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
Unreliable Narrators: When Your Storyteller Gets It Wrong
November 02, 2026
Beyond Book One: Writing a Bingeable Series
November 03, 2026
5 Ways to Write More Creative Sex
November 09, 2026
People on the Page: Crafting Characters Readers Care About
November 10, 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 Aug, 2025
Weekly Contest #377
CW: Death in hospice Her mother stops breathing at 11:52, and Marta checks the flight. She doesn’t decide to. Her thumb is already on the screen when she notices the room is quiet. The screen says F9 2660 · DENVER—ISLIP · ON TIME. Above it, in the bed, nothing is happening. No sound from the chest under the blanket. The oxygen hisses along on its own, feeding a face that has stopped asking for it. Then a breath. Ordinary, almost bored. Then another. Then a run of quick shallow ones, like someone climbing stairs. “That’s the Cheyne-Stokes,” ...
Weekly Contest #375
At 2:07 a.m. the shoulder of Kamehameha Highway was gravel and old windshield glass, and Kimo was running on it barefoot toward a flashlight that kept jabbing at the oncoming lane. Sonny Akana, from two houses down, was at the hydrant in boxers and one rubber slipper, holding her by the wrist. “She was on the line, brah. Right on it.” Pua was three. Honu pajamas, one sleeve shoved up. She stood with her back to the houses and her face to the water, which at that hour was a sound past the road and nothing else. The Kāne moon was still below t...
Weekly Contest #371
Valerie pulled off at the rest area because the lane markers had started coming in pairs. Twin dashes. Twin reflectors. Two of every green sign, one stacked above the other like a bad translation. Past Richmond, the crying stopped being something she was doing and became something she was having. Like a stomach bug. Waves, then a false calm, then waves. The false calms were the dangerous part. She'd wipe her face on her sleeve, get the Corolla back up to seventy-two, and then a billboard would offer her a Cracker Barrel and her face would...
Oops, you need an account for that!
Log in with your social account:
Or enter your email:
13 likes
