robynk3ks

[robynk3ks]

Milk Teeth in War - COMPLETED VERSION.

I can’t breathe. I am choking- gasping- as the poison claws at my throat, my lungs. My face burns, blistering and oozing with yellow pus. The world is mustard fog. Figures stagger and fall, writhing in the sludgy mud of No Man’s Land. Screams pierce the air, agonising and suffering. I clutch my hand to my chest – fruitless protection.

The morning had been cold and grey. I remember the heavy weight of my rifle, the dutiful rhythm of boots rising and falling. We had moved like machines, mechanical and precise.

Then the hiss came as the gas cylinders were released. Men screamed, their hands instinctively flew to their faces as skin rippled and peeled.

As I lay here, my thoughts drift to home. Cobblestone streets and the chipped paint of my childhood room. A distant memory of my mother humming a forgotten lullaby.

The gurgle of dying lungs muffle the screams of my comrades — their faces blistered to grotesquely unrecognisable masks. They cry like small children, choked and wet. Some pray, begging to God for their lives while other call out: “Mutter, mutter!”

Through the mustard-yellow smoke, a figure approaches, solid and steady. A shadow with a gun.

The shadow comes closer. He wears a round, dish-like helmet, his rifle stretches forward with a bayonet pointed at its tip: a weapon for precision and pure survival.

I try to speak, to plead, but all that escapes is a strangled wail. My hand reaches out, grasping for mercy. He halts, sharp and trained, and his rifle lowers.

I can’t see his face, only that lifeless gas mask, but I feel his hesitation. It hangs in the air between us. He kneels beside me. He looks at me, I look back. Something shifts in him, and he stiffens. Recognition spreads in his eyes – I am not a being, pulsing with blood and flesh. He only sees the void of death.

His gloved hand tightens around the rifle. For a ragged breath, I wait for it. I wait for release, but it never comes. He stands, turns and walks away.

His footsteps fade into the haze, boots squelching in the mud. I am alone. Dying. Forgotten. The yellow fog thickens – Not yet, I plead, grasping at the cling of life, slipping from my hands. Not yet.

“Mutter…” I whisper, taking a final, ragged breath. My eyes close. My hand slips from my chest, limp.

Beneath blood and dirt, something gleams – an Iron Cross, pinned to his grey-green uniform. The last mark of his identity.

[robynk3ks]

How to Make Your Characters Almost Cry

Tears are powerful, but do you know what's more impactful? The struggle to hold them back. This post is for all your hard-hearted stoic characters who'd never shed a tear before another, and aims to help you make them breakdown realistically.

The Physical Signs of Holding Back Tears

Heavy Eyelids, Heavy Heart Your character's eyelids feel weighted, as if the tears themselves are dragging them down. Their vision blurs—not quite enough to spill over, but enough to remind them of the dam threatening to break.

The Involuntary Sniffle They sniffle, not because their nose is running, but because their body is desperately trying to regulate itself, to suppress the wave of emotion threatening to take over.

Burning Eyes Their eyes sting from the effort of restraint, from the battle between pride and vulnerability. If they try too hard to hold back, the whites of their eyes start turning red, a telltale sign of the tears they've refused to let go.

The Trembling Lips Like a child struggling not to cry, their lips quiver. The shame of it fuels their determination to stay composed, leading them to clench their fists, grip their sleeves, or dig their nails into the nearest surface—anything to regain control.

The Fear of Blinking Closing their eyes means surrender. The second their lashes meet, the memories, the pain, the heartbreak will surge forward, and the tears will follow. So they force themselves to keep staring—at the floor, at a blank wall, at anything that won’t remind them of why they’re breaking.

The Coping Mechanisms: Pretending It’s Fine

A Steady Gaze & A Deep Breath To mask the turmoil, they focus on a neutral object, inhale slowly, and steel themselves. If they can get through this one breath, they can get through the next.

Turning Away to Swipe at Their Eyes When they do need to wipe their eyes, they do it quickly, casually, as if brushing off a speck of dust rather than wiping away the proof of their emotions.

Masking the Pain with a Different Emotion Anger, sarcasm, even laughter—any strong emotion can serve as a shield. A snappy response, a bitter chuckle, a sharp inhale—each is a carefully chosen defence against vulnerability.

Why This Matters

Letting your character fight their tears instead of immediately breaking down makes the scene hit harder. It shows their internal struggle, their resistance, and their need to stay composed even when they’re crumbling.

This is written based off of personal experience as someone who goes through this cycle a lot (emotional vulnerability who?) and some inspo from other books/articles

[robynk3ks]

Real quick question for you gothic romance and misery lover girlies, would you guys be interested in a 300 word-odd story about a widow who lives in this type rural, dreary seaside area, and every night she ignite.. idk how to word it.. light the lighthouse for her husband who was lost at sea years ago. And one night, she’s walking up this big hill to get the lighthouse and notices the big beacon is on, like someone is up there.

And she heads up this old, rickety spiral staircase to find someone she never expected to see again… surprise, surprise! Her husband, but he’s not quite alive. And there might be a big plot twist but I don’t know what. Any suggestions? The only thing I’ve got at the is she finds out she’s dead too from throwing herself off the lighthouse, but that feels quite lazy.

I’m not a big gothic romance fan, so if anyone who reads this kind of thing or writes it can give me any advice or suggestions then I really appreciate it.

Thank you, lovelies!

[robynk3ks]

[robynk3ks]

Father and I

My relationship with my father is tricky to describe. I believe we’re close out of survival and less out of enjoyment. Dinners between us are silent, car rides are dead, and “I love you”s were never exchanged. Yet, sometimes, I found myself holding onto a small flicker of hope.

Whenever he entered the airport, I would clutch onto him and start to cry. He would gently pat my head, telling me not to cry. The three words I wanted to hear the most were never said, but I knew that silence was the closest thing I’d get to love.

tang 2025

[robynk3ks]

Love Bites

"What could be more cliché than a vampire pining in loneliness?" I asked in despair. "This story was already overdone back when I still had a pulse."

"That must have been a long time ago," the bartender responded indifferently.

"Yeah, about ten years now. You probably didn't know, but vampires used to be all the rage."

"I know, sir. I'm forty."

It's quite sad when the only person you can talk to is the owner of the 'Unholy Haven' bar. He's human, of course, but he understands the problems of the undead.

"My problem is that vampires are loners," I continued to complain about my miserable unlife, nursing a bottle of O-positive. "And cute draculin ladies aren't exactly lining up to meet me. But eternal life becomes torture when you're completely alone. Can you understand what it's like to feel endless despair?"

"Of course, sir, I've been married."

"The obvious solution would be to make myself a girlfriend. To give the kiss of eternity to the woman I love – what could be more beautiful! But it's such a big commitment. I don't want to rush into anything and take on premature responsibilities, you know? You've got to test the feelings first."

"Of course, sir."

"So, I meet a girl online, we hit it off, go on a date, have a great time... And then I wake up next to a blood-drained corpse! Every time I promise myself I'll hold back, and every time I lose control. I bury them with tears in my eyes because my hands have callouses from the shovel. I swear the darkest oath that I won't drink the next girl on the first night – but I can't help it, they're so tempting, juicy, warm... You're a man, you understand."

"Probably, sir."

"These murders need to stop. Or they'll come for me – you know, the ones with the stakes. If only I could meet an attractive undead lady! But alas, there's no dating site for creatures of the night."

"Hm," the bartender said, for the first time showing some interest in the conversation. "For a certain price, I might be able to arrange something. How about blind dates?"

"What?"

"You can rent the back room, and I'll set up meetings with a few clients. Maybe you'll find your soulmate."

I was ready to hug the mustached chubby man out of joy, but he recoiled, pulling out a crucifix from under the bar with a practiced motion, cooling my enthusiasm.

"I'll pay whatever you ask!"

The first date is something special! When I used to date living girls, I didn't worry: just a bit of confidence, a dash of mystery, some good cologne, and a little vampiric hypnosis – no one could resist. But these tricks wouldn't work on the undead. Here, we're on equal footing.

Should I wear a suit or jeans? If she died a hundred years ago, modern fashion might not be to her taste. But in a suit, I look like a corpse in a coffin. Or is that comparison actually in my favor? Alright, suit it is. Blue shirt or white? A tie, or is that too formal? And why are all my socks mismatched?

The date was set for midnight, but by eleven-thirty I was already sitting at the table, nervously sipping my bottle of B-positive. The bar's back room was only slightly bigger than a grave, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of mildew. But maybe this was exactly where I'd meet my true love beyond the grave!

She drifted into the room, not bothering to open the door. In motion, she resembled a wisp of fog carried by the wind, but as she hovered above the chair, her form solidified a little. It seemed the bartender took the idea of a "soulmate" quite literally. I extended my hand to the ghost, introducing myself:

"Vic."

Her hand passed right through mine.

"...Oh!" came the whispering reply.

Fantastic. I'm going to kill that bartender.

"Oooh!" the ghost girl moaned, shaking the tatters of her shroud.

He might as well have set me up with a banshee. Sure, she's immortal, and I couldn't kill her even if I tried – that's a perfect match. But I'm not looking for communication this... spiritual.

The ghost burst into a heart-wrenching sob. I noticed the black mark of a noose around her neck. A date with a mute, depressed suicide victim – memorable, but I wouldn't call it pleasant.

After a stern talk with the bartender, I decided to go for a second date. This time, I was late, showed up in whatever I was wearing, and didn't have any high hopes.

She was already waiting for me. On her plate lay a barely seared steak the size of a small dog, and the aroma of meat mixed with the musky scent of a large beast. My date was strong-built, dark-haired, and her eyes glowed like will-o'-the-wisps. Even just sitting there, dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans, she exuded a provocative, almost obscene aura. Under her predatory gaze, I felt an urge to cover myself up.

I quietly sat down across from her. She was fully absorbed in devouring her meat, so the first minutes of the date were filled with silence, the sound of chewing, and the satisfied growling of my companion. Today, no crucifix would save the bartender. How on earth did he think setting up a vampire with a werewolf was a good idea?

The werewolf woman finished her meal, wiped her mouth and hands with a napkin, and businesslike asked, "Your place or mine?"

A wave of heat washed over me for a moment. So, this is what they mean by animal magnetism. I wasn't sure if she scared me more or attracted me.

"Vic," I finally managed to say, offering my hand. The girl easily pulled me from my seat, wrapped me in a strong embrace, and kissed me—hungrily, fiercely. I don't know what kind of creature she turns into, but that kiss made me think of praying mantis females. I mumbled something about needing to pay the bill and slipped away. In the bathroom, I managed to crack open a window, shifted into a bat, and flew tirelessly until I squeezed back into my apartment window. A werewolf in heat on the eve of a full moon? No thanks, there are more pleasant ways to end my unlife.

The bartender gave me a discount.

The next week, I met a very intelligent zombie, and we had a long conversation about the manifestations of primordial evil in cinema. But then her jaw fell off. I figured we'd stay friends. Online, preferably. You understand, the smell.

The mummy kept shedding sand, and she wanted to move in with me right away because she needed a cemetery registration.

The mermaid had an impressive chest and four thousand fry in a pond outside the city. I realized I wasn't ready for kids yet and pulled my flying-out-the-window trick again.

By the end of the week, I was fed up with blind dates. It's probably a foolish idea. We, who live in two worlds but don't belong to either, aren't meant to experience human happiness, love, or trust. We are eternal, lonely wanderers who...

Just as I was about to sink into those wonderfully dark thoughts, the phone rang, ruining the mood.

"Vic! Are you going to the witches' sabbath tomorrow?" came Max's voice on the other end. If we weren't creatures of the night, devoid of human passions, we might be considered friends.

"No, I'm not," I replied grumpily.

"Are you mad at the girls or something? They're just messing with you, man! Magic messes with their heads, you know, and they think casting an illusionof a beautiful vampiress over you for the whole night is hilarious. I'll tell them to stop picking on you. Come on, all our folks will be there."

I had to go. After all, the undead don't get many holidays: Walpurgis Night and Samhain—that's about it. Well, there's the winter solstice, but even vampires get cold in winter around here.

The wild days when sabbaths were held around a bonfire in the forest are long gone. The witches rented us a restaurant in the city center, hired an emcee and musicians to provide a little snack. The main course was six naked men laid out on the tables. A few years ago, the head of the coven declared that the tradition of sacrificing virgins was sexist and patriarchal, and to restore balance, only virgin boys would be offered up from now on.

Indeed, all our folks were at the sabbath. The maenads were already tipsy and were hurrying to drink more, eager to fall into their sacred frenzy and tear apart their offering with their bare hands. The witches occasionally cast spells on the guests, cackling loudly as snakes and toads spilled out of some poor soul's mouth. Yep, magic really drives them crazy. The vampiresses and demonesses sauntered around the tables, critiquing the anatomical features of the offerings with such expertise that it made me not want to approach them at all.

I found a corner in the banquet hall near the table where the least impressive of the boys was lying, and attached myself to a bottle. AB negative! The witches really know how to live it up.

"Tell me, my random companion, do you know what women want?" I asked the sacrifice. The boy mumbled through his gag and squirmed in his bonds. "Of course, you don't, or you wouldn't be here. You probably think I'm spoiled, surrounded by all these stunning women at the sabbath. But if you look closer, there's no one for me to choose from. The witches are insane, the maenads are alcoholics, and the succubi can't even pronounce the word 'fidelity.' I should probably seek someone like myself, but even then, I'm stuck: the older vampiresses are too cynical—they can't understand my tormented soul. And the younger ones don't seem eager to open their cold embraces to me. So, in a way, we're alike, you and I—both doomed to loneliness. Only your suffering will soon end, and I will be tormented forever."

"Is it really that hopeless?" I heard a teasing voice behind me. I turned around... and saw her. Pale skin, flawless, not a single imperfection. The perfect curve of her lips was maddening. A wild mane of untamed blonde curls. The curves of her figure under a simple silk dress stirred the imagination, but she wasn't provocatively sensual like the succubi. I didn't hear a heartbeat, but her smile revealed a row of perfect pearly teeth—she wasn't a vampiress. Her voice was melodic, yet there was no salty scent of seawater, so she wasn't a siren. How did she sneak up on me unnoticed? Could she be a dryad? Or something more exotic?

The rest of the night passed in a haze of her perfume. I was witty and charming; Olivia (that was her name) was feminine and enchanting. When the head of the coven invited everyone to enjoy the main courses, I offered the lady the first bite, but she declined, explaining that she doesn't eat humans.

We talked, laughed, and danced for hours. I had too much to drink, so I suggested we go back to my place. She laughed. Her laughter sounded like the delicate chime of Chinese wind bells.

"I'm not that kind of girl, Vic. How about we meet on Wednesday and catch a movie?"

On Wednesday, we watched the new horror film, laughing loudly at the ridiculous fantasies of the director and screenwriter. On Sunday, we went on a hunting spree targeting a street gang. Olivia didn't eat people, but she had no problem with killing them. The next Tuesday... Friday...

A month flew by faster than a moonbeam reaches the surface of a dark lake. I was in love and happier than any undead creature could ever be! Olivia combined the best qualities I had seen in both living women and the undead. The only thing that still bothered me was that I hadn't figured out what race she belonged to, and asking felt impolite.

During one of our dates, Olivia suddenly listened to something and said in a more serious, changed tone, "Vic, I need to introduce you to someone. Let's go."

Could it be... she wasn't single?

We rode through the city in a taxi, and my beloved was unusually quiet and thoughtful.

"His office is here, in this building," Olivia took my arm and confidently pulled me through the glass doors. The security guard at the entrance stirred for a moment, but she swiped a key card across the turnstile and chirped, "We're going to office 136."

The elevator played its annoying mechanical tune while I winced, looking at the mirror where only Olivia was reflected.

"Vic, meet my creator, Mr. Frank Stein!" she said, leading me to a desk where a silver-haired man in gold-rimmed glasses sat.

"Creator?" I asked, confused.

"Yes, that's right," the man firmly shook my hand with his square palm. "You can't say I'm Olivia's only parent, but I did develop her operating system."

"Operating system?" I repeated dumbly.

"Olivia is a T-69 gynoid model, specially designed with undead clientele in mind. You've been using the trial version. Would you like to purchase the full service package?"

[robynk3ks]

Milk Teeth in War - COMPLETED VERSION.

I can’t breathe. I am choking- gasping- as the poison claws at my throat, my lungs. My face burns, blistering and oozing with yellow pus. The world is mustard fog. Figures stagger and fall, writhing in the sludgy mud of No Man’s Land. Screams pierce the air, agonising and suffering. I clutch my hand to my chest – fruitless protection.

The morning had been cold and grey. I remember the heavy weight of my rifle, the dutiful rhythm of boots rising and falling. We had moved like machines, mechanical and precise.

Then the hiss came as the gas cylinders were released. Men screamed, their hands instinctively flew to their faces as skin rippled and peeled.

As I lay here, my thoughts drift to home. Cobblestone streets and the chipped paint of my childhood room. A distant memory of my mother humming a forgotten lullaby.

The gurgle of dying lungs muffle the screams of my comrades — their faces blistered to grotesquely unrecognisable masks. They cry like small children, choked and wet. Some pray, begging to God for their lives while other call out: “Mutter, mutter!”

Through the mustard-yellow smoke, a figure approaches, solid and steady. A shadow with a gun.

The shadow comes closer. He wears a round, dish-like helmet, his rifle stretches forward with a bayonet pointed at its tip: a weapon for precision and pure survival.

I try to speak, to plead, but all that escapes is a strangled wail. My hand reaches out, grasping for mercy. He halts, sharp and trained, and his rifle lowers.

I can’t see his face, only that lifeless gas mask, but I feel his hesitation. It hangs in the air between us. He kneels beside me. He looks at me, I look back. Something shifts in him, and he stiffens. Recognition spreads in his eyes – I am not a being, pulsing with blood and flesh. He only sees the void of death.

His gloved hand tightens around the rifle. For a ragged breath, I wait for it. I wait for release, but it never comes. He stands, turns and walks away.

His footsteps fade into the haze, boots squelching in the mud. I am alone. Dying. Forgotten. The yellow fog thickens – Not yet, I plead, grasping at the cling of life, slipping from my hands. Not yet.

“Mutter…” I whisper, taking a final, ragged breath. My eyes close. My hand slips from my chest, limp.

Beneath blood and dirt, something gleams – an Iron Cross, pinned to his grey-green uniform. The last mark of his identity.

[robynk3ks]

FLASH FICTION PREVIEW:

Milk Teeth in War

I can’t breathe. I am choking - gasping - as the poison claws at my throat, my lungs. My face burns, skin blistering and oozing with yellow pus. The world is mustard fog. Figures stagger and fall, writhing in the sludgy mud of No Man’s Land. Screams pierce the air, agonising and suffering. I clutch a piece of clothe to my chest - fruitless protection.

The morning had been cold and grey. I remember the heavy weight of my rifle, the uniform rhythm of boots rising and falling. We marched like machines, mechanical and precise.

Then the hiss came as the gas cylinders were released. Men screamed, their hands instinctively reached for their faces as skin rippled and peeled, lifting away.

As I lay here, my thoughts drift to home. Of cobblestone streets and the chipped paint of our fence. A distant memory of my mother humming a forgotten lullaby.

The gurgle of dying lungs muffle my comrades’ screams, their faces bubbling to grotesque masks. They cry like children, choked and wet. Some call for God, praying, begging for their lives. While others cry out: “Mutter, mutter!”

[robynk3ks]

Introduction to yours truly

Hiya lovelies!

My name is Robyn and I am writer, hoping to gain something from my silly stories - share work that people can hopefully enjoy, even relate to... or get super duper rich and famous jkjk.. half joking.

Over the next few days, I am just going to post of my stories on her and if you come across them, if you could give them a cheeky like or note, I'd appreciate it. Hey, you can even leave a lengthy hate comment- all publicity is good publicity.

I hope you enjoy this journey with me, however successful or shit it is!

BTW, could this complete this little survey for me? It's just for me figure out what you like and don't like. It's for a school project. I promise you its not dodgy. Mind you, that's what a dodgy person would say.

Find the link to the survey below:

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdA9z78vYPrwHsP4x5adaljEEPinSxfjMSYcngVMie06YMddQ/viewform?usp=header

Take care and thank you for you time.

~ Robyn