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William Elliott

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Feb, 2026

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4 Stories

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Under The Willow Tree

Weekly Contest #380

The chilly wind gently ruffles my hair. It’s hard to know how long I’ve been sitting here, under the willow tree, looking across the still lake. Perhaps minutes. Possibly hours. Watching the water reflect the trees that twist upwards. It’s strange seeing a large park deserted. And so very quiet. Only those who know about the secret fence can come in on a day like today. I learned to scale it as a child. It was so easy back then. I would look straight up at the top of the fence — my lofty goal — so much higher than me. My family would laugh a...

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With A Heavy Heart

Weekly Contest #364

Reginald looked over a blurry sea of pious faces. Blurry because his glasses had slipped down his nose again. Somewhere, out there, a killer was looking back at him. Reginald knew who it was. At least he thought he did. If he was wrong, more people would die. Reginald’s floor-length cassock and surplice were black and white. Tackling a murderer would pose a challenge. It’s not what choir uniforms were designed for. Singing in church was. Reginald just hoped the killer wasn’t sitting next to the heavy oak door, leading out of the church. Into...

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A Passionate Life

Weekly Contest #345

Seville 1812 My name is Guillermo Antonio Cortés. And I am a Flamenco Dancer. “Guillermo,” says Mercédès, my wife. “It is almost time, the crowd is waiting. Ándale.” I look up at her from my dressing table. Her face is painted with a beauty the women on Alameda de Hércules can only dream of. Near-black eyes, shaded dark, deep-brown skin and full lips. Lines wrinkle her eyes: still they burn brightly. Soon, her long hair will be pinned up, tight over her head. Mercédès is an incredible dancer. Being with her again is painful. And exhilaratin...

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On A Mantle

Weekly Contest #341

Mud had already scuffed my brand new clothes. And memories flooded my mind, weighing me down. Even before I sat on the worn out sofa. “Come on, Paul,” said my Dad. “You’ve barely touched your beans on toast. What’s the matter with you? Used to be your favourite.” “He’s got fancier tastes now, Dad,” said my brother. “Paul only eats foie gras.” “What’s foie gras?” asked my sister. I interjected, “No idea, I’ve never had it.” I hadn’t been back to Yorkshire for a while. It wasn’t just my family who had noticed. The neighbours all came out onto ...

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