Wood Reede
is a writer based in
Los Angeles
“Wood’s voice is deceptively simple, like a tomato sandwich, like a heartbeat, like a dream.”
—David Mellon, author Silent
“Wood’s writing transports you, unraveling deep, relatable truths. I often find myself rereading and discovering something new each time.”
—Zoe Messinger, author The Button
A walk between reality and dreams.
Wood Reede’s work has been featured in Cobalt Weekly, (mac)-ro-(mic), Quiet Lightening, Puerto del Sol, Freshwater Literary Journal, Waving Hands Review, and Penmen Review.
Her YA novel, Remy, was a semifinalist for the Allegra Johnson Prize in Novel Writing.
Wood has studied with Laurel van der Linde at the Writers Program at UCLA and currently studies method writing with Jack Grapes in Los Angeles.
A graphic designer by profession, Wood is also a cyclist, avid backpacker and a vintage clothing junkie. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, her son, their opinionated, one-eyed rescue cat, and Watson, their Miniature Schnaupin.
And though gravity was almost nonexistent, the moon saved all it had for her, held her close, protected her. She was safe, cared for, loved.
M O O N L I G H T
MOONLIGHT
She couldn’t sleep. She was certain her insomnia was due to the fact that the moon was so close to earth, close to her. She knew if she timed it just right, she could leap from the roof of her house to the surface of the moon with minimum effort. She had done it before. The moon had come calling and she had answered. She felt its pull and she couldn’t resist. Once she was safely on its surface, the moon swung away from earth taking her with it. It was almost sensual in its simplicity, its quiet, its need for her to be there. She found a shallow crater, lay on her back with her hands behind her head, and watched the stars for weeks. And though gravity was almost nonexistent, the moon saved all it had for her, held her close, protected her. She was safe, cared for, loved.
Eventually she had to return to earth. There were bills to be paid and appointments to keep. The moon aligned itself with the angle of her house and she jumped down with the ease of an acrobat, turning a perfect summersault in the air, before landing squarely on the peak of her roof. She turned to look at the moon before she crept inside. They were momentarily suspended in time, she on the roof, the moon hovering just above. She brushed away a tear and gave a small wave goodbye. The moon hesitated a moment and then was gone.
The next time the moon came calling, she didn’t answer. It rotated so close that her room was filled with rays of pure moonlight. But, she was afraid to go, afraid to feel, so she stayed inside until the moon finally swung away and was gone. She lay in the dark regretting her cowardice, her inability to surrender to something bigger than she. For weeks after, she watched the night sky, hoping it would come back for her. She had read that the moon was moving farther and farther from earth. This worried her greatly. Granted, it was cold and desolate and its intensity was frightening, but the way it pulled her, wanted her, needed her, was exhilarating and she realized that she needed the moon as much as it needed her. And so, she waited for the moon to come collect her once more. And when it did, she knew she would never leave.
© Wood Reede
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let the air surround him. It was heavy with the scent of seaweed and saltwater and promise.
T H E M A N W H O C O U L D F L Y
THE MAN WHO COULD FLY
In his dream he was soaring over the coast, his arms outstretched, his body parallel to the water. He felt the air rush against his face, blowing his hair about his head as he flew. Birds kept pace with his speed, fish swam in sync with his movements. He was calm and happy, with no cares, no worries. In that moment between sleep and wakefulness he stretched and thought to himself, I wish this would never end, and that was it. He woke up, and a few days later, was astounded to find he could fly.
The first time it happened he was listening to a client read her story. He sat back in his chair, closed his eyes and let her voice wash over him. The words swirled and moved through the air. They filled the room with their intention, their sorrow, their hope. They surrounded and lifted him from his chair until he was nearly ten inches from the ceiling. He hovered there, held by her words, and was surprised to find that he was relaxed and quite calm, which was odd considering the fact that this was his first experience with anti-gravity outside of his dream-life. It didn’t last long, only a few minutes. She finished reading and he slowly drifted back down to his chair.
The next time it happened he was standing at the corner of Wilshire and 6th waiting to cross. It was late afternoon, that time of day when the sun debates whether to begin its decent or linger a little longer. There was a sudden gust of wind. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let the air surround him. It was heavy with the scent of seaweed and saltwater and promise. He was gently lifted from the sidewalk until he was several feet above the street. The curious thing, apart from the fact that he was no longer earth-bound, was that no one seemed to notice. They went about their duties, completely unaware that a man was floating above them.
He soared over businesses, buses and cars. He hovered above his office building and then turned down Ocean Avenue. He flew along the park for a mile or so, passing bicyclists, joggers, and nannies. He sailed over lampposts and stop signs, picnics and birthday parties and brushed the tops of palm trees. Remembering his dream, he headed out over the cliffs, toward the ocean. Bright diamonds of sunlight reflected off the water as he soared and dived. The experience was exhilarating and confusing and, at the same time, oddly normal.
It was getting late. Time to head home, back to his family, back to his life. He was happy to return and just as happy to know he could literally fly home for dinner and never be late. Which was a good thing, because as resourceful as he was, he was never able to quite get the hang of the big red rental bikes that littered the sidewalk outside his office.
© Wood Reede