25 03 2014

Tell the story behind your nickname, or the story of the most unusual nickname you’ve ever heard.

I’m going to go with my online nickname that I’ve used for some nine years now: ComradeCharlie.

Of course, on the internet, you need a username. My qualms about finding the ‘right’ one started when I joined LiveJournal wayyyy back in 2001 and lasted up until March, 2005 when I finally settled on ComradeCharlie. During that time, I must have had at least half a dozen usernames just on LJ and not a few more on IMs and email accounts. Needless to say, it was getting annoying changing my online name every few months.

But, to make a not so long story short, I finally arrived at my enduring username in March, 2005 and have kept it every since. And the reason behind it is so simple that I’ve sometimes kicked myself for not figuring it out sooner:

My RL nickname is Charlie, which is short for Charlotte (my first name) and I am a socialist. In American terms, that would be a bleeding-heart red commie, and I suppose in Danish terms I’m fairly far left-wing, too. Thus: Comrade. Put them together and you have ComradeCharlie, who I’ve been ever since.

It seems doubtful that I’ll change my political point of view any time soon, but if that happens, then yeah, probably I’ll have to change my username as well. But I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. For now, I’ve had nine years being ComradeCharlie and I’m still quite satisfied with the name. And, admittedly, a little unsatisfied that others out there have come up with the same idea. It’s difficult, isn’t it, coming up with a completely original username?

So that’s it, the story behind my username, and the first time I’ve used The Writer’s Block, which I bought months ago. And I got 313 words out of it. Not too bad for a first time, eh?


2 01 2013

Hello again, blog!

Yes, I’m still here, alive and well. It’s a new year and so, as usual, I attempt to revive this blog with a New Year post of sorts. It’s also about a year ago that I started this blog and in that time I’ve made some thirteen posts, most of which have been flash fiction challenges set by Chuck Wendig of

Anyway, in that year, there have been changes, some of them even corresponding to the plans (“resolutions”) I made in the very first post on this blog, exactly one year ago today. I’ve started exercising. Sure there was a break over the holidays (due to a toothache rather than any celebrations) and so far I haven’t lost much weight at all. I’ve made tiny steps into getting more healthy in the food department as well and am cooking a little now (rather than heating food in the microwave or oven), which is something I never did before. Still not as much as I’d like to, but it’s a start.

As for my flat, it’s all sorted out. All the mess is gone and I have new furniture (a sofa and more bookshelves) and got rid of other pieces of furniture that was just cluttering the place. My closet has been cleaned out as well and a lot of clothes were tossed out or donated. Could still pare that down more, I think, as I don’t really care about having a lot of clothes.

Getting up early is a big fat failure, more or less. I’m an extremely nocturnal creature and I do not appreciate being up before noon-ish. It not only kills my mood, it kills my very nocturnal muse as well and just makes me miserable. In that regard, I’ve come to the conclusion that as long as I’m unemployed (and more or less unemployable) there’s no reason to kill myself by getting up early.

Writing. Oh, writing! Well, I’m writing, but it’s for online roleplaying games and my own stories. And as evident by this blog, I haven’t done much of this blogging thing either. But I write pretty much every day, getting words out of my brain and into cyberspace where they are (I like to believe) appreciated by other people who share the same passion. And that makes me feel pretty good.

I was right, though. I said 2012 was going to be a good year and it was. It was the beginning of a new and better life for me and for that I am deeply grateful to those around me who have helped me in that endeavour and who keep helping. I could never have done this without you!

So, plans for 2013 are pretty much the same. Continue with the lifestyle change (it’s a bloody slow process, but the only way to go for me!) and get back to the gym at least three times a week, expand my cooking skills beyond pasta and omelets, and keep on writing both for my lovely roleplaying games but also get back into doing those flash fiction challenges and maybe, just maybe write a couple of short stories of my very own.

And that’s that: keep on keepin’ on. :-D

The Deal

30 06 2012

Wooo! Been a while since I was active here. Well, still alive and kicking, and once more Chuck Wendig at Terribleminds put up a challenge that I just couldn’t say no to: Tell a story in three sentences and less than 100 words. Here’s mine. Three sentences, 49 words.


The Deal

Three silver coins lay glittering on the table’s dull surface, illuminated only by a single candle. The moment passed breathlessly and lingered forever as the two men held eye contact. A shot rang out and the coins were swept from the table by a scarred and blood-spattered hand.


25 04 2012

Yet another challenge from the master penmonkey, Chuck Wendig at Terribleminds.

Travel — a journey of some sort — must figure into your story.
Moving from one place to another.
Point A to Point B.
Any genre.
Up to 1000 words.

This one is short, and probably more positive/fun than what I usually write. I might still be science fiction, but not in the obvious way. 653 words, according to Scrivener. Comments/critique is welcome too. Enjoy!



She stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down and down and down. Kneeling for a moment, she picked up a fist-sized rock and threw it down into the chasm below, watching it drop until she lost sight of it in the distance. Long way down, she thought with a wild grin and stepped back from the edge.

There were two ways down that cliff (well, three, but hitching a ride back down was a cop-out). You either climbed down, which was the long and hard way and the way gluttons for punishment did it. Or you jumped, and let gravity do the rest.

Seven or eight paces back she stopped and turned, took a couple of deep breaths and then, before she could change her mind, ran as fast as she could and leapt off the edge, into the abyss.

For a brief moment which felt like eternity it was like she just hung there, suspended in weightlessness, as if time had stopped and she was frozen in this one glorious instant, although somewhere at the back of her mind she couldn’t help thinking of Wile E. Coyote, making her want to laugh hysterically.

Time resumed and she dropped, the adrenaline surging through her body, making it seem like her heart had leapt into her throat to prevent her from screaming out her fear, joy and thrill, leaving her mind to do the work that her voice refused to do.

For long seconds she fell, head down with arms held close to her body and her legs kept tightly together, presenting as little resistance to the air as possible, heightening the sensation of speed better than any kind of powered flight could achieve.

Off to her left – so close it seemed she could just reach out and touch it – the red rock wall of the cliff added to that sensation of speed, outcroppings, handholds and all detail blurring together when she tried to focus on it and reminding her that any contact with that wall would spell disaster. Which, of course, only added to the exhilaration of the headlong drop.

A warning sound beeped in her earpiece, telling her that it was about time to think about deploying the wingsuit, at first just a friendly little pulse of sound, then as she pushed the envelope and kept her slim shape with arms and legs held back, the sound rose in volume and shrillness, until she couldn’t bear it – or ignore it – any longer.

Spreading out arms and legs the brightly coloured fabric of the wingsuit snapped out and caught an updraught, slowing her descent and levelling it out so she glided now instead of falling, replacing the sensation of speed and motion with that of flying like a sea bird.

The seconds stretched into infinity as she caught current after current until, at last, the pesky alert sounded in her ear, a warning that told her that the trip was coming to an end, that it was time to pull the cord for the parachute. By now, she could just about see individual rocks on the rusty ground and listened as the alarm sounded louder and louder, and it wasn’t until it had reached a shrill screech that she pulled the cord and floated gently the last few feet of her journey, her heart still pounding in her chest with the pure joy of it.

* * *

A voice spoke to her, saying her name.

“Hmm?” she muttered with a blink and was back in her office, her colleague sitting across from her with an amused look on his face.

“You were a million miles away,” he told her, lifting a questioning eyebrow.

“Yeah… I was,” she nodded with a slow smile, leaning back in her chair, a content sigh escaping her lips as she glanced at the drawer where the ticket to adventure lay waiting for the day to end.

Winter Stars

21 04 2012

Missed the deadline on last week’s Terribleminds challenge, but I wanted to post it anyway. The challenge was posted on April 13th, which was exactly two years to the day after my mother died. I contemplated writing about that, but found it too hard and too personal to put into a story. Maybe I’ll write about it in a regular blog post some day. Anyway, Chuck’s challenge was “Death is on the table” and went like this:

What all this means is, today we’re talking about death.

The Big “D.”

Demise. Dirt-Nap. Stick a fork in me, I’m done.

You have 1000 words to write a short story that prominently features death. What that means is up to you, of course. And genre is also in your court.

But a death — or the concept of death, or an exploration of death — must be front and center.

I went the science fiction route as per usual and for once went a little long. 1043 words according to Scrivener. Hope you like.


Winter Stars

There were worse ways to die.

Lying paralysed by a laser shot in the back wasn’t bad at all. He felt nothing from below that point right somewhere around the upper thoracic region and he had a wonderful view of a clear starry sky overhead to keep him company as life slipped away. No, this wasn’t bad at all.

His eyes tracked the movement of a satellite across the sky, wondering briefly if it was looking down on him, recording these last moments of his life, but dismissed the idea since it obviously wasn’t geostationary. There were probably others up there, watching, he figured.

“Still alive, huh, Finnegan?”

Fuck! Couldn’t the bastards even let him die in peace?! Closing his eyes in frustration for a moment, he turned his head in the direction of the voice, then opened them again to look at the approaching silhouette of the woman. “Go away, Jules. You’re intruding,” Finn said, the words misting in the cold air as he spoke.

“You should be happy to see me,” she said, almost casually, as she set an aluminium case down beside him, then knelt in the snow, throwing back the fur trimmed hood of her down jacket. She flashed a smile at him, running a gloved hand through her dark curls. “I’m here to help.”

“Help finish me off before I freeze to death?” he asked and shook his head – the only part of him he could still move – then fixed his eyes back on the stars and the moving specks of satellites above. “Thanks, but no thanks. If you don’t mind, I’d rather take this the slow way.”

“I’m not here to kill you,” she said, sounding disappointed and hurt that he would think that. There was a light rustle in the night from her jacket as she shrugged and turned to open the clasps that held the lid of the case shut. “Then again, I’m not exactly here to save you either.”

“No…” he groaned, realising then what was going on and why Jules had arrived just as he was about to check out of this life. Bastards weren’t going to let him leave that easily.

* * *

“One more mission and you’re done, Finnegan. Your contract will be fulfilled,” Jackson said, sitting behind his desk with his characteristic Cheshire Cat grin, fingers laced together as he leaned back in his leather chair. “You sure you won’t sign an extension? You’ve done good work for us, you know.”

“Positive,” Finn said, a little too forcefully, but he wanted the Director to know without a doubt that he would never work for him or the Agency again. “I’m done with this kind of work.”

“Well… Too bad,” the Director said, shifting forward in his chair to put his hands on his desk, pale blue eyes studying Finn for a long quiet moment. Then, abruptly, he reached out for the data chip lying next to him on the desk and tossed it to the agent who caught it in a smooth motion. “Your next target. I suggest you pack your long johns. It’s gonna get cold where you’re headed.”

* * *

The mission had been fake, of course. He’d realised that too late, though, when the target had led him on a wild goose-chase out in the middle of bloody nowhere. He’d made a fatal mistake and knew that his mind hadn’t been properly on the job, and now he was paying for it.

“You’re here to…” Finn began, leaving the rest unsaid, not wanting to put words to it. Doing that would make it real and he didn’t want it to be real. This wasn’t something he’d agreed to, but then the Agency did whatever the Agency wanted. And that, he had known. He had been arrogant to think that he was exempt from that. Now he knew better and it filled him with a dread that was worse than the idea of dying.

“Yes,” Jules replied, doing him the favour of leaving the unsaid words unsaid. A slight hissing noise came next, as she lifted the metallic device from the foam inside the case, starlight glinting of it in the periphery of his vision as she moved it in front of her to inspect it. She pulled off her leather gloves – one after the other – using her teeth, dropping them in the snow beside her, then turned to look at him. “It’s time, Finn.”

She sounded almost sad, he thought, his eyes still watching the stars, while his mind had spiralled into a panic that his body refused to acknowledge and react appropriately to. The sniper who’d shot him sure as hell knew what he was doing and Finn had to admire that on some level. On another level, he cursed that sniper’s skill. A little to one side or the other, up or down and he’d be dead already, and his worst nightmare wouldn’t be coming true.

“Please. Don’t,” he pleaded, shocking himself – and Jules – with the fear and horror in his voice. “Just let me die. Please. I’m begging you, Jules. If ever —”

“I have to,” she cut him off, and he quietly thanked her for that even as she leaned over and pulled off the knit hat he wore, then slipped the metallic headband with its thin wires attached over his head.

He felt it contract and then thin needles stabbed into his scalp, though his skull and into his brain, the searing pain only lasting a second until there was…


* * *

“Finnegan,” the voice said, female and familiar. “Finn? Wake up. C’mon, open your eyes.”

“I’m awake,” he said. He felt numb, like a part of him was missing, something substantial and important, but he couldn’t put a finger on what it was. And he bloody well couldn’t figure out where he knew that voice from. Somewhere…

“It’s time, Finn.”


“Why’d you do this to me?” he asked, opening eyes that weren’t his, turning to focus them on her as he spoke with lips that had belonged to someone else before they had Transferred him into their body.

“Because we own you, Finn,” she said with a cold smile and jutted out her chin in an authoritative gesture. “Now get up. You have a mission.”


Meet Charlie

30 03 2012


This is Charlie. He moved in with me today. Someone on Facebook asked me whether I adopted him or he adopted me. I’m still not quite sure about the answer to that one, although I did get him from a friend. The first few hours, he was very uncertain about the whole thing and hid under the sofa, but after I’d taken a nap (no cats allowed in the bedroom!), he seemed to have accepted this turn of events and decided that I’m pretty good at giving scritches. And also that my blanket is apparently very good at digging his claws into.

And yes, his name is the same as mine. Sure I could change it, but he’s 5-6 years old and imho, Charlie is a perfectly good name, so I see no need to give him a new name.

Oh, and look! New cat-egory! (har har)

Socialising and Alcohol

18 03 2012

Disclaimer: This is not a criticism of anyone who likes alcohol or enjoying to meet over a drink or a glass of beer. These are just my thoughts about it and why I dislike it.


So, with that disclaimer out of the way, let me start by saying that I’m a child of alcoholics. Not the type you’d imagine when the word is said like that, but the functional type, who went to work, managed to feed me, dress me and even pay attention to me more often than not. But alcohol was always there. I just didn’t notice it until I was well into my teens, at which point I learned that it wasn’t normal for most people to be drinking several bottles of beer a day. It must have been a slow realisation because I can’t remember being shocked or surprised by it, so perhaps deep down, I’ve always known that my parents were somewhat different than other parents.

And maybe the Danish culture of alcohol being part of nearly every type of social interaction has something to say about that. It’s not unusual – at all – to get drunk at parties, family gatherings, at Christmas or New Years, etc. It’s not even considered outside the norm to drink beer or wine when going on a picnic or to the beach or just sitting in the sun on summer afternoons/evenings. In fact, it’s almost required.

Which is part of the reason I have such a hard time getting together with people in my own peer group. Drinking and getting drunk is part of the culture. And not just for my own peer group. It’s part of the entire Danish culture, from poor to rich. Some say that Danes come together over the Royals or football (soccer, to you Americans). I say it’s alcohol. Just back when I was a child, it was fully acceptable to have a beer with lunch for many groups in many and various levels of the work force. By now, it’s not as acceptable, but I don’t think it’s terribly frowned upon (at least not compared to smoking).

With my background, I’ve ended on the hard edge of the scale that says ‘no alcohol whatsoever’ and I even have a hard time being around people who are drinking/drunk. The smell of beer makes me sick and the sound of bottles in a plastic bag brings up memories that I’d rather be without. So when – on a rare occasion – I’m asked to a party or a get-together by people I know, I say no. Because I know alcohol will be involved. And I simply cannot deal with that.

Being as anti-alcohol as I am is hard in a country where alcohol is such an ingrained part of the culture and socialising. I’m not good at the whole socialising thing to begin with and to bring alcohol into the mix just makes it near impossible.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I just don’t give people a chance. But when I look at Facebook and see people update on the weekend’s parties and hangovers… Well, I’m not so sure. I just hope that as I continue in this endeavour to come out of my shell that I will find people out there who will be able and willing to get together with me once in a while without alcohol being involved.


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