Eloise Robertson
Bio
I pull my ideas randomly out of thin air and they materialise on a page. Some may call me a magician.
Stories (108)
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Small World
“My nose is weeping,” Ruth said, brow pinching. “But my nose isn’t connected to my heart.” “Either you have taken up poetry, or you have sunstroke. Technically, the nose is connected to the stomach. Delicious food smells good and makes you hungry, and food is the way to a man’s heart, or so the saying goes. Therefore, the nose is connected to the heart.”
By Eloise Robertson 9 months ago in Fiction
Flyleaf
I met Them on the blank page of a novel after the final period marked the last word of the protagonist's existence. There was peace in the empty parchment untarnished by tragedy, the grief of love, or the burden of decision. Every end begins with the flyleaf.
By Eloise Robertson 12 months ago in Fiction
Vanished. Runner-Up in Fantasy Prologue II Challenge.
“The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished.” The usual soprano tone lifting Princess Camellia’s voice is flat today, sombre. As she pauses to survey the crowd, sounds of stifled sobs can be heard across the bough.
By Eloise Robertson about a year ago in Fiction
Toothy Maw
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. A rule may only serve as a conditional defense, strong only as the willpower of those who abide by it. To give them credit, they have lasted four cycles. Sun, moon, sun, moon… my blood sizzled with each passing of that accursed sun, and my hunger waltzed to the tune of their heartbeats during the night.
By Eloise Robertson about a year ago in Horror
The Golden Chef. Top Story - August 2024.
That night feels like a lifetime ago. I remember my skin slick from the rain like oil suffocating me, burning my eyes, soaking into my pores. I was a walking natural disaster - the moment the dirt feels soft underfoot before the landslide, or the ripple of water before the earthquake tears a building asunder.
By Eloise Robertson about a year ago in Fiction
Racing the King of Kades
The rippling dunes reminded Stoe of the ruffles of Evlen’s oversized auburn bandana crumpled around her neck. The burnt sand took on a ghostly glow under the light of the full moon whose face pressed down upon them. It was as if the gods themselves were watching from above, a thought which sent shivers down Stoe’s spine. The sword at his hip he pilfered from a crypt decorated with the markings of Goddess Ginia. If she was watching, doom might be waiting for them in the sands. His grimace deepened.
By Eloise Robertson about a year ago in Fiction
Ōugān. Top Story - June 2024.
It’s not like I can avoid them. They taunt me from the front of my local fruit and veg grocer, their dimpled waxy peel catching the light as if to say nice to see you again, Sunny like some off-colour joke. A bunch of bananas poke holes in the biodegradable bag while I sweep the back shelves for this week’s food. I notice the oranges from the corner of my eye and feel my stomach turn. Looks like oranges aren’t on the menu anymore, either.
By Eloise Robertson 2 years ago in Fiction
Jingle-Jangle Dance
The afternoon sun spotlights the lime-green grass beneath the shrub where Jingles hides. Golden beams poke through the foliage but don’t reveal him in his vantage point to his prey. In the present moment, his muscles are spring-loaded and on the very brink of catapulting him forward toward the unknowing bird.
By Eloise Robertson 2 years ago in Fiction
ECLIPSE
Enter ethereal enigma, enchanting entity: Earth. Ecosystems evolve, encouraging elaborate existence. Cosmos' children, charming creatures, cherish cheerfulness. Cheeky corvids catch creamy clouds. Countryside cats chase chirping canaries. Comfortable coexistence.
By Eloise Robertson 2 years ago in Poets
