Robyn Clifford
Bio
I'm a mother, a scientist and a writer, trying my hand at balancing the three.
A big believer in the power of fairytales, a strong cup of coffee, and Eurovision.
Currently writing my first novel.
Stories (7/0)
Roald Growl Mid Flood
Summers in England were fleeting and hazy, but were left behind by a move to Australia when I was ten. Here, Christmas was in summer, and was hot hot hot! Signalled by differences like the exchange of a traditional Turkey roast for poolside seafood, mulled wine forgotten as a second glass of sparkling red (with a couple of ice cubes) was poured, but Christmas Pudding remained a staple. Summer was the period away from school, where hiking beckoned, and the ocean glimmered just a little more brightly.
By Robyn Clifford6 days ago in Feast
Bifyre
“There weren’t always dragons in the valley”, Areya read aloud, crumpling up the insulting note, before turning toward the room of councillors seated in oak thrones before her. The sun was almost setting and purple twilight splintered through the cracked windows of the throne room.
By Robyn Clifford21 days ago in Fiction
Ardent
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. April didn’t like the official nickname they branded those Burning. Shrugging into her dark overalls, stepping into her leather boots and tucking a radio at one hip, she listened carefully to the world outside the cabin. June had been careless, and had rushed into the forest without conducting due diligence. September had never even tried, scared from the stories, and her sister’s accident. November still bore the dark scars from where her scales had started forming, but April had always listened. She knew that the sun would be setting just to the West of their battered abode, illuminating the Valley with shards of deep amethyst light, and that now would be the safest time for her to descend.
By Robyn Cliffordabout a month ago in Fiction
Thistle Knows
This much was true. Neither Samsung nor Apple had yet fashioned an alarm clock that could rival the consistent punctuality of Thistle’s nose. As though it was set to ley lines deep below the Danish mires, to the tugging movements of the stars, or perhaps it could tune into the subtle pull of the moon on the tides, the intricacies of his internal system would make even Big Ben take stock. Or resign.
By Robyn Clifford5 months ago in Petlife
