The Sirens of the Inbetween. A haunting story from another realm.

Sybele began singing her haunting tune. She always does when she senses I'm close. It's unpleasant but bearable. Her chanting has no effect on me other than wanting to plug my ears. I tend to avoid her stomping ground of the Inbetween. Not that she is confined to it. Sybele and all the other sirens could ambush me wherever they like. Yet, they seem somewhat territorial. Fine by me! Makes it easier to navigate the territory of the Inbetween.

There is only one who could ensnare me. Her name is Aurora. As beautiful a vision as the sound of her name! She almost got me once - a mere 124,000 years ago. When I was vulnerable... after Danu left me to share the Dark King's realm again.

I didn't know it back then; that Danu abandoned me to be with him... Our arch enemy! I didn't know she'd previously left him to be with me. I always believed she was his prisoner, his slave. Just like I was. I know better now.

What a fucking moron I was!

My ancient heart drips blood whenever the icy blade of Danu's betrayal slices through me. Some wounds will never close.

It was then that Aurora enchanted me. She took advantage of my vulnerable energy-flows and calmed their frazzled eddies with the soothing counter-current she weaves into her songs.

I remember the feeling! The stillness in my churned up soul. The sudden calm of my heated thoughts. The blessed absence of the ache inside my ripped-apart heart.

I. Wanted. Her! I couldn't get close enough to the source of her divine sound! Aurora had me mesmerised… one hundred per cent focussed on her. I knew I met the love of my immortal life. My happily ever after. My…

Stop this! I bloody know about the sirens! This was one of them! Not my happily ever after! Not even my friend!

The Sirens… they are menacing, hairy spiders sitting in their webs, waiting for unsuspecting prey to become stuck. Then they rub their pedipalps together, and the sound they make grates your nerves, flays them, leaving them raw and shredded. By then, it’s too late for escape. They encapsulate you inside their songs, and they suck your soul dry. Bit. By. Fucking. Bit. Until there is nothing left but an empty body without a mind. A broken shell.

I have seen them: a Siren’s private army made up of countless shadows. Withered wraiths that can barely move… always following their siren. Not alive – yet, not dead either, they are desperately trying to catch up, to touch her. Never reaching, though. What a farce of an existence!

I never saw a single wraith in my Aurora’s wake. But then… I don’t really venture too close. She told me… I swallow hard… Told me that she only ever wanted me. Me! Of all the singular entities that venture into her realm. I don’t trust her as far as I can throw a stone! A Siren and a Fae? Ridiculous! Can. Eever! Happen. Yet – I feel her lure. Even now, 124,000 years, three months, two weeks, and one fucking day later. I can’t get her out of my mind! It is Danu all over again. Worse! Danu only left me. Aurora would kill me. Outright – and I am sure it won’t be a pleasant way to go. I need to be on my guard. She visits me in my dreams. Sings her song of empty promises, and seductive pleas inside my mind. Its notes bouncing off the inside of my skull, amplify, and slice through my very soul. It is torture! Every. Fucking. Night.

More than once I contemplated to give in. Like three times a day.

She haunts me beyond the borders of the Inbetween. I don't know what's worse: hearing her song or imagining it. It doesn't matter! The outcome is the same. I long for her. Long for her embrace, her company, her love, her devotion. I want her to sing her song just for me. But I know I am deluding myself. Aurora will never stop once she captured me. I might be her first - but I will certainly not be her last. I cannot have her all to myself.

I roam the Inbetween. Driven, obsessed. I cannot find her. She does not sing for me anymore. Why has he stopped singing for me? Did I take too much time? Does she think I am not worth the effort? Did she find somebody worthier?

My heart ices over and shatters into a million pieces. It cannot be! I panic inside the vast expanse of the Inbetween; my mind spins out of control; my undead heart beats erratically. If I were human, I would die right on the spot. I cannot die. Never. Death is not a comfort-to-come for me. I and my brethren are cursed to travel the universe forever.

I hate my existence. I hated my existence since Danu left me. Then I found a distraction in Aurora. The comforting security of her singing - just for me. Aurora wanting me, chasing me with her ethereal tunes. Me evading her, dancing a dangerous pas de deux with the blackest of the black swans. I am a good dancer, nimble on my feet, knowing how to lead, enjoying the way the music translates into movement. I want to dance with Aurora. All the time.

Ω

He was easy prey. One song. One song only, and he was all mine. 124,000 years ago, Ah-dam became mine. He doesn't know it, but he will one day. He is my first, and he will be my last. There is nothing more powerful than the energy of the Dark Lord. One of a kind! A life-form, able to exist in all the realities there are. The only one capable of transitioning between the realms, breath the Inbetween and not drown in its non-existence. An energy-being so powerful that even the Dark King bows his silver head.

And now he follows me! Follows me through the Inbetween; looking for me, seeking my company, dying to hear my song. I feel his energy flowing over me in powerful ripples and waves. Drowning me, getting me drunk, satisfying me.

And should he ever get bored, or disheartened, doubting that he would ever hear me again, I will sing a short tune - just for him - and hope will fill him, longing will drive him, and the need to find me will define his every move. It doesn't matter if he never realises that he is stuck in my web. The moment he wanted me, he belonged to me. There will never be an escape for my Prince of Darkness. He is mine forever!

If you want to learn more about the Inbetween download a sample of Homecoming HERE.

Or read for #free on #kindleunlimited

Happy reading!

Nick's Stories - Gargoyle Rock

Gargoyle Rock - a short, tragic science fantasy as told by Nick Cole; edited by Anathea N. Krrill

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

I watched the crowd surrounding Gargoyle Rock. Gawkers!

Giggling teenage girls, lithe and airy, glittery and carefree, cheekily nudged the stone, which stood proud and unmoving, taking their combined assault in its own stoic and immovable pace. I wanted to chase them away, wave my arms, and shout! Scatter the visitors like I would have a flock of the ever-present, ever-chattering seagulls. They both annoy me–the visitors and the gulls. Both are oblivious to my millennia-old pain. They cannot know, but that doesn’t mean I have to endorse the unintentional disrespect of the tourists poking, and the seagulls soiling Gargoyle Rock.

I ball my hands into tight fists every time I see another shuttle carting in tourists from the “Princess Of The Galaxy” – the flagship of Intergalactic Travels Inc. A company dedicated to providing “educational travels to further the universal understanding of every inhabitant of the known universe”… (or so claims their marketing blurb). At affordable rates, of course! And if you cannot afford it, the Intergalactic Panel of Governments will give a grant to allow every member of their community to enjoy educational travels across the universe. Simple! These days everybody is entitled to the best education affordable – independent of gender, race, or social standing. Whatever the “best education” encompasses is entirely at the discretion of the Subdivision For Education of the Intergalactic Panel of Governments. And it changes with every newly appointed government. Hard to keep track of. I don’t care much about education myself. Having lived for the best part of a few billion years, I learned my lessons not only in academic institutions - back when they could still be called academic - but mainly in the school of life itself.

You would think that after a few thousand years you will have seen it all! Let me give you good advice: Never underestimate the creative potential of stupidity. It is universal! Here I stand now, on the edge of the shore, where Gargoyle Rock formed from molten lava almost half a million years ago in an event known to me and my kind as The Big Devastation.

The inhabitants of the universe know it as Geo_ELE_13456. Extinction Level Event 13456 on planet Earth. Within less than a week, it snuffed out all life on Earth, leveled the Himalayas, lifted the Ocean floors, and cracked the Earth’s crust open like an eggshell, ejecting fountains of molten lava from the abyss. Those were violent days; violent and fast and over before I could even gather my thoughts. For thousands of years, I'd been living as an Earthling amongst Earthlings. So long, in fact, that I was on the verge of forgetting my true ancestry. Until the day the Earth died. Then, I could no longer deny my immortal lineage; however hard I tried: I. Could. Not. Die. I watched my loved ones perish – one by one. They didn’t go gently. Gigantic rock slides set off by devastating earthquakes; streams of boiling lava spewed out of ripped-apart mountaintops; pyroclastic flows raced down the once gentle slopes of the Snowdonia mountain range. My people saw the approaching tsunami blocking out the sky–but they had nowhere to go.

Trapped on the small Isle of Anglesey, boiling waters, tsunamis, and scorching lava streams surrounded them. The ones who didn’t drown in the floods got evaporated by the fast-moving pyroclastic flows. At over 400 miles per hour, Snowdonia is only a couple of minutes away. It left me with barely enough time to say my goodbyes.

Tears burn in my eyes every time the memories push their way to the surface of my consciousness. I try not to allow them in too often. But I made a pledge: never to forget her; to visit her once every ten-thousand years—on the day her life ended, and mine with it. I didn’t blink the tears away. Nobody could see me anyway. I was invisible—not really there. I watched from within the Inbetween: the connecting fabric of All-There-Is. Only the most ancient species of the universe know of its existence, and even fewer can travel through it. I am one of them. We are pure energy. We cannot die—ever. All we can do is change energy forms; cursed to live for all eternity. Oh, what I would have given to die with her! Wrapped up in each other’s arms, share our last breath on a kiss, and gaze into each other's eyes for the last time before they close forever.

But no! I held her; I kissed her; looked into her eyes as they dulled. I will never forget the curtain of death falling over her face, wiping out the life in her sparkling eyes. I will always remember the fear and the agony as the churning waters of the Swnt boiled us alive, and hot, molten rock covered our remains.

Death claimed her, but spit me out like a nasty mouthful.

I wanted to rest under the boiling sea forever, stay buried with her under tons of liquid rock that slowly solidified. But Nature didn't grant me this little comfort. Our bodies combusted as the fires of Earth touched us. And with nothing substantial left to hold on to, my energy got released and sucked back into the Inbetween, from where I had to extricate myself again.

Following the aftermath of The Big Devastation, I had no chance of getting back to Earth for the next thousand-or-so years. Planet Earth was a desolate place. Life got extinguished; snuffed out by a violent cough by Mother Nature herself.

Ah! The cruelty of it all!

I lifted my face toward the sky—as if the indifferent firmament cared for my feelings. The sun was nothing but a ghostly disc behind the thick, omnipresent mist, which coated Earth ever since the oceans evaporated. I sucked in a breath of air as muggy as a night in the Deep South. It brought back memories of my lover wrapped up in my arms, listening to the myriad of creatures that filled the Southern night with their symphonies. There was nobody left to listen to them any longer.

I slowly walked over to Gargoyle Rock, which now lay deserted by the retreating tourists; their chatter ebbing away, their footprints erased by the incoming tide. All of a sudden, the seagulls didn't seem that bad anymore.

“Goodbye, my love. See you in ten-thousand years.” I briefly manifested as a physical being and tenderly touched Gargoyle Rock — my lover’s tomb.

Nick's Stories - Pandora's Box

Pandoras Box – a short, dark fantasy as told by Nick Cole; edited by Anathea N. Krrill

With trembling fingers, Damon Wormwood traced the chunky iron clasps that firmly held the heavy lid of the crudely hewn chest in place. His eyes darted around, trying to penetrate the dimly lit surroundings of the cave – heart pounding, cold sweat trickling down his back.

“To safe-keep, guard, and protect from the evil forces.” Those were his father’s dying words with which he had passed on the responsibility for Pandora’s Box to his son. That was seven years ago, on the day Damon turned 18. What a cursed birthday gift indeed!

Damon shivered and drew the threadbare rags, which served him as a cloak and sleeping covers alike, closer around his shoulders. It was always cold in the Driftwoods!

He stretched to his full height of six foot two, drawing back his broad shoulders, and expanding his muscular chest. He sighed with much relief. He was used to carrying himself hunched over, taking tired, dragging steps, often pausing, keeping his head down and his face hooded, as was required by The Law.

Damon was a beggar – a member of the lowest of the lowest casts; hated and feared even more than thieves or murderers. Or perhaps it was just so that by general assumption beggars were thieves, were murderers; avoided by the righteous people of Gaya. Beggars were known to have the evil eye: If you caught a glimpse of a beggar’s eyes, you had to part with the possessions you carried in order to salvage your soul. No wonder, that a lot of beggars “lost” their eyesight in accidents involving stabbings, fiery incidents, or acid attacks. And more often than not they lost more than their evil eyesight in said accidents.

Superstitious nonsense it was... of course! But superstitions and false beliefs were the pillars of society; as were greed, cruelty, and emotional depravity. Charitable donations were made by the people every month in order to keep the scum of humanity out of their sight. But only the minority knew that their donations never made it to the poor. And the ones who knew profited from the diversion of the monetary stream and kept quiet. The intended beneficiaries – the ones who lived below the threshold of what society deemed “human” - never knew.

Damon did know! And he loathed the double standards of it all. Not that he could have done much about it. His first and foremost concern was to keep Pandora’s Box spirited away and safe from the fiendish forces, who wanted nothing more than to open it and so unleash all the possible evil into the world. As if there wasn’t enough suffering to go around already! But that probably depended on which side of society you belonged to.

Damon didn’t really belong to either side. He chose to be a beggar because it almost guaranteed that people looked in the opposite direction if they happened to catch as much as a glimpse of him. In the human world, superstition served him well. And the resulting aversion made him almost untraceable.

“Not so in the world of Evil,” his father had warned him many times. “Evil doesn’t suffer from human idiocy. Evil sits in hiding, waiting patiently for you to drop your guard before it strikes.”

Never. Drop. Your. Guard. This became Damon’s mantra from a very early age. Evil worked slowly – not because it was lazy or dull, but because Evil had all the time in the world. All the time to wait for the exact moment to strike!

“Evil comes in many guises.” This was another one of his father’s warnings. And Damon listened to all of them – just like his father and grandfather had listened before for centuries since the beginning of time itself.

But time was running out for Damon.

He was 25 years of age with nobody to pass on his responsibilities to. In the harsh world of beggars, Damon was a Methuselah! The few who made it past their early twenties without being either brutally killed or slowly starved to death generally succumbed to a weakened mind and ended their sorry existence by their own hand.

Damon showed surprising resilience. Had to! Because leaving Pandora’s Box without a Guardian was not an option. His father was a wealthy merchant – one who travelled extensively to source the finest merchandise from all over the world. Pandora’s Box was part of his equally extensive luggage pile.

Damon sat down on the mossy log in the dark and humid cave in the middle of the Driftwoods, which he used as his recent hideout. Damon was always on the move. He never allowed himself to stay anywhere for longer than a few days. Once, he had been forced to stay put for more than a week – during a time, when icy winter storms threatened to bury Gaya under eternal ice and snow. He had no choice at that time, but he could feel Evil draw closer, stretching its claw-like fingers greedily towards Pandora’s Box: to hold it, to unclasp the locks that kept the lid in place, and to finally open it – inch by dangerous inch; to release its contents into the winds, never to be imprisoned again. And in so doing, dooming Gaya and her people.

Damon looked longingly to his makeshift bedstead, comprising of a pile of dry forest leaves, covered by a clean, finely woven cape, and nothing more. He was tired to the bone, but he didn’t want to soil the fine cape by pulling it over his filthy body. Damon might have chosen the appearance of a beggar, but he liked to wash his disguise off when he retreated to the privacy of his hideout. With a sigh, he traced his fingertips lightly over the finely woven cloak, before he shrugged off his filthy clothes and made his way to the hot spring to take a bath.

As he soaked in the soft water of the spring, he closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander back to this very afternoon, and to the girl, who parted with her cloak. Not because she felt charitable towards the filthy beggar in his pitifully threadbare rags, but because she caught his eye and had to. Yes – she had no choice. He needed to remind himself of this fact and not allow his foolish heart to get caught up in daydreams. He resolutely pushed himself into a full sitting position, rubbed his face vigorously with both hands and grabbed for the clean piece of cloth that was his towel.

“Oh!” The high-pitched voice made his hand stop in mid-air. He jumped up, ready for the imminent attack, training his gaze in the direction of the sound. There was nothing. He slowly lowered his gaze. He could make out the form of a woman sprawled on the ground a few paces away. She must have tripped over a stone when she tried to stake him out.

His breath hitched when she slowly lifted her head to face him. He recognised the girl, whose cloak he was going to use for covers that night.

Covers! Freya! He was naked as on the day of his making. He covered himself as best as he could with his towel cloth, which – because the cloth was of small size, and Damon was a huge man – wasn’t very good.

Dorah blushed violently. She should have averted her gaze straight away! She should have closed her eyes the second she saw… Koalemos! She should have never approached him while he was in the hot spring. What had she been thinking? Too late! The milk was spilled, and the image of this glorious, naked… beggar… Man! was etched into her retina. And all the squeezing-eyes-tightly-shut in the whole of Gaya couldn’t erase it.

Dorah sighed and picked herself up. She meticulously brushed the dirt off her skirts and rearranged her tousled hair.

Beautiful, want-to-run-my-fingers-through cascades of ebony silk… Damon swallowed hard. He shouldn’t! He couldn’t!

“I am… My name is… Dorah,” the beautiful girl introduced herself.

Ah! The ring of her voice. Crystal chimes in a soft summer breeze. Damon closed his eyes and drew a deep breath that expanded his painfully constricted chest.

“Damon,” he murmured. “I am pleased to meet you, Mylady.” He even managed an implied bow. The cloth that covered his loins moved ever so slightly.

Dorah sucked in some much-needed air and fanned her face with both hands.

“I shall retreat and let you get dried and dressed,” she finally said, and Damon thought, he’d detected a nuance of regret in her mesmerising voice.

An hour later they shared his meagre nightmeal, sitting around the fire pit he’d fashioned in the middle of his cave.

“You live here…?” she cautiously took in her surroundings.

Damon shrugged his shoulders. “Only when I am in the area. I am moving around a lot...” he clenched his fists. “It is best not to overstretch people’s kindness...” He didn’t need to elaborate what that meant. Of course, a beggar who stayed too long in one place would eventually meet an accidental end. People’s kindness was a fickle thing indeed.

“What brings you here, Mylady?” Damon tried to divert the conversation. He looked towards his bedstead, where her cloak lay spread out, ready to cocoon him like a lover’s embrace. “You can have your cloak back if it means that much to you...” he offered with much regret.

She blushed violently. “It is not the coat I am after, Damon.”

He looked at her with much intrigue. “What is it then, Mylady, that brings you to a beggar’s hovel?” She squirmed uncomfortably. She didn’t have to give him an answer of course; he was only a beggar after all and as such invisible to most of the Gayans. He scolded himself for being so forthright as to question her. Freya! It was outlandish to address her at all! His heart beat with the audacity of it all… or was it something entirely else?

Dorah looked at him – guilelessly. She met his gaze straight on as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Heavens! Why would she do such a foolish thing?

“You have something that belongs to me,” she said softly, holding his gaze.

Damon swallowed. Her eyes… sapphires in her creamy face, framed by the lush fall of her raven hair. Her lips… Ah! Those lips... Damon felt compelled to write a poem about her beauty, and her kind heart, and…

“The box you guard,” she said softly. “I came to claim it back. It is mine.”

Damon’s flesh tingled. He flew to his feet, and with a desperate jump, he flung himself onto the box to do what he was sworn to do: Guard her with his life.

“Damon...” Dorah’s otherworldly voice drifted over his senses, enveloped him, soothed him, put him at ease. And all of a sudden, he couldn’t understand why this beautiful creature shouldn’t have her box back. She was the rightful owner after all.

Damon was trained to withstand Evil, and with an almighty effort, he lifted the box and turned towards the exit of the cave. It was so hard! Why was it so hard?

“Guardian...”

Ah, her voice! He wept with joy.

She lifted her hand and wiped his tears away. Tender! Oh. So. Tender.

He had no choice but to kill her.

He was beyond fear and reason when – for the first time in his life - he unsheathed “The dagger, which can only be drawn against Evil.” His father’s words; a legacy, an oath, a vow, and no way back. Damon didn’t hesitate: he plunged the dagger into Dorah’s abdomen, thrust it to the hilt, and twisted.

She froze; disbelief in her sapphire eyes, her red lips forming a perfect O. But no sound came out of her beautiful mouth when she doubled over and exhaled the sweet air that filled her lungs.

The atmosphere changed. Sheen lightning covered the stone walls, and a fierce gust extinguished the torch and the fire in one single blow, leaving the cave lit only by the eerie bluish glow, which coated the walls.

“...open...” Dorah reached out to him, struggling for breath.

“I will do no such thing, you evil witch!” Damon furiously yanked the dagger out of her abdomen to aid her dying.

Dorah’s eyes went dead.

Damon closed his eyes and drew his head back on an inhale.

He defeated Evil! He should feel elated – but he didn’t!

The dagger dropped from his limp hand and hit the floor with an otherworldly sound. It spun on its tip and created a ringing noise, which grew louder and louder the faster the dagger spun.

Damon was too exhausted to react – even when Dorah’s dead eyes opened, and her bloodied fingers stretched to reach Pandora’s Box. Inch by inch she crawled closer, dragging her broken body across the floor. Electric currents charged along Damon’s skin, and the crackling noise of static echoed off the walls.

“Guide...” her dead voice was like an Arctic breeze. “Open. The. Box!”

Damon faintly wondered how it was possible for Dorah’s dead, broken body to produce such a commanding voice. His fingers itched to bide her command.

“Can’t!” A tortured howl squeezed past his painfully constricted vocal cords.

“Do. It. NOW!” Another compelling command delivered like a death blow.

“...for me, Guide… do it for me...” Her voice was like liquid silver, caressing him, putting his tormented soul at ease. Damon could almost feel her fingers running along his jaw, down his neck, over his bare chest. He shivered. Pleasure – Pain. Right – Wrong. He needed to make a decision and either combust in the fires of hell or die of pure elation in the echelons of heaven. But a decision he needed to make. Anything was better than hanging in the Inbetween, being torn apart by forces that lay beyond his control.

He didn’t hesitate when he grasped the box and unlatched the clasps.

And they came rushing out of the box like a raging river: Pleasure, Love, Compassion, Peace, Truth, Justice, Health, and Life itself filled the cave, crammed it, and rendered the air unbreathable with emotions. They condensed for a moment before they left the cave and spilled into the world of humankind; ready to wipe out the Evil that imprisoned them aeons ago.

Damon watched them. He looked at the empty box; he looked at Dorah’s dead body, her ebony hair that fanned out around her now peaceful face like a halo. In her death, she smiled. She’d completed her mission. And he had been a fool: Believing to fight Evil - when all he’d done was aid its atrocities. He’d killed the woman who came to show him love.

With a smile he picked up the dagger and plunged it into his own heart, hoping for Kindness to grant him forgiveness.

ANK on Nick's Stories

As my latest project - Homecoming, which is book 3 of the Sphere-World Series - inches towards the finishing line (aka publishing), I am looking for something that I can fill my writing-time with in-between bouts of editing.
I am restraining myself from starting with my next novel at this stage. Just because it is too tempting to start hammering away at a new project rather than finishing off the previous one. Having said that, though: I do need a writing-based distraction from editing. Editing is hard work - it requires a lot of concentration, checking, re-checking, researching, re-phrasing etc. Not a mean feat.
Writing new content is a piece of cake in comparison!
And while I indulge in gathering ideas, making notes, and thinking about story-lines, I couldn't help but notice, that Nick Cole is rather prolific at crafting stories. I did touch on the essence of some of his stories in my books. But there was never enough time and space to tell more than their bare bones. Which is a shame - because Nick's stories are beautiful, epic, and imaginative. I love to listen to them. I guess they take me back to my childhood when fairy tales formed a vital part of my life.
And because I love stories, and Nick's stories in particular, I decided to help him to introduce his stories to a broader audience by publishing them on this blog!

He was a tad reluctant at first, but I eventually managed to wrestle his data-skin from him. Nick graciously helped me to convert the files containing his stories, notes, and ideas from space-age gobbledygook to text-files my old-fashioned laptop can read and process. He is a genius! But to those who know Nick, that's nothing new!
Over the coming months, I will compile and post Nick's stories. I will talk to him and ask him for his input. And once we are both happy with the finished product, I shall post them for everybody to enjoy.

Look out for posts labelled with "Nick's Stories", and if you want to make sure never to miss one, consider subscribing to my mailing list.
Stay tuned and Happy Reading!

ANK on Could I Be A Full Time Author?

Writing to my heart's content, being able to immerse myself in my stories all day - every day. Powering up my laptop in the morning and not leaving it until those 5k plus words are achieved... or more...
Sounds like a blissful existence - right? I would agree... where it not for the pesky little thing called "life," which kind of stops once you retreat to your "writer's corner."
I know it - because I live a writer's life... part-time at least. And I love it! I love the days of the week, which I have "to myself" - mundane tasks of daily life permitting. Because, no - I am not rich and cannot afford to pay somebody to do my washing, cleaning, cooking and shopping for me. This is still all very much a DIY job. And it bloody gets in the way of writing!
It doesn't get in the way of my "proper job" - the one that not only pays the bills but keeps me connected to reality; the people, the science, daily trivia, and - not so trivial - current affairs.
The commute to work gets me talking to people, the work I do gets me thinking outside the irreality-box (that's my brain in author mode. Because let's face it: anything goes in fiction!)
As much as I hate leaving my laptop behind: it is also essential for me to get away from it.
Even if it is only for a walk, taking in the scenery on #Anglesey is beautiful, breathtaking, and endlessly inspiring. I can go out and come back with bags full of ideas. Ideas, I couldn't come up with by sitting in m "writer's corner" and wrecking my brain.
A lot of my third novel, Homecoming (Sphere-World Series Book 3) is happening on Anglesey. Not only because of its natural beauty, and inspiring environment,  but also because it is a place of great mysticism, with a history drenched in myth and lore; a place that once was considered to be the centre of the #Druid world.
I am not a Druid, but Druidry is still an integral part of Welsh life, rich in history, and shrouded in mythology. Therefore, I examine it and learn about it. I can easily relate to its concept of living in harmony with Nature - not as an unknowing slave to its rhythm, but as a knowledgeable scientist, who understands its workings.

As a scientist, I endorse the educational aspects of Druidry.
As an author, I am intrigued by its mysticism and history.

As an author, I need the interaction with reality: real people, real problems, real life, real world. I couldn't write fiction otherwise.
I am glad I realise those restrictions. It makes me feel less guilty about not writing. Because I know it is not a waste of time, but a period of gathering ideas, digesting new impressions, think outside my brain-box.
And in a writer's life, that translates into words, and there is nothing better than sitting down and being able to hammer away at the keyboard, getting down those precious words, which get you closer to finishing your novel.

Din Lligwy; Ancient Settlement near Moelfre on the Isle of Anglesey

ANK on what I write

I write what I read. I read a lot, and the books I finish usually inspire me.
I love a book that keeps me hooked. The best ones render me oblivious to my surroundings.
Ask my partner - he knows all about spirited-away, unresponsive me who sits glued to her book and forgets about the here and now. Bliss!
You think that's bad? I am even worse when writing! I forget the time, I forget to eat (no worries! I have enough reserves to keep me going. Not going to wither away anytime soon...), and I get annoyed if the real world starts making demands; like the postman calling or the telephone ringing.
I love to immerse myself in the worlds of my stories. Love to fight my protagonists' battles, live their conflicts, feel their heartache.
I am a sucker for the not-so-obvious. I love the stories, which break genre-moulds. Stories that veer off the beaten track. I love genre mixers, genre breakers, and books that take novel twists on old favourites. The ones, which make you gasp and say to yourself: "I didn't see that one coming..."

Immortal beasts that become mortal, the epitome of evil transformed into something beautiful, and romantic heroines who leave the love of their life to stay true to themselves.

Casual flings rather than a full-blown love affair? Bring it on!

Aliens are just another species within our universe? Brilliant! Take the para out of paranormal, and it becomes - well, normal I guess.

And that means humanity has to deal with it.
How they deal with it, and with each other, depends on their background, the world they are in, the changes they undergo on a personal level, and on a species level. The permutations are endless! And I love this playing field, which is so full of possibilities.
A story may be going down an obvious path. But who says, that the protagonists will not choose one of the many trails, that veer off the beaten tracks and explore the hidden possibilities - the sinister side of the story, the side that divides the readers?
I love to read a story, that stretches my imagination; a story that toys with taboos and "what ifs." A story that makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, but manages to not completely alienate me.
I love thought-provoking, but I don't appreciate provocative thrown in-your-face, eat-or-die statements that won't allow exploring both sides of the coin.
For me, the fine art of crafting a story lies in finding a way to make the reader see right beyond the surface and make him/her appreciate the hidden beauty of the beast.

From Disney to Fallen Angels; ANK on naming characters

Apart from flagging up my already dodgy browsing history, name-chasing for my characters can be somewhat tricky.
Mostly, they introduce themselves, some bumble along with my stories until the end, change their identity halfway through, and then some more before they finally settle on a name.
Those usually have faces, features, and full-blown personalities long before they pick their names.
And that can be a bit of a struggle. They are picky, they are fussy, and they take their own sweet time.
I generally go with their suggestions, but I also had a few struggles - like the one with Bella.
She introduced herself as "Stella," when we first met. But two chapters into the story, her name didn't sit well with me: Stella on the space station, travelling through the universe (aka The Stars) sounded fatally cheesy - I mean: story-breakingly cheesy. And I couldn't let this happen. We bargained, we bartered, we fought, and we finally agreed on Bella.
Once agreed, she and I got on like a house on fire! (and I think it helped, that Dylan liked her name too.)
I find it easier to work with a character once they have a name - something I can call them by. "That woman," "the blonde," "the young man," or any such vague descriptor is just not very conducive to getting into a character's head.

Naming a character is a twisted analogy to eating meat: once an animal has a name, it becomes a pet and therefore inedible. Not because it changes its taste, but because we become emotionally attached.
The same goes for me with writing: I need a certain degree of emotional attachment to "write a character." There is no stepping back and observing from the outside. Intimacy is also the reason why I prefer a first-person POV over a third person narrative: It is closer, more insightful, and it reveals more of a character's true personality.
Getting into your character's head is also a balancing act: get too close, and you can never let them "do their thing" for fear of losing them; keep them at a distance and you will never truly understand what makes them tick - never mind their name!