A Week in the Life of a Reedsy Writer_The Instant American_Deerfield Park_By The Withernsea
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A Week in the Life of a Reedsy Writer
(TW: swearing, sassiness, and schadenfreude)FridayYou read over the story one more time, checking for any rogue adverbs, split infinitives, comma splices, or anything that could violate the terms of service. Clock check: 10:59 PMCrap. One more hour, and you blink rapidly at the cursor on the screen. Does this even fit the prompt for this week? Too late to change. You’ve never been one of those prodigies that could whip out a story in the same day like Last-Minute Lacey. While you spend all week shining that one thousand nine hundred forty-two word (thanks Scrivener) turd short story, the other...
The Instant American
THE INSTANT AMERICANPablo Rendez woke up early on an August morning in 1947, and at that moment he decided firmly that he would become an American. The fact that he had lived his entire life in Texas, as had his parents, didn’t seem to detract from his belief that he wasn’t an American. He wanted to be an American like the white kids.Pablo reached under his bed and pulled out an old cigar box that his tía Tina had thrown away, and he had retrieved from the trash pit at the edge of the village. It contained a broken watch, two ancient half-pieces of Juicy Fruit gum, and $1、49 in an assortment o...
Deerfield Park
This story contains strong language, drug and alcohol use, and violent thematic elements.The mushrooms were just starting to kick in for Tommy as he stood at the top of the metal loop-de-loop slide that he used to launch himself from in middle school. He thought about days that seemed like a whole other life ago when he, Dante, and Louis used to skip Mr. Hedgeway’s ancient history class and come to the playground at Deerfield Park to talk about the girls in theirwww.onedoor.cc class, throw rocks at the old utility closet, and smoke cigarettes.Dante was the only one who still smoked these days, though it was...
By The Withernsea
“What thee mean, you’re closing down our station?” Ernest Claybourn protested almost inaudibly, as he stood on his station’s platform under a torrential Yorkshire Autumn downpour. “Well, I’ll go t’foot of our stairs – if I had any. That’s how gobsmacked I am.” Charles Fotherington-Clarke stood opposite Ernest, drenched from head to foot. Moments prior, he had been enjoying the warmth and comfort of a first-class carriage on the Hull to Withernsea steam train. Disembarking amid Yorkshire’s wettest October on record, the elements provided him a cold and wet East Riding welcome to Hedon – a smal...