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Yolanda Wiggins

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2025

Stories (6)

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6 Stories

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Living in Your Echo

Yolanda Wiggins

Submitted to Contest #329

CW: References to addiction/recovery behavior. By 2:17 a.m., the hotel is quiet enough for me to hear my own bad decisions. The ice machine groans in the hallway. The elevator hums. But here at the front desk, under the soft yellow glow of the lobby lamps, the loudest thing in the building is my brain replaying the same three seconds of an old video: Lena laughing, turning away from the camera, her hair in that messy bun, saying, “Stop filming me, Charlene, I look like trash.” She never looked like trash. She looked like the exact problem I ...

8 likes

Customer Service (for the Recently Enchanted)

Yolanda Wiggins

Submitted to Contest #327

“Thank you for calling HexSupport. Your wait time is approximately one lifetime.” Renee said the line like a prayer she didn’t quite believe in. Her headset pinched the curve of her ear, and the neon sigils flickering across the cubicle walls buzzed like hornets in a jar. Someone in Facilities had set the lavender diffuser to “repentance,” making the office smell like a yoga studio that ghosted you. She adjusted her wand—duct-taped, regulation gray—and brought it awake with a flick. “HexSupport, this is Renee, Level Three Enchantment Special...

7 likes

The Laugh Track

Yolanda Wiggins

Submitted to Contest #326

I start laughing in the produce aisle. Not a giggle — a full-body cackle that echoes off the apples. A father shields his kid with a shopping cart. A woman blinks at me, clutching a cantaloupe. “Sorry,” I gasp, but saying sorry makes me laugh harder. Nothing is funny. The apples shine under fluorescent light, each one polished like it’s been crying. My stomach spasms. My eyes water. A stranger asks if I’m okay, and I nod like someone caught mid-exorcism. This is how it begins. Sometimes it starts in the shower. Sometimes brushing my teeth, t...

9 likes

Where the Lights Breathe

Yolanda Wiggins

Submitted to Contest #325

On nights when the badge reader exhaled its green permission and the glass doors parted like a polite opinion, Evelyn felt the building notice her. Not a welcome—more like recognition. The lobby had the expensive hush of a chapel that had replaced stained glass with LED panels. The plants were alive because someone was paid to trick them into thinking they were in a forest. Water slid down a slate wall with the reliable grace of a well-funded river. Even at midnight the place glowed—not warm light, not cold light, but something that refused ...

10 likes

The Salt Remembers

Yolanda Wiggins

Submitted to Contest #324

The day Judy died, the tide came in wrong. Not higher, not louder—just cocked, as if the sea had tilted its head to listen. Waves slanted toward our sagging porch like someone eavesdropping; gulls hung in the air, pinned there by patience. Mr. Peabody raised a hand as he passed, his mouth forming hello or I’m sorry or do you need anything. When someone dies, words turn to soft bread; you can eat and not taste a thing. Inside, a casserole sweated under foil. Aunt Tabitha wiped her hands on her apron. “We’ll do it the way our people know.” She...

27 likes

Office Hours for the Unfinished

Yolanda Wiggins

Submitted to Contest #323

The ritual begins at noon. Every Friday, the faculty gather in the Atrium, their faces glowing blue from the holographic screens suspended in front of them. Rows of names hover midair — students queued for completion. Each professor stands beneath their column, stylus poised, waiting for the Chancellor’s tone to sound. When it does — a single low note that hums in the bones — they will each perform the gesture that marks another student finished, archived, and optimized. It’s called Completion Day now, though it used to be graduation. Profes...

9 likes