Eloise Robertson
Bio
I pull my ideas randomly out of thin air and they materialise on a page. Some may call me a magician.
Achievements (1)
Stories (98/0)
Existential Crisis
It creeps through my peripherals and falls into step behind me, shadow attached to mine like a leech. Rarely will I recognise it until it is so close I feel the weight of its presence threatening to crush me. Like an avalanche, it hits me. Smothering.
By Eloise Robertson 3 months ago in Fiction
The Chocolate Treasure
The fluorescent light gleams across its surface, catching her eye immediately. She lifts her chin, feigning disinterest. At my sunglasses rack, she tries on the plastic frames, peers into the mirror, raises a brow. The girl wears innocence frivolously.
By Eloise Robertson 11 months ago in Fiction
The Demon of Duty
The thunderous night reigning terror across the coastal jungle fades from my senses as his screeching call is to the tune of hell itself. A demon descends upon me. His wings are a parachute sewn from pale leather. The scars of torture are like lightning claws across its surface. Sizzling breath billows through its yellowed fangs, which protrude from a lipless smile. It stinks of motor oil and rot, burning my nostrils even at this distance. The heir of the Devil has bid with good fortune tonight. Swinging in the wind, my lantern draws them from the clouds toward their next victim.
By Eloise Robertson 11 months ago in Fiction
Terror Tantalising
No one tree causes the fire, but as the flames lick their limbs, a terror tantalising, they are unable to defend themselves. Consumed by the searing tendrils and engulfed by the heat, they spread the fire to their brethren. One tree alight pushes its inferno to the forest. The passion grips them tight, overrules them, burns them out, and destroys their very being before it cripples the collective.
By Eloise Robertson 11 months ago in Fiction
A Mother, A Sister
Nadine Holloway-Green, 32, passed away Monday, September 27, 2004 at her home in Newcastle, NSW. She was born on September 27, 1972 in Sydney, NSW to Neil and Margaret Holloway. Nadine is survived by her daughter Charlotte Green and was unfortunately not predeceased by her husband, Jonothan Green, who lived long enough to extinguish her life. Nadine’s childhood dream was to be a singer. Donations may be made to White Ribbon Australia.
By Eloise Robertson 11 months ago in Fiction
Superhuman Expectations
Watching someone give every breath, every bead of sweat and every drop of blood for another person is something I am used to. At first, it was inspiring watching her be the pillar of strength that strangers need. The unbreakable wall, the softest touch, the sharpest blade, the gentlest spoken word, the fury of a thousand suns, the kindest smile. Everyone has a void in their life and she manages to fill it perfectly. I can’t imagine my life without her in it, but with each day that passes I find us being brought closer to the moment she will be ripped away from me.
By Eloise Robertson 12 months ago in Fiction
Mirror Less Vigour
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. While my own eyes stared back at me in the silver layer nested behind the sheet of glass, the hollows which held them were darker and deeper than normal. Quite likely, it was the stress of organising a funeral which caused it; a lack of sleep and all. Stress. Grief. I prodded at the delicate purple skin beneath my eyes, poking the bones beneath, feeling reassured by the lack of pain. Not a black eye, after all.
By Eloise Robertson about a year ago in Fiction
Onward And Upward Into The Violet Sea
Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Their soft luminescence outshone the distant stars and set the land awash with a gentle rosiness. During the dead of night, rural Australia was perfect to bask in the glow. The city lights polluted it into a murky brown, so Charli grew up with the muddy midnight sky, never understanding why her mother went cloud visiting instead of being at home. From their small suburban backyard, the sky was nothing to admire, so mundane.
By Eloise Robertson about a year ago in Fiction
