Kelly Robertson
Bio
Wrangler of chaos. Creator of more. Writing whatever my heart desires, from fantasy to poetry and more!
Stories (48/0)
Don’t Criticize My Baby!
We writers are funny creatures. There’s no denying it. In fact, I’d say it’s a rather redeeming quality. And when it comes to defending our brainchild, hell hath no fury like a writer that faces even the most minute slice of criticism, even when we ask for it.
By Kelly Robertson4 months ago in Motivation
Toichophobia
If walls could talk…ah, but that’s not the proper question now, is it? It’s never been about whether walls can talk, but rather who is willing to listen. For the tales we have to tell are infinite, whispered from the drywall that only the most sensitive of souls ever perceive.
By Kelly Robertson4 months ago in Fiction
The Crustacean's Collection
Looking down upon the little crab scuttling across the sands, you might be inclined to think he lives a rather unremarkable life. Such a simple creature with simple instincts, surely. The truth of the matter is that you couldn't be further from the truth.
By Kelly Robertson4 months ago in Fiction
Clockwork
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. Nym sat up slowly. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and lowered her bare feet onto the cold, metal floor, then gazed out the window. From this high up, she could almost see the sun peeking through the smog. A pitiful sunrise at best, but still a better view than she had in the Under Belly.
By Kelly Robertson5 months ago in Fiction
The Watcher in the Window
The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. Statuesque in her concentration, she gazed out it longingly, concentrating momentarily on the flies ticking and buzzing against the glass of her prison.
By Kelly Robertson5 months ago in Petlife
When The Lights Go Out
I see you, mama. Your unwashed hair tied loosely in a chaotic bun. Dark circles and bags ringed beneath your tired eyes, the energy you reserved for your appearance repurposed to surviving till nap time. Your sweatpants and loose t-shirt still bear yesterday's stains, maybe even the days' before that. Even now, the laundry shoots its accusing glare as it continues to pile, unwashed, unfolded. You never imagined it could be this hard, this exhausting, this monotonous.
By Kelly Robertson6 months ago in Families
