wellspring

Weekly Contest #313

It was the scent that hit her first, before the dust in her throat, before the sun on her scarred cheek. A clean, sharp tang of ozone, like the air after a lightning strike, but without the accompanying thunder. Beneath it, a profound, earthy musk, the smell of soil drinking deep, of roots awakening, of water finding its way through ancient veins of stone. It was a scent that didn't belong in the Barren Lands, a land perpetually choked by dust storms and scorched by a relentless sun. It was the smell of life, raw and potent, a scent so alien...

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Another Dawn

Weekly Contest #313

The cold embrace of the metallic floor was a familiar comfort against my chassis. No, not my chassis, my feet. Yes, my feet. The rhythmic hum of the life support systems was the only lullaby I had ever known, a constant assurance in the suffocating silence of the world beyond these walls. My internal chronometer indicated Cycle 7,305, Section Alpha-7 maintenance. Another dawn, another day.I rose, the subtle creak of my joints a minor complaint that my internal diagnostics quickly registered for future self-repair. My routine was etched into ...

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Oakhaven's Edge

Weekly Contest #313

Elara Vance had always seen the world in colours and textures, a vibrant tapestry that most people simply walked through. But lately, the tapestry felt threadbare, the colours muted, as if a thin film had settled over reality itself. Her canvases, once alive with the raw energy of urban sprawl or the quiet majesty of mountain ranges, now stood in her studio, mocking her with their blankness. A gnawing dissatisfaction, not with her skill, but with the very act of seeing, had begun to consume her. The world had become flat. Predictable.She pac...

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The Heartwood's Song

Weekly Contest #308

Elara lived on the fringes of the Whisperwood, a forest so ancient its boughs held secrets older than human memory. Her small cottage, nestled at the very edge where cultivated fields met wild, untamed growth, was a testament to her chosen life. She was a botanist, a collector of rare herbs, but more profoundly, a listener. She listened to the rustle of leaves, the gurgle of the stream, and the sigh of the wind through the towering elms—and she heard more than most. For the Whisperwood was not merely a collection of trees; it was a living, b...

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The Cartographer's Secret

Weekly Contest #306

The Journals of Elias ThorneEntry 1: March 12th, 1888The salt air stings my face, a welcome discomfort after weeks buried in London’s suffocating fog. The Sea Serpent creaks beneath my boots, eager to swallow the horizon. This is it. The Royal Geographical Society has entrusted me, Elias Thorne, with charting the uncharted – the southern coast of Terra Australis Incognita. A fanciful name for a land shrouded in mystery and speculation.Professor Armitage clapped me on the back before I boarded, his eyes gleaming with academic fervour. “Thorne...

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Where am I

Weekly Contest #305

The biting wind tore at my exposed cheeks, staining them a forbidding crimson. Snow, a seemingly endless cascade of icy needles, relentlessly assaulted my eyes, blurring the already indistinct landscape. It took a few seconds, perhaps even a full minute, for me to realise that I was completely lost.I’d been so foolish.The map, a tattered, laminated thing that felt more like a taunt than a guide, lay crumpled in my gloved hand. Its faded markings offered no comfort, no direction. I cursed the overconfidence that had led me to stray from the m...

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I don't understand

Weekly Contest #302

The flickering gas lamp cast elongated, dancing shadows across the cluttered shelves of Professor Eldridge’s study. Dust motes, disturbed by my frantic pacing, swirled in the weak light, mimicking the chaos in my own mind. I gripped the worn leather armrests of the professor's chair, the only stable thing in a world that had suddenly tilted on its axis. I stared at the intricate, almost alien symbols etched into the obsidian amulet lying on the mahogany desk."I don't understand," I repeated, the words a hollow echo in the silent room.Profess...

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The Raven's Shadow Over Prague

The year was 1618. Prague, the jewel of Bohemia, pulsed with a nervous energy. The Holy Roman Emperor, Ferdinand II, a staunch Catholic, was tightening his grip, threatening the hard-won religious freedoms of the Protestant Bohemians. In the labyrinthine alleys and grand squares, whispers of rebellion mingled with the incense of simmering resentment.Elias, a bookbinder with hands stained with ink and eyes that held the weight of ancient knowledge, was no soldier, no politician. He lived for the smell of aged paper, the rhythm of needle and t...

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I had until midnight

Weekly Contest #302

The neon sign of the Rusty Mug buzzed a mournful tune, casting a flickering orange glow onto my face. Rain hammered against the grimy windows, mirroring the relentless drumming in my chest. I fished out a crumpled ten from my pocket, the last of my cash, and slid it across the sticky countertop."Another one, Mickey," I mumbled, barely audible above the din of the bar.Mickey, the bartender, a man whose face looked like it had been carved from granite and weathered by a thousand storms, grunted and slapped a shot of cheap whisky in front of me...

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Alia's Special Biryani kahan milega?

The humid Karachi air hung thick and heavy, clinging to Zara like a damp cloth. She adjusted her headscarf, the vibrant silk doing little to alleviate the discomfort. Around her, the bustling marketplace throbbed with life – vendors hawking dates and spices, children chasing stray dogs, and the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. Zara, a British-Pakistani woman spending her summer break reconnecting with her roots, felt a strange sense of belonging and displacement all at once. She was home, but also a stranger.Today’s mission: find the...

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This isn’t what I signed up for

Weekly Contest #301

The salt spray stung Elara’s face as the skiff bucked and shuddered on the turbulent waves. The wind, a mournful howl, tore at her cloak, threatening to rip it from her grasp. Rain lashed down with the ferocity of a scorned lover, blurring the already indistinct horizon. She gripped the railing of the small vessel, her knuckles white, and swallowed hard, trying to suppress the rising tide of nausea."This isn't what I signed up for,” she muttered, the words almost lost to the storm’s fury.Just a few weeks ago, Elara had been surrounded by the...

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This box...it whispers of endings.

Weekly Contest #301

The rhythmic clang of the grandfather clock echoed through Elias Thorne's antique-filled study, each chime a hammer blow against the fragile edifice of his composure. He sat hunched in his worn leather armchair, a half-empty glass of amber liquid trembling in his hand. Outside, the wind howled like a banshee, clawing at the ancient stone walls of Thorne Manor, a sound that mirrored the tempest raging within him.Elias, a renowned antiquarian and historian, was a man defined by order and control. His life was meticulously curated, a fortress b...

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My memories are a kaleidoscope of vibrant images

Weekly Contest #300

The salt spray stung my face as I stood on the cliff edge, the wind tearing at my threadbare coat. Below, the churning grey water of the Atlantic crashed against the rocks, a relentless symphony of loss. I closed my eyes, the image of Avonlea rising in my mind, not as it was now, a mere memory etched in the hearts of a few, but as it had been.Avonlea. A name that tasted of sea salt and peat smoke, a place that existed on the fringes of the world, clinging to the craggy coastline of Ireland with the tenacity of a limpet. It wasn't on any map,...

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Queen Victoria pantaloons were gone!

Weekly Contest #299

Right, buckle up, butter your popcorn, and prepare for a rollercoaster of ridiculousness. I present to you the saga of Bartholomew Butterfield and the Case of the Purloined Pantaloons.Bartholomew Butterfield, a man whose life was as beige as his wardrobe, lived in the quaint, somewhat eccentric village of Little Piddleton. Bartholomew’s greatest passion in life, aside from meticulously alphabetising his collection of commemorative spoons, was his collection of antique pantaloons. Not just any pantaloons, mind you. These were pantaloons of hi...

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