NaNoWriMo 2016

30 11 2016


30 days, 50,000 words. That’s the challenge. I took it. Again. I’ve done it seven or eight times before with six “wins” under my belt. For me, it’s always exciting doing NaNoWriMo, but until this year I’ve never really ended with a good feeling about the stories I’ve written. They’ve all just ended up in the digital drawer where they gather dust.

This year, I changed it up a bit. I decided to write short stories instead of a full novel. I started out wanting to write a collection of short stories against a background of climate change, but at some point the main focus changed to centre around LGTBQ characters, which I’m really quite happy with, because they are awesome characters.

I ended with six (more or less) finished stories and there are a few of them that I will definitely want to pick up and work on further:

Whiteout has 5,956 words and is a story of a woman getting stuck in her car in a blizzard and through flashbacks tells a story of her relationship with her first girlfriend and her struggle to come out to her parents.

Spindrift is a 4,345 word story, half of which is pure M/M smut. Enough said.

Wildfire is the short story that turned into a novella that wants to be a novel (standing at 20,470 words currently). A twisted tale of a young addict getting kidnapped and ending up falling in love with his captor who has a secret. This is one of those stories I’ll probably work further on.

Sirocco (Ghibli) ended up with 4,595 words and features a bisexual doctor, trying to do her best when there’s an outbreak of a super-flu in the refugee camp where she has volunteered.

Dust Devils is another short story that turned into a novella that wants to be a novel (at 13,814 words). Set on Mars, the main character is a trans/ace man, trying to sort out his feelings while at the same time being part of the first crew to spend any significant time on the Red Planet. This one I’ll also likely try to work more on.

Squall is the shortest of the lot at only 2,524 words with the same MC as in Wildfire, six years after the events in that story. So this one might be merged with Wildfire when I rewrite that.

So that’s my experience with NaNoWriMo 2016. It was good and it taught me that I may need to pull in the reins when writing short stories, but that in writing them it keeps my momentum going.

And it taught me that while I’m most certainly a pantser, it’s not a bad thing to have a few prompts lying around before starting out.

In the end, I’m satisfied, and happy that I’ve finished with 51,704 words in total. But now I’m going to take a short break from writing (maybe just for the weekend before I get back to my RPGs) and reward myself with binging Westworld, which I still haven’t managed to watch a single episode of.

(Inter)National Coming Out Day

11 10 2016



Since I’m in Denmark, calling it National Coming Out Day doesn’t really fit, so you get (Inter)National Coming Out Day from me.

So, where to start? What label do I put on myself in these times of so many different labels when it comes to sexuality (or lack thereof)?

As a child (way back in the late 70s/early-mid 80s), I never gave sex or sexuality much thought even though sex-ed is something that is (was?) taught in school starting in the 5th or 6th grade when I was eleven or twelve years old.

About the time I hit puberty, I guess. But still, sex wasn’t something I thought about in the sense that I wanted to try it myself. Well, not entirely true that. There was a rather infamous television channel here called Kanal København (Channel Copenhagen), that aired unscrambled hardcore porn after midnight. I watched that. And experimented with masturbation. I liked that. Still do.

But actual sex, with an actual different person. No. As the years went by that lust never appeared. Not at sixteen (which from some quick and dirty research is the average sexual debut here in Denmark), not at eighteen or twenty or twenty-five. Now, at forty, I still don’t feel that need for sex with another person.

For a long time I thought it was just me being insecure, feeling unattractive, being shy or an introvert. All those things that could easily explain the reasons why I had no desire to jump into bed with someone. Back then, there was no Internet to answer those questions and me being me, I never tried to find the answers by asking others.

I was probably in my mid-twenties before I knew there was a thing called asexuality. Even then, I wasn’t sure it was a label that fit me. Because, let’s face it, I had crushes, I fell in love with people and I could definitely see what was attractive in certain people. So for a while, I identified as bisexual. But still never felt the need for sex or even to have the company of another human being in my life (that’s possibly a whole different story, though it might be connected and intertwined with everything else, but it would need a post for itself, I think).

So here I am, trying to find a label for myself on Coming Out Day. The closest I’ve come so far is BiRomantic Ace and Genderfluid. But that’s a hell of a mouthful and too much to explain to most people IRL, so usually I just go with Ace, or better yet, Queer and really only when people ask.

So. Happy Coming Out Day, everyone!

First Time Loser

30 09 2016

Alright, alright, gloomy title is gloomy. And I never really expected to win or even really get an honourable mention, but it still sucks.

So, a couple of months ago, I entered a writing contest for the first time ever. Just a small one with very small prizes, and it was really just to get over that horror inducing fear of putting my work out there, that I did it.

And I suppose I’m not all that disappointed, since the story I entered wasn’t one that I felt particularly good at. The brief was ‘It Came in the Mail’and there was a 500 (yes, five hundred!) word limit, which wasn’t all that inspiring to me, nor do I feel that I can really fit a good story in such few words.

Anyway, now that the results are in and I’m not a winner, I can share the story here. So here you have it:

His Final Advice

The first package was small enough that it fit through the mail slot, so Emily hadn’t had to open the door to sign for it. She’d thought it was someone’s idea of a bad joke when she opened the flat package and found a motherboard inside. But who would play such a joke on her? She didn’t have any friends or even acquaintances.

She’d put it away intending to throw it in the garbage and then forgot about it. Until the next one arrived a week later. This time in the form of a small box full of microchips. She’d had to sign for that, much to her chagrin, and had done her best never to meet the postman’s eyes as she did so.

And so it went; once a week a package would arrive with no note or return address, all of them containing various components of… something. She thought about reporting the mysterious gifts to the police, but that would mean talking to them and perhaps even having to invite them into her flat. But she allowed no one inside her home, let alone strangers investigating something that probably wasn’t even a crime.

Last of all, after several months of packages arriving on schedule once a week, the letter arrived. Just an instruction sheet on how to put the components she’d received together. Not that she needed any instructions. She’d been an electrical engineer before becoming homebound and she knew perfectly well what had arrived piecemeal through the mail.

It didn’t take her long to put all the components together once she started, but plugging the device in and turning it on was a different matter. It took her weeks to gather up the courage for it. She was scared. Scared of who might be on the other end and scared that she might accept the fact that she wasn’t as alone as she thought she was. Scared that she might be right about who had sent her the packages.

Finally, one late night, she turned on the communication device, waited a moment and spoke quietly with a trembling voice, “Hello? Are you there?”

Reaching across time and space, a voice from the past came over the speakers, telling her gently but firmly that she wasn’t doing him any favours by locking herself away in her flat. “Get out there and live again, love,” he told her in a tone that sounded sad and upset. A pause, then the bubbling laugh she remembered so well. “Start with the postman. I think he likes you.”

Years later, lying awake at night, she wondered if she’d made the right choice in building the device and switching it on. If that had really been her deceased husband contacting her from beyond the grave to tell her off. The only thing she knew for sure was that it had gotten her out of the flat, that she had started to live again. That, in the end, was all that mattered.

Something a Little Different

25 09 2016

Writing isn’t my only hobby, though it’s what I primarily post here (hence the change of the blog name). But aside from writing, I also take photographs, I knit and crochet, and recently I’ve begun making fanvids again, something that I took a 5+ year break from. Now I have some decent software and a renewed interest, and here is my first attempt at using that software.


It’s a little tribute to my favourite episode of one of my favourite shows. Firefly’s Out of Gas, and I hope you all like it.

The Artist

8 08 2016

This week’s TerribleMinds challenge was to mash up two subgenres as decided by a dice roll. I’m not saying I cheated, but I did roll a couple of times to get something that I thought I could work with, and ended up with Cli-Fi and Noir. Now Cli-Fi plays right into Still Turnstiles at Station 6, but what about Noir? I can’t say it’s a genre I’ve written in before and I had to go look it up, only to discover that written Noir is, apparently, different from Film Noir. Anyway. I like what came of it, even if I rarely write in first person and it’s my first time dabbling in the Noir genre.

The Artist

The pouring rain made short work of the artwork I’d created, washing away the blood in only a few minutes as I crouched beside the body of the young man. A shame, really, that he had to die so soon. I wouldn’t have minded spending some more time with him, but circumstances had necessitated a change of plan and I’d had no choice in suspending our relationship sooner than I cared to. Reaching out, I brushed a strand of soaked dark hair away from his pale forehead before slipping my fingers down to close the lids over his pale blue eyes. He’d been dead for only a few minutes, but the chilly wet weather had already turned his skin cold and there was no longer any enjoyment in touching him.

“Goodnight, sweet prince,” I whispered, quoting the old bard as I took one last look at the piece I had left for the authorities to find. The young man had been a street dweller; skinny and pale, but attractive with his pale blue eyes and dark hair in stark juxtaposition to each other. He wore the new clothes I’d given him and he wore them well even now that the rain had soaked them through. The designer jeans fit him perfectly, as did the charcoal grey shirt with the black tie to go with it. The black leather shoes still held a shine, which certainly said something about the quality of them, not to mention the cost.

The cost had been worth it, of course. In the grand scheme of things, money and wealth meant nothing when the world was ending in a slow but catastrophic climate disaster. Leaving my little pieces of art on the streets was merely one of a thousand ways to protest the inaction of previous generations that had left us with a dying world. My contribution was simply to say that no matter how much money was spent on external and material matters, death came to us all, and that included the world itself. Just as death had come to this young man in front of me all too soon.

The statement I’d made with this piece was in the quick and violent end that the young man had faced. The long gash across his throat had severed both carotid arteries and he had died in less than a minute. A much faster and less painful way of dying than what was offered to the world and the rest of humanity. You might say I was doing the boy a favour by taking his life in such a manner, keeping him from living through the death spasms of the world, but I’m not so philosophical or vainglorious. I’d killed him to make a statement, that’s all. Nothing more, nothing less.

It was time to go. I stood, took a last look at my latest masterpiece and smiled in appreciation. The rain might have washed all the blood away, leaving a relatively clean body behind. Lying like that on his back with his hands on his chest where I had carefully placed them, he looked at peace, at least as long one could ignore the gaping wound across his throat. It marred his beauty, but that was the point, wasn’t it? To take something beautiful and turn it ugly, just the way our predecessors had done to our planet. My work here was done for the night. Now it was only a matter of time before the authorities came to view it.

* * *

I ordered a whiskey as I sat down at the counter of the dimly lit bar. The place was all done up in dark woods, leather upholstered seats and tarnished mirrors. The shades of the lamps were green glass and there were candles in red glass bulbs on the tables. It was the kind of place where you could expect to be left alone with your drink, where no one asked you any questions or even bothered to notice you in any way. I liked the privacy this place offered, but mainly I had chosen it for the television that was permanently tuned to a local news channel.

The news was the same as they had been for years now: constant rain and flooding in our part of the world, eternal drought in most other parts of the world, all resulting in famine, wars, and refugee crises everywhere with nothing but talk about what to do about it. The latest and most ridiculous plan put forth yet was to evacuate the whole planet and resettle the entire population in the already established colonies around the solar system. Some even suggested striking out for interstellar space, looking for new systems to settle. I very much doubted that those colonies would want to accept more than eight billion new souls in their midst even if it was at all possible to get them off the Earth’s surface before it was too late. I supposed it had to do with hope. People needed that, and the media was all too happy to provide it, right alongside all the dismay.

Two drinks and an hour later, I had waited long enough. I paid up my bill and left the bar without so much as a glance back, letting a small smile play across my lips as I heard the news anchor on the television report on a body found and though the police declined to comment, they had it from an anonymous source that this was very likely another victim fallen to the serial killer they had named The Devil’s Designer. Stupid name, but it had sprung up out of the way the killer – that is, me – dressed their victim in expensive designer clothes. I suppose it could have been worse. There were some reporters who still insisted on comparing my work to Jack the Ripper’s, after all. Quite insulting, that, but I chose to simply ignore those ignorant bastards and go about my business. A true artist couldn’t expect the press to get it right, could they?

* * *

I took my time with my next piece. Starvation, by its nature, necessarily takes a long time. And as I wanted this masterpiece to have a particular aesthetic, it took even longer since simply starving the boy to death would not have accomplished the skin and bones appearance I was aiming for. And so for some time when no new victims turned up, the press speculated about what might have happened to the Devil’s Designer. Some said that the killer had died in the flash flood that had occurred shortly after the last murder, others were convinced that the killer had moved on, found new killing fields either abroad or out in the colonies. So little patience the press had, and soon enough the stories about the Devil’s Designer vanished from the television screens or were buried deep in the digital media’s online editions.

For three months I kept the boy alive on a bowl of rice a day, all the water he could drink, while every now and then, I gave him a treat in the form of a candy bar in order to keep his hopes up. I lied to him, of course, telling him that once I had accomplished my goal of turning him into an image of starvation, he would be free to go, that he would become famous for what he had gone through and what he had survived. The media would love him, I told him, and he would never have to live on the streets again. In the beginning, he hadn’t believed me; he was a smart kid and had already figured out that people weren’t to be trusted. But in the end, with his body and mind weakened, he began asking me questions about what it would be like to be famous and whether he would like it or not.

Comforting him, I continued lying, telling him that everything was going to be just fine, though at the same time, I began cutting back his rations, feeding him less and less every day. His face was gaunt now, to a point where I could almost see the skull through near-translucent skin. Skin which had a rather unhealthy yellowish colour now, that was mirrored in the whites of his eyes. The rest of his body was now at the point I had aimed for: skin sagging around bones with the joints sticking out as hard painful looking angles with no fat at all, and barely any muscle. I could count all the ribs and all the bones of his spinal column just by looking. It was a cruel and horrendous change from the slender but well-muscled young man I had picked up three months prior, but the statement such a change made was beautiful and powerful. It was, in fact, hard to imagine how I could possibly go on from here. Perhaps, indeed, this masterpiece would be my last. Perhaps I could retire now.

By the time I stopped feeding him completely and cut off his water supply, the boy was too weak and confused to realise what was happening and in those last few days, he simply cried and when he couldn’t cry any longer, he just lay there quietly, lips moving though no sound came from them. At that point, he must have known that he wasn’t going to live, but there was no fight left in him and one thunderous night, he slipped away peacefully as I sat by his side, holding his hand. “To die, to sleep,” was my whispered quote for this young man, who was now at peace, in pain no more. I sat with him for a while before I got to work, dressing him in the clothes I had purchased for him that first day when I had met him and lured him in with the promise of new clothes, a hot meal, and a warm bed for the night. The expensive slacks, the designer t-shirt and jacket, as well as the shoes had fitted him perfectly then, but now they sagged unflatteringly around his emaciated starved body, just as I’d planned.

The very last, and most important, touch I made to this piece was to slip a handful of photographs into the pocket of the jacket. They pictured the young man in his new outfit, beaming happily at the camera, clearly thrilled to not only be photographed but feeling comfortable and sexy in the clothes he wore. He had been quite beautiful then with his short blond hair, chocolate brown eyes and a deep, albeit fake, tan. He had worn the surfer look well, and I smiled as I recalled talking with him as I took the photos. He’d wanted to go to California, learn to surf and just lie on the beach when there were no waves, soaking up the sun. I hadn’t had the heart to tell him that the image of Southern California as a paradise had long since been shattered by drought and rising sea levels. I had allowed him to keep that dream safe and sound to take with him to the grave. It was the least I could do, after all, in return for him to become part of my own legacy.

I left him in public, lying on a bench near a high-scale and expensive restaurant that specialised in gourmet burgers and made my usual wait at the bar, watching the news and waiting for the report on my latest masterpiece. When it finally came, after almost three hours of waiting, it was buried between a story of record high temperature average for the month of December, and an item speculating on the building of space elevators in order to assist in the evacuation of the planet. I sighed, finished my drink with a feeling of defeat and left the bar to walk home in the pouring rain, trying to assure myself that most of the great artists had rarely been appreciated by their contemporaries.


New Blog Title

5 08 2016

Since this blog really isn’t all that much about my personal experiences and never really got there, the name of the blog is now ‘Adventures in Writing’, which better reflects what it’s all about: posting my answers to Chuck Wendig’s flash fiction challenges and maybe the occasional short story of my own inspiration.

At least this way, I won’t feel shitty about not putting up the more personal content that I meant to do when I started it.

The First Goodbye

14 06 2016

This week’s challenge over at Terrible Minds was another fairly simple one: Knock, knock, who’s there?

And for me, this one came out different than usual. No science fiction, no danger or action. Instead, my muse grabbed hold of a character I write on an RPG site (set in the Mad Max universe of all places) and his lover. This is an AU of that relationship, set in the present day but it is, perhaps, a little bittersweet.

The First Goodbye

He was just putting the finishing touches on the sauce when the knock came on the door. He smiled, but ignored the knock for a moment as he added another pinch of salt to the pan, stirred, and tasted again, nodding to himself when the result was perfect. The knock came again, impatiently, but still he waited, making sure to put the spoon away in the sink before turning down the heat to leave the sauce simmering. Only then did he turn away from the little kitchenette and headed to the door, checking in the mirror as he passed to correct the tie and smooth back a stay dark hair.

Leaving the apron in place around his waist – it was all part of the show, after all – he went to open the door, greeting his guest with a wide smile. “Hello, sailor,” he said, closing the gap between them to wrap a hand around Nolan’s neck to pull him into a deep and long lasting kiss. Pulling back, he looked into those gorgeous blue eyes as moved his hand forward to caress the man’s cheekbone with a brush of his thumb. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Nolan said with a smile, looking down at Hunter as the younger man pulled him inside, closing the door. He took a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment at the scent that spread through the small flat. “Something smells good.” Looking over toward the kitchenette to see the pots and pans on the stove, a look of surprise crossed his face and he turned back to Hunter with a raised brow. “I didn’t know you cooked?”

“I don’t, not really,” Hunter admitted with an embarrassed smile, a touch of red rising in his cheeks. He’d thrown away the food containers, but didn’t want to spoil the mood by going so far as to confess to having gotten take-away, though Nolan was clever enough to figure that out on his own. “I wanted to make tonight special, though.” After all, it would be a long time before they saw each other again, and if the stories were right, the food on the carrier wasn’t the greatest.

Still smiling, Nolan stole another kiss from Hunter before he could return to the kitchen to finish the meal he so desperately wanted him to believe that he’d cooked himself. “It smells wonderful, sweetheart,” he said, reluctantly letting the younger man go, while he busied himself with taking off his coat after checking that he’d remembered to put the present in its pocket. “When’s dinner?”

“Ten minutes,” Hunter replied, stirring the sauce again to make sure it didn’t burn, at least. “Help me set the table, will you?” He nodded toward the small two-seater table by the window, looking out at a view of the brick wall of the building across the street. There was a white tablecloth on the table already along with a glass vase holding a few blue wildflowers that Hunter had picked from the yard of an abandoned house earlier in the day. Nolan did as he was asked, found the plates, the cutlery, and the glasses, all of them mismatched but somehow just right for the night and for the kind of person Hunter was. Disorganised, impulsive and artistic. Everything Nolan wasn’t, which was probably why he’d fallen so hard for him. Opposites attract and all that.


“You’ll remember to email, right?” Hunter asked again, after dinner when they had moved to the sofa, the younger man curled up in Nolan’s warm embrace. His worry and anxiety was getting worse as the time grew shorter. Just twelve hours now before his lover was leaving for the next six months. “And Skype at least once a week?”

Nolan’s free hand came up to run across Hunter’s cheek, sliding back into his hair to pull him in for a gentle kiss. “I promise,” he said quietly and severely, the tone of his voice putting an emphasis on the promise that the words themselves couldn’t. “And I’ll send you as many pictures as I can, too.”

Hunter laughed at that, his mood improving just slightly at the inside joke. Nolan was a notoriously bad photographer; cutting off heads, crooked horizons, not to mention the blurry and shaken pictures that seemed to be his speciality. The pictures were terrible, but Hunter still appreciated the intent behind them; to show him the kinds of adventures his sailor was having when he was deployed.

Falling quiet again, he let his fingers wander up Nolan’s torso to the top of his shirt, where he started to undo the top button, eager now to not waste any more of the last precious hours they had together. Just one more night and a morning. It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t nearly enough. But he’d known that when he’d gotten together with the man. He just hadn’t expected it to feel so… hopeless.

“Wait,” Nolan said, taking Hunter’s hand to stop him from opening any more buttons. “I have a present for you.” He smiled a reassuring smile as he shifted, leaning over to give the younger man a kiss before getting up from the sofa, motioning for Hunter to stay where he was. “Wait here.”

Hunter watched as Nolan went to the door where he got something out of the pocket of his coat, then came back to sit next to him, offering the small present, a simple unwrapped black box, reminiscent of a ring box. His breath caught in his throat as he looked up at Nolan, then opened the box and found a key there, knew what it meant and that it was worth so much more than any ring.

He smiled, the anxiety fading and he tossed the box on the coffee table, and got back to what he was doing. Nolan might have made him a promise with the key, but he still wasn’t going to waste the time they had left tonight.