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Author on Reedsy Prompts since Feb, 2020
Submitted to Contest #327
“That’s it,” Joe yelled. “Final straw—I can’t connect!” He darted from kitchen table to rickety verandah, holding his laptop: the dance of the fading WiFi. “Hello, sweetheart,” Griselda crooned as she sidled up the path to their cottage. In the distance two ravens cawed and a motorboat hummed across the wide blue lake. A bucket swung on her arm; it held her beloved stinky newts and toads under bunches of noxious herbs. “Were you talking to me, dear?”Joe averted his eyes quickly—before she could mesmerize him. He forced himself to look only a...
Submitted to Contest #321
Nervous as hell, Stanley did the job he had to do. He strode into First Savings & Loan at 11:05 AM and held up the bank. He steeled himself against the reactions of panic and fright, as much from patrons and employees as himself, repeating the mantras “I deserve a piece of the pie,” even if he had to “rip it from the hands of greedy capitalists.” How else would he feed his hungry boy Roderick? How else would he pay the sanatorium fees for his sick wife Helen? The country was staggering under the worst economic times since the civil war, ...
Submitted to Contest #320
In the desert a fountain is springingIn the wide waste there is still a treeAnd a bird in the solitude singingWhich speaks to my spirit of thee.― Lord Byron We dilly-dallied in Green’s Grocery, Katrina and I, listening to the hit “One More Time” by the teen sensation Britney Spears playing over the crackling loudspeaker. Eventually we selected our Drumstick cones, and grumpy old Mr. Green shooed us outside. We didn’t care. The song was over. We had other things on our mind.We strolled down dusty Lake Road, tearing off the gaudy blue Drumstic...
Submitted to Contest #318
I finish washing up—one cup, one plate, one fork. I’m passing by the door on my way to watch TV all by my lonesome when I hear voices. The words are muffled, but the tones are unmistakable: exasperation and persuasion. I fetch my trusted ear-cone and press it to the door. “What are you doing here?” Rhiannon’s tone carries clear as a bell. She used to sing in a popular choir until she quit it a couple years ago because she was working so many evenings.“One last chance, babe. Hear me out.” Eddy’s voice is half-comfortable sweater, half-existen...
Submitted to Contest #317
On Thursday a bunch of us data jocks got together over drinks to celebrate end-of-quarter. We ran out of conversation, so people started boasting about where they’d spent their last vacation: skiing in Dubai and surfing in Antarctica. That’s when Lancaster, the renowned “early adopter” in the office, brought up time-travel. He’d spent a wild weekend sampling the Roaring Twenties in a gin joint packed with flappers. It had been arranged through ChronoPort, the company that had taken time travel out of CERN and privatized it. “Think of chronos...
Submitted to Contest #315
Legs splayed over the arm of the biggest chair, Shane chews the neckline of his Old Navy T-shirt, holding a deluxe Time-Life book to use as camouflage. He’s brooding over his next Top-Secret project, and has decided to hide it among the pages of this book, titled Abandoned Places. News junkie Dad has sections of the Sunday New York Times fanned out over the circular coffee table. He’s nursing a shotglass of Jameson’s whiskey. Mom reclines on the large Mouflon sheepskin rug and three cushions in front of the unused limestone fireplace. She’s ...
Shortlisted for Contest #314 ⭐️
Eddy runs out to the parking lot, ahead of the others. It’s flat and hot, like Grandma’s frying pan when she turns the burner on high. Letting it warm up just before her butterknife slices off a waxy square of yellow butter and chases it around the pan. Round and round the butter goes, the square losing its sharp corners and the butter slip-sliding in a greasy puddle, getting smaller and smaller until it vanishes and there is only hot brown grease in the pan.Eddy always ducks his head near the pan to smell the browned butter. And Grandma, la...
Submitted to Contest #313
Once upon a time in the village of Wishyouwell there lived a crabby old woman called Ears-A-Plenty. She was called Ears-A-Plenty because it was true, she did have more ears than the average two or three that we might have nowadays. Yes, she even wore the extra ears, sprouting from the top of her head, gathered up with a velvet ribbon like a bouquet of posies. Ears-A-Plenty was a shopkeeper, the best shopkeeper for miles around. Each morning, smells of coffee and buttered toast wafted on the breeze, gathering customers to her. Once inside the...
Submitted to Contest #311
“Come,” Billy said, circling my wrist with his fingers and pulling me to the garage. I’d just finished transplanting the daffodil bulbs, a mucky mindless operation that Charles used to do each spring, and I welcomed the interruption by this gangly gap-toothed kid. Or, perhaps I should say, young man, because Billy was turning twenty that day. I looked around our garage: lawn mower, gardening hoops, and heaped-up boxes of Charles’ things that make me weep when I open them. Propped against the nail board hung with saws, shovels, and coils of r...
Submitted to Contest #307
When Jenna suggested to her best friend that they move off-campus together, Mallory was all for it. Their dorm had become a party palace full of constant distraction, not to mention fire alarms going off at 2 AM. They had met as first-year psychology students, and Mallory hoped Jenna’s good study habits would rub off on her and they could finish their four-year psychology degrees together next June. But things changed quickly when Jenna met Gavin, a grad student who casually mentioned he was working for the hottest new talent on campus, Pro...
Submitted to Contest #304
“Oh my God, you just wouldn’t believe it,” Martina says, “they’re falling off and swimming till they drown from exhaustion or they’re fighting each other to the death for the last patch of ice.” She has that strained, distraught look that makes him back up six inches. “Whoa, what are we talking about here? The play-offs?” Justin says, plopping his bike pannier against the wall and peeling off his rain jacket as he looks at her computer screen. He’s in the mood to watch blood sports to take his mind off the latest rumor of downsizing at work...
Submitted to Contest #301
When that midnight phone call came, during a sky-splitting thunderstorm, I should have ignored it. But it could have been something serious–Mom’s nerves or Dad’s heart. You never know. “Bruni, you’ve gotta help me.” The hoarse voice on the other end sounded familiar but I was too sleepy to recognize the caller. “Can I crash at your place?” said the low rasp. “I just—I just—”Crash. Ah—that was the giveaway. “Where are you, Liuva? Are you okay?” I sputtered. What new emergency was this? My sister was contacting me four years after she’d sworn ...
Submitted to Contest #300
The plan made sense on every level. Eric Keane stood, watching the strong north wind judder naked tree branches outside the bedroom window. Far in the distance the white cliffs stood sentry along the seacoast. Indoors, he heard the bang-clank of Mrs. Potts’ arrival as she dragged the vacuum up the carpeted stairs. He massaged his eye sockets with the heels of his palms then opened his eyes again. I must hold on, he thought as he dressed.A tornado of sorts had already swept through the master bedroom: dozens of flung-about clothes, wads of sc...
Submitted to Contest #298
As the final prayers were intoned at Amanda’s grave site in the dry grassland cemetery, Paul gazed at his fellow mourners: their son Noah, a college student; Amanda’s two sisters, who co-owned the local gas station; and the six pallbearers, who were fiftyish farmers like himself, except they were all divorced or bachelors, because the farming life was tough on modern marriages. He stared at the pile of freshly turned soil: thick, damp, brown-black loam, a richness that could grow anything, given proper rain and sun. How promising that mound ...
Submitted to Contest #297
As the date approaches, Louise swings between anticipation and dread. On the appointed day, she catches the 32 Bus, headed from the suburb of North Montreal toward the Metro. Mid-morning shoppers and overslept students gaze dully as the world passes by the windows. The bus rumbles along Lacordaire Boulevard, until it screeches to a halt at the light beside a building where she used to work in the days of faxes and photocopies. The days of pantyhose and pussy-bow blouses, skirt suits and kitten heels. The dress code said no bare legs, no visi...
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