Robin Andrew Blair
Bio
Stories (7/0)
The Gift
0400 GMT. The present was waiting for me when I stepped outside. It gleamed and shimmered with rainbow hues, wrapped in what looked like pearlescent paper. On top was a diaphanous collection of loops and whorls. In those first few moments of shock it looked like the most beautifully wrapped birthday gift I'd ever seen.
By Robin Andrew Blairabout a year ago in Fiction
Mare Imbrium Express
I start my day surrounded by dead bodies. The corpses form an untidy pile beside me in the small utility closet. I want to arrange them neatly in a row on the floor, shortest to tallest, but unfortunately I lack the space. Blood forms a dark red pool on the floor. Such a mess.
By Robin Andrew Blairabout a year ago in Fiction
The First Cut is the Sweetest
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The light was feeble, a ghostly luminescence, barely visible through the low mist drifting aimlessly among the crooked tree trunks.
By Robin Andrew Blairabout a year ago in Fiction
Ouroboros
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The glimmer of the flame was strangely steady, with barely a flicker to be seen, yet the light was a welcome relief to the exhausted hiker staggering into the small clearing.
By Robin Andrew Blairabout a year ago in Fiction
Pyrrhic Victory
It was February 29 again, and I was wondering which member of my family would try to kill me this time. Four years ago today, I fought tooth and nail to survive. My eldest son came for me with the fading light, death his grim purpose. Our battle was bloody and brutal. When darkness fell, my son Gabral lay dead. Though I mourned his loss, I gloried in my victory. Four years ago, I yearned for life. Not this year. This year, I craved death.
By Robin Andrew Blairabout a year ago in Fiction
A Gathering Among Dragons
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. They arrived with the warm breezes of early summer and departed soon after the first frost of autumn. Where the Great Wyrms wintered was a mystery. Each year they flew north, above and beyond the swirling storm clouds known as the Mistwall.
By Robin Andrew Blairabout a year ago in Fiction
