The real monster (short lesfic, sci-fi)

(Beta read by Deniz Pekin)

Kali stretched her muscular legs under the table and tried to keep herself from rolling her eyes. The meeting was taking forever and all she wanted to do was go back home and watch her girls dance. Owning a strip club wasn’t just a great cover, it was also very entertaining. At least to Kali. She barely listened as her associates drivelled on and on and on.

“Well, gentlemen.” She stood up. “I think that our business is concluded.” She didn’t wait for them to answer, she was the boss after all. She didn’t have to wait.

It had been three years since Kali and her kind had taken over human lands and completely disintegrated the Concord of humanoids from the inside out. To Kali it made no difference, she wasn’t really into politics. The only thing that had changed in Kali’s world was that she now had a wider mix of dancers. Not just her own kind, but humans and other humanoids too.

She walked through her club, going towards the rooms at the end. She was looking forward to pouring herself a drink and calling in a couple of dancers for a private show in her living room. She needed to clear her mind. Stop thinking about the one thing she wanted and the one thing she could never have.

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Musings on my past as a lesbian

Before I came out to my parents I sent them a questionnaire on “what you would do if your kid came out as gay?” I said it was for sociology. I thought I was so sly at the time, now I just think it was kind of pathetic. I don’t even remember what they answered anymore, it doesn’t matter, because about a month later I came out to them. They should have seen it coming, I had been talking about “my new friend” L for weeks by then. I really couldn’t shut up about her. Even before we actually started dating. I just thought she was amazing.

…and I still do, since we’re getting married soon-ish. (and she is amazing, honestly)

I didn’t see it coming. I had assumed that there was just something wrong with me, something that was missing. I wish I could have just realised that I was gay. I think my adolesence would have been a little bit more fun then. I went on my fair share of dates with boys but I liked them as friends mainly and I feel sorry for the ones that had the aspiration to even kiss me.

Now, almost 8 years since I came out to my parents and to myself, I realise that the signs were there. I just wasn’t looking hard enough. I’ve had four big crushes on girls:

1. I was 8 and I had this huge crush on a girl in the 9th grade (I know, I know). She had red curly hair and for the school talent show she did this really cool dance. Afterwards we were standing waiting for parents and stuff and eventually it was just me and her left. I remember thinking that I had to say something. Thank god I didn’t. Gosh I was a little weirdo. I still remember her dance though and that night… and her hair.

2. I was 11 and it was a girl my own age, thankfully. It was when we were living in the UAE. She was from South Africa, really tall and very, very cool. I’d watch her play football a lot. Sadly she was kind of a bully and not very nice to me at all, but we don’t need to focus on that.

3. Oh. This one I remember! I was 15 just going on 16 and I fell madly for my Swedish and English teacher. She was 24 and just out of teaching school. Probably that’s why she was so idealistic. She would give me extra reading material and extra assigments, finally, I needed it. She really liked her job. And I really liked her.

4. This was minor but I can’t really deny it. I changed schools (moved a lot, changed a lot of schools) again. This was a tiny school and in French class we were only five students. Me and this girl, we’ll call her C, were advanced and the other three were beginners. C was much better at French than I was. I tried but I had started writing more seriously and my head was up in the clouds. And she was so cool. Not my type at all now, very short and girly, but very funny and very smart. I actually told her that I’d had a crush on her much later. It was a funny conversation… anyway, my most clear memory was when this French teacher came to visit our school and our teacher wanted us to talk with him and show him around the school. A man, young, I suppose good looking. C got so giggly. She couldn’t get a word out, she spoke French fluently and suddenly she didn’t speak a single word. So I had to speak with this guy in my broken French as we showed him around the school.

So I really should have seen it coming when I fell heels over head in love with the love of my life. She wasn’t what I had been looking for, but I knew once I found her. This is it.

Is write-o-holic a thing?

I’m feeling a bit lost.

Because I don’t feel like writing.

And when I don’t feel like writing, I feel a little bit lost. 😛

(how many thousand words did I write in the past week? I have no idea. Maybe it’s not strange that I’m all out of them)

The best of two worlds

Don’t get me wrong. Living on an old sailing boat is charming. I like the gentle movements of the water, less technology, playing silly board games with my future wife, taking long walks with the dogs, the fresh air, swimming and fishing… 

But being home is heaven. Oh my. Left over Chinese food and reruns of Supernatural. An electrical stove, a shower big enough for two (well, if you really, really want it to be big enough for two), nail polish and Internet other than on my phone. 

Now all I need is a cup of tea, my laptop to write on and my life will be perfect. ❤ 

A selection of my father’s stories

I need to credit my parents more. Most of the time I claim that I am my own, which I am of course, but that my parents didn’t influence me much. Which is stupid and childlish. There are three things I consider my own, singing, writing and reading. And my parents can definitely be credited in how I have developed.

Reading? Well, that’s easy. They didn’t force me and were patient. Why do I say that? When you talk to people who are involved with writing, or reading or blogging or anything like that they usually tell you that they’ve been reading since they were four, or five or three. That they taught themselves and they’ve loved it since they were little. Well, I am ashamed to say that that wasn’t me. I didn’t learn to read and write properly until I was about eight. If you had wanted to teach me before that you would have had to catch me first since I spent my first years in school being busy wrestling and fighting with the boys, falling off trees and getting into trouble. Then puberty hit, everybody outgrew me and I discovered reading. And I promise, I have done my best to catch up with everyone else since then. 😉 I discovered Enid Blyton’s books and later Harry Potter (oops, did I just out myself as being under 30? 😛 )

Singing? Well, that’s a whole other story. So to not make a big deal out it, please, I just used to sing opera. My parents paid for lessons. Okay, now let’s just ignore that part.

Writing? Well, I was late with that too. I remember struggling to learn to write my name in Kindergarten. I was frustrated, felt stupid and was surrounded by Emmas, Annas and Elsas and Saras. My name, my real name and not the pen name I use here, have 9 letters. My most trouble was with the G which is planted in almost the middle of my name. I spent years writing it as a 6.

Either way, despite these… challenges I had with reading and writing I have always loved stories. Making them, hearing them etc. After spending my early years only wanting to hear two stories over and over (a story about the little train from my dad, and the story of the cricket that sung all summer from mum) I turned five and craved to hear other stories. In the same time I also decided that I was going to write a book.

My mum took me to the bookstore and we looked for an empty notebook (not with lines because of course I wouldn’t write). I chose one that had a picture of a lady in a 1920s style dress that was green. I still remember picking it out and holding it in my hands. I remember the feel of the cover under my hands, it was so shiny. And I couldn’t wait to start.

My dad helped me. I would draw pictures and make speech bubbles and he would write in the speech bubbles exactly what I told him.

… well, I don’t know what the fuck was wrong with five year old me. I have read my book as an adult and I just have no comments. I had clearly been inspired by the beautiful lady on the front because it was about her. And how she is kidnapped by demons and pulled through several layers of hell. In the book I have drawn ghosts, demons, cages with humans inside them and torture machines that the poor woman was put through. There is the demon king, and all the things he even put the ghosts through. There are ghosts crying. And laughing. It ends with the woman getting free and running back home.

And my dad wrote everything. It’s his handwriting through the whole thing except the final pages where I’m writing random words badly misspelled. I don’t know what he thought, or if he questioned. But he did as I asked. And for that I’m grateful.

He would continue reading my stories and giving me comments on language up until adulthood. Then I switched to English and it was harder for him. Then I started writing lesbian romance and I stopped asking. I wish I could show him “hej pappa, look how good I got” but I’m also self conscious about what I’m writing about now, so I don’t ask anymore. He has promised to read my novels though.

But this is about his stories. We didn’t always have a television as I grew up. When I still couldn’t read my mum would loan audio books from the library so my taste for stories could be satisfied. However, nothing was as good as when I would sit on my dad’s lap after food and ask “pappa, tell me about that time….?”

My dad has a lot of funny stories from his own life. I carry them inside me like pieces of treasure, memories to bring out and tell my own children in the future. I asked him if I was allowed to share my favourites with you, and he said okay. So here you go, a selection of my father’s stories.

  1. My dad is a medical doctor and while still studying he tried a lot of different things and travelled a lot through out Sweden. He was in a new town and looked at the map very carefully, he needed to get to a local hotel. He grabbed his bag and walked all the way, entered what he thought was the hotel. He went up to the reception and said “I have a room waiting for me” – it turned out it was a prison.
  2. Once when my dad was working in a clinic or hospital, they had a code word that they would say when it was time for a coffee break. For some reason (doctors have a sense of humour too, I suppose, their code was “the police is here”. So they would say that over the intercome, dad would excuse himself and then go and have a coffee break as soon as the patient was done. Either way, one day he was examining the eyes of a man, the voice of the intercom said “the police is here”. Dad’s patient flew up from the chair and jumped out of the window.
  3. My dad has also been in sailing competitions since he was a teenager. One of my favourite stories is of one specific competition. All the boats where waiting in the middle, waiting for the start signal. Dad and his mate had looked at the map carefully. Then the start signal sounded… and every boat set off in one direction. Dad and his mate just looked at each other and then the map, they were so certain that they were supposed to sail the other way. So alone they set off. They were the only ones who made it into the goal, everyone else had followed one or two others who had been wrong.

About “The train and the rails”.

I like family history. A lot. Maybe because I didn’t have much family growing up. Sure, I had (well, of course I still have but they’re spread around the earth now) 5 siblings. But cousins? Not many and the ones I have lived far away and we didn’t share a language. Aunts, uncles? The same.

My parents are older, the same age as most people’s grandparents. (Seriously, dad was born ’48.)  because of that I didn’t know most of my grandparents, except one. My Turkish grandpa. 

But this isn’t about him. This is about my Swedish grandpa. I come from quite an old family line. (and named exactly like my dad’s grandma. Ever seen your name on a grave stone? Because I have) Old enough to have a story, a saying and all those good things that I’m supposed to teach my future children but probably won’t. 

My line started with a rich sailor and his wife. She fell in love with the stable boy and when her husband came back they killed him and fled to Denmark. Not sure when exactly – I’m guessing early 1800s? Either way. That’s it. And that story I’ll definitely tell my kids. When they’re old enough. 

But I’m getting away from the point. My Swedish grandpa, who died almost 15 years before I was born, wrote books about Vikings. But that’s not it either. He also helped engineer the rail roads of Northern Sweden, and he would walk the rails with his only son, my dad. They would take long walks along the rails, telling him that as long as the rails weren’t singing there was no train coming. 

We live in a modern world now. My dad never took me walking on the rails. But the expression stuck. 

“Hör du hur rälsen sjunger?” 

“Do you hear how the rails sing?” 

Yes. I do. 

Squish. Splash. Shudder. Gasp. – A story of betrayal (okay, not a story, more like a couple of words)

She’s moaning my name. Trembling against my fingers as I hold her closer. My sweet, sweet girl. She’s so beautiful when she comes for me. It makes me feel powerful. It makes me forget the years and time between us. Makes me forget my fears and what’s coming. What I’ll have to do.

That’s it, kitten, just relax. I’ve got you. You’re safe.

* * *

Squish. Splash. Shudder. Gasp.

I look down at the knife I’m holding. The one that was now firmly attached in Meena’s flesh. I stare at the blood dripping from the gash.

I’m sorry, I want to say but I choke on the words before they reach my lips. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. It wasn’t suppose to happen this way, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry…

That sound. That small gasp of surprise. The whimper. It’s too easy to close my eyes and pretend they are sounds of climax rather than betrayal.

Sweet little kitten, close your eyes now, it’s time to sleep.  


The word sounds like a question, but I have no answers for her. Sweet Meena, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

“Soraya, why?”

Because I was given a choice, kitten, I was given a choice. Pretend to betray you, give you over, stab you in the back. I do all those things and they wouldn’t kill you.

The blood is running over my fingers. Meena’s blood. Red like the ruby of her lips after I’ve kissed them. Red like the sweet dark pink of my emotions and feelings for her. Red like the slight flush of her cheeks. Or the slight crimson of my fingers after they’ve been inside of her.

“I’ll kill you,” she gasps, “I’m going to…” gasp, “kill you.”

“I know,” I say, then I twist the knife.

* * *

When she comes she cries like her heart is breaking. The first time she did that it scared me, but I’m used to that by now. I know what the tears mean. I gently remove my fingers from her heat and hold her close. I want to stay like that. With Meena lying spent in my arms. Safe and vulnerable. I want to protect her from the world, from the evils that want to hurt her. I want to protect her from myself, from the things I do in my job. From the things I can’t protect her from. My kitten. I wish she could stay my kitten forever.

* * *

When they take her away, broken, bleeding and heartbroken, I stay looking at the pile of blood on my feet. Part of me has disassociated Meena with that blood. It can’t be her blood. I look down at my hands there is blood on them too. I panic and wipe them against my tunic, but part of it is dried. I need water, in more ways than one. My tongue clicks in my mouth, suddenly dry. I’m sorry, kitten,  I’m sorry. I can’t believe what I’ve done. I try to remind myself that they were going to kill her anyway, but it doesn’t matter. There were a million of other things I could have done. We could have run away together. I could have told her and she could have disappeared. We could have gone after the men together and killed them ourselves one by one. But no, what did I choose? I chose stabbing my kitten in the back. I stare at the blood of my hands and wail.

The train and the rails

“Tell me a story, little demon.” Leaghanda looked up and into the green eyes of the demon of envy.

“What kind of story do you want?” In fact, Leaghanda, the demon of erotica, was in no mood to tell any story at all. But the demon of envy looked like she needed it.

“A love story of course.”

The demon of erotica chewed on her pencil while thinking. Then she put it down.

“Have you heard about the train and the rails?”

One black eyebrow over green eyes shot up.

“The train and the rails?” She asked, “what kind of story is that?”

Leaghanda sighed.

“Well, if you’re patient and wait, I’ll tell you.”

The demon of envy rolled her eyes, as if saying “fine”, but she didn’t say anything else so Leaghanda started telling the story.

“Well, they say that every time a train goes by, the rails sing.” She turned quiet.

The demon of envy, Arakiss we’ll call her, looked at Leaghanda as if expecting more.

“What?” She said after a little while, “was that it?”

“Yes,” Leaghanda said, “I mean, that’s the main idea. Have you ever listened to the rails when a train goes by? It sounds like music. They’re singing. That’s pretty romantic if you ask me.”

“But that’s stupid,” Arakiss replied, “that’s not a love story, that’s… I don’t know what that is.”

Leaghanda sighed.

“What did you expect me to come up with in five minutes?” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Plus,” she continued, “I don’t think here,” she tapped on her head, “I think here.” She held out her fingers and wiggled them as if writing on a keyboard. “If you want a story told you need to ask the demon of storytelling, not me.”

The demon of envy seemed annoyed. Leaghanda thought for a while.

“Fine,” she said, “there is more to the story.”

Arakiss looked up.

“But it isn’t told by me,” Leaghanda continued, “it’s told by the rail who sings and the trains who shudder and moan and twist and turn as they move together. It’s about the swelling of metal in the heat of summer, and freezing and shrinking in winter. It’s not a gentle love story, but it’s a story of fire and coal turned electrical engine. Kind of sad really. The only thing that remains the same is the singing of the rail. Even if the trains are not the same.”

The demon of envy looked at her with wide eyes for a couple of minutes. Then she stood up.

“You’re insane.”

Leaghanda laughed as her friend left.

(shamelessly based off of The book of seven forbidden wisdoms by Deniz Pekin)