Kelley Stead
Bio
Grew up on a steady diet of Tom Robbins and Stephen King.
Spinning tales in the quiet moments between motherhood and building a business.
Stories (33/0)
One Night of Eden
I met Eden in the summer, "summer" being far too kind a word to describe the blistering Florida heat, peppered by weeks of torrential rain. In some sort of metaphorical way, it was the perfect season to learn a lesson. And Eden ground that lesson into me, swiftly and harshly, like the rain pounds the shoreline.
By Kelley Steadabout a year ago in Humans
- Top Story - May 2023
Lunara Flight IITop Story - May 2023
My feet pulse in pain, crammed into my designer shoes. Even though I'm sitting, the blood struggles to flow into my toes and they're cold and numb. I push my foot against the leg of the table, trying to relieve them, if just for a moment.
By Kelley Steadabout a year ago in Fiction
Resistance: The Writer's Greatest Enemy
You know it when you feel it. First you start to feel bored, restless, guilty for no reason. You crawl in your skin. You know there’s something you need to do. But you feel too small, too helpless, too unlovable to do it. Whether you want to write a book or open a business, you feel deep down that you are not worthy of success.
By Kelley Steadabout a year ago in Motivation
Christiania: City Within a City
Nestled in the center of Denmark, surrounded by an old brick wall covered in graffiti, is the free-town of Christiania. I was fascinated with its history- created in the 1970’s when a group of anarchists, artists, and hippies took over an old military base and proclaimed it separate from Denmark. With blatant disregard for Danish marijuana laws and building colors, it remains it's own thing to this day. I had to see Christiania for myself, so I went in the dead of winter, and walked all 85-acres of the walled city within the city. I’ll tell you the ins-and-outs of this little Freetown and the best place to grab some grub.
By Kelley Steadabout a year ago in Wander
Ashes in the Snow
We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin. The snow was just beginning to fall again, swirling around my rented Honda, building on the windshield before getting swiped away. I looked over at dad, well, his urn, buckled almost humorously into the passenger's seat. Leaving him in the trunk or even the back seat seemed disrespectful. Dad always had to ride up front, directing whoever was driving, and making suggestions despite what the GPS said.
By Kelley Steadabout a year ago in Families
Uncle Dale Can’t Drink
Uncle Dale wasn’t supposed to drink. Even at seven, I knew that. No one had said it to me directly, but the adults had said it to one another— on the phone, in the car, around the dinner table after the kids had been excused and weren't supposed to be listening.
By Kelley Steadabout a year ago in Confessions