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Oh dear, how did you get here?

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by L. B. Shimaira

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Insanity

by L. B. Shimaira

“But dad,” Kim whined as she was pushed out the kitchen by her father.“No buts, young lady. This is a man-only zone until dinner’s ready. Go sit with the rest of the family.”Grumbling, Kim wrestled herself free from his grasp. “I want to help—it’s boring in the living room! Vanessa and Candice only talk about boys and mom and auntie Margaret are stuck on politics.” She pouted as she turned to face her father, hoping it would change his mind.“Sorry sweetie, but it’s tradition. Just ask if you can borrow mom’s tablet and play some games, okay? Besides, it’s dangerous in the kitchen for a young girl.” Her father stood in the doorway, blocking his daughter from entering.Kim frowned. “I’m almost nine! Besides, why does Jack get to go?”He sighed. “Your brother is old enough to help this year. We’re already keeping an eye on him; we don’t want to keep an eye on both you and him.” He turned around to enter the kitchen again. “Now go on. Go back to the living room and leave the cooking to us men for once. You can ask to help your mom any other day of the year.”Still pouting, Kim looked down at the floor. “Fine…” The kitchen door closed and with a deep sigh, the girl returned to the living room. She looked at the people sitting on the sofa and suppressed the urge to run back to the kitchen. Her cousins Vanessa and Candice were giggling about nonsense, and her mother and aunt were chattering away about things she didn’t understand. With her head low, she approached her mother. “Mom…”The woman turned to her daughter and smiled. “Yes, dear?”“Dad didn’t want me in the kitchen…”The two women giggled. “Well, I could have told you that. You know they do this male bonding thing every year.”“I know it’s tradition, but I’m bored,” Kim said softly. “Dad said I should ask you for the tablet… May I?”Her mother thought it over and eventually nodded. “Alright. But stay here, okay? Dylan has finally fallen asleep, and I don’t want you waking him.”Kim smiled broadly. “Thanks, Mom!” She hurriedly grabbed the tablet from underneath the coffee table and took it to the far corner of the living room. She nestled herself in a large bean bag and settled in for some fun.

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Time went by much more quickly now that Kim was playing games. The voices of her family had faded from her attention until they were nothing but background noise. The baby monitor on the cabinet had been quiet the past two hours, but the sudden sound of her baby brother cooing made her glance up. She was planning to ignore it and continue her game, but then he began to cry. Sighing, she looked at her mother. Unfortunately, she was seemingly not bothered by it. She was too involved in her conversation.When the crying intensified her mother finally reacted. “Kim, dear,” she said. “Would you mind checking on your little brother?”Grunting, Kim paused her game and stood up. Suddenly the baby monitor fell silent and Kim frowned. Her mother noticed it too and rose from her seat. The girl picked up the one-way radio and played with the volume button, but only static came through. “Eh, mom… I think it’s broken…”“I’ll go and check on Dylan then,” her mother replied before she hurried upstairs.Kim played a bit more with the several buttons and dials on the monitor, trying to fix the device. Suddenly loud static erupted from it, startling her. Just as she turned the volume down, a voice could be heard through the crackling noise. Confused, she held the thing closer to her ear in an attempt to understand what was being said. After a few seconds, she shook her head, placed the thing back on its perch, and walked over to the kitchen. “Dad?”It didn’t take long for her father to appear. “What is it, sweetie? I’m busy.”She pointed to the living room. “The baby monitor is being weird; can you fix it?”Her father sighed and looked over his shoulder into the kitchen. “I guess I can have a look.” He followed Kim into the living room and picked up the baby monitor. The speaker was still emitting static.“Uncle Rob, please just turn that thing off,” Candice said. “It’s extremely annoying!”“Dad’s going to fix it,” Kim replied as she eyed her father fumbling with the device.Without warning the static increased and the voice could be heard again. Rob turned one of the dials. The static faded and the dark voice became clearer.“What the…” He turned the volume up to hear the strange words better.“Gjymtuar şil-küt osakaćenih ziwalo kripla katkiste silvottu rache megcsonkított edozi puntung monco osakaćena kropls sugadinti dicacatkan…”“Dad,” Kim whimpered, her voice trembling.“Lemlestet cho’loq okaleczone izurodovannyy znetvorený…”Kim pulled on her father’s sleeve. “Dad!”Confused, he looked down at his daughter. “What?”“Please turn it off, it’s scaring me.”He started to turn the dials again and miraculously the static—along with the voice—was replaced by the sounds of Kim’s mother and her baby brother.“Oh, I fixed it.” Rob smiled as he placed the baby monitor back on the cabinet.“Thanks, Dad,” Kim said, though she glanced at the small white radio with fear in her eyes.Her father smiled, oblivious to her fear, and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Now go play, sweetie. I’m going back to the kitchen.”Though reluctant, Kim went back to her bean bag and picked up the tablet again.When Rob returned to the kitchen his brother Dave jeered at him. “Took you long enough, I was about to continue the soup myself.”“No, it’s alright. You just take care of the main dish,” Rob replied before returning to his work at the stove. “Jack my boy, how’s the dessert going?”The young lad was busy whipping cream. “Uncle Dave said I messed up, so I had to start all over again.”Rob laughed. “Oh well, pohabljenih luray sakat llurgunio.”Dave and Jack blinked a few times when they heard the strange words, but eventually, they chimed in as well.“Citainta zicwiywa honenuki mywtʼalyytyd…” They spoke the strange words in unison and continued their work.Rob stirred the contents of the large pot on the stove. Hot steam billowed upwards from the soup. After a few moments of stirring, he raised the filled ladle to his face. Without pausing to blow on the contents he brought the scalding soup to his lips and drank. The sizzling hot liquid didn’t seem to bother him much. He continued to drink spoonfuls of broth, despite his lips reddening and swelling up. He started to laugh and the contents of the next scoop spilt all over his face.He continued to plunge the ladle into the pot, but now he poured the boiling fluid over his face. He cackled and howled with laughter, oblivious to the pain as mean blisters rose on his flesh. He kept pouring, drinking, and giggling until his laughter turned to gurgling and his knees gave way from underneath him.Both Dave and Jack didn’t notice anything was wrong, as they were too occupied with their own work. Dave was busy with a meat mallet, tenderising the slab of beef that lay before him on the counter. As he pounded away, his attention began to shift from the piece of dead animal to his left hand.Thump. Thump. Thump…The moment the hammer landed on his flesh, crushing the bones inside, he started to laugh. Blood oozed from the many punctures in his hand, but it didn’t stop him from bringing the mallet down again and again.Jack had stopped working on the whipped cream and turned to the oven instead. When he opened the door, the heat stung his face. Using his bare hands he removed the roast chicken and the iron grate it rested on. He kicked off his shoes, undressed, plunged his burnt hands into the bowl of cream and smeared the contents all over his body. When the bowl was empty, he took his shirt off the floor and turned back to the oven. He fastened one sleeve to the oven’s handle and kept the other sleeve in his hand. Without hesitating, he climbed into the tight space. Once seated in the blistering heat, he pulled the oven door closed.

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Kim had beaten yet another level in her game and her stomach was grumbling impatiently. She stood up and walked over to the kitchen. “Dad,” she called as she slowly pushed open the door. “How long until di—” With wide eyes and a gaping mouth she stared at the scene in the kitchen.Her father lay on the floor, his face and throat red, swollen and bloody. She didn’t see her uncle or brother, but the sight of her dad alone was enough for her to emit a bloodcurdling scream.

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Ambulance personnel and policemen were running in and out of the house at a frantic pace. Kim was faintly aware of what was happening around her as she held her baby brother close to her chest. Both her mother and aunt were hysterical and had been taken away—her father was in critical condition with third-degree burns on his face and inside his mouth and throat. Her uncle wasn’t much better off due to extreme blood loss. She didn’t get a good look at him when they moved him through the living room, but the way both his left arm and legs were wrapped in bandages soaked with red would ensure nightmares for a long time.Her crying cousins joined their father on his way to the hospital, leaving Kim with baby Dylan. She wanted to ask someone where her older brother was, but in the chaos she didn’t know who to direct that question to. Instead, she remained seated on the sofa, staring at the emergency services people who kept running in and out of the house.Dylan stirred in her arms and Kim shifted her eyes to him. “Shhh,” she said with a trembling voice. “It’ll be okay…” She spoke in whispers, saying it more to herself than to her baby brother.Dylan opened his eyes and looked up at Kim. “Muti,” he babbled.“Mom’s okay,” Kim said as tears blurred her vision.“Muti,” Dylan repeated.A sudden scream from the kitchen made Kim nearly drop the child. She stared in horror as the steady flow of in and out transformed and everyone hurried into the kitchen. Over the panic-stricken voices the sound of someone throwing up was clearly audible. A policeman returned from the kitchen, his face ashen and sweaty. He made his way outside where he buckled over and vomited.The sweet smell of roasted flesh drifted from the kitchen into the living room, yet Kim’s empty stomach turned instead of rumbled. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew what had happened to her older brother. She started to sob loudly and held Dylan close to her chest.“Muti,” he babbled again. “Mutilum…”

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Doppelgänger

by L. B. Shimaira

I have been replaced.I don’t know when it happened; I didn’t even realise it myself until just now.That I missed it is one thing, but what I don’t get is how my friends and family didn’t notice. Hell, even my own partner seems to have been completely oblivious.Now that I found out, I can’t help but wonder how long this has been going on.How can people not have seen, though?Sure, this imposter looks a lot like me—but they’re not me.My nose is a bit smaller for one thing. My eyes are not that deeply set and the colour is slightly off, too. Also: their brows are a lot more pronounced than mine are.And let’s not forget the freckles. I know I have some, but this person has them in just the wrong places. Too many are gathered around the nose and there’s not enough on the cheeks.Speaking of cheeks… Mine are fuller and their cheekbones are too high.My doppelgänger also has a much stronger jawline.The longer I stare at them, the more differences I see.How can people assume we’re the same person?The look in their eyes seems hollow, lifeless. I don’t have that look, right?And my smile is a lot warmer than theirs—I hope.Being in the mere presence of this double unsettles me. Why have they done this? Why replace me of all people? I’m not special. If you ask me, I’m actually quite ordinary.I take a step closer and so do they. We observe one another. Maybe they’re trying to discern how to improve the resemblance, to make the façade an even better one.They already look so much like me, yet not.My ears have bigger lobes than theirs, I’m certain. My lips are a bit fuller and more pink. And I know I haven’t slept all too well for a while, but nobody can convince me the bags under my eyes are that big.I tilt my head back and they imitate me. Are my nostrils really that wide? I don’t recall.I roll my shoulders and stretch before locking gazes again. This feels like a battle and I plan to win. There’s only one me and this replacement has got to go.I tell them just that and more. How my loved ones will figure it all out and shun them. I smile confidently but all they do is smirk back.Do they really think I’m wrong? That they’ve already won?I place my hands on the cool glass and my lookalike does the same.That grin. I don’t like that grin.A cold chill goes up my spine and for a moment I fear losing all sense of reality—that the imposter might defy the laws of nature and intertwine their fingers with mine.I pull away.Being so close to this doppelgänger frightens me more and more the longer I’m in their presence. The thin sheet of glass that stands between us offers me no comfort.They look so much like me.My entire being is starting to protest against being so close to them. Every cell, every fibre is screaming for me to distance myself from this double.I avert my eyes, yielding to the primal fear taking hold of me.It takes a lot of effort to walk instead of run out of the bathroom and turn off the lights.Away from the sight of my double, I relax slightly.Maybe I’m just overreacting. I mean, how can you be replaced so easily?It’s ludicrous really.My reflection is just that: my reflection.Yet I can’t shake the feeling that what I saw in there was not me. That person, that thing was different from me in just too many small ways. Maybe my loved ones don’t notice, but I do.Perhaps I just need some sleep. Look in the mirror when it’s not two in the morning. When I’m well rested. When the sun is out.Yes, that’s what I’ll do.Still, I can’t help but fear deep down that the next time I stare into my own eyes that the other me will come out, the glass barrier unable to hold them in.They’ll grab me and…And what exactly?I don’t want to find out.

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THE DEAD DON'T DREAM, read by L.A. Rivers @30:50

The Dead Don't Dream

by L. B. Shimaira

When I sleep, I dream. In my dreams, I can’t drown.For some reason, in all the dreams I’ve ever had, I’ve never drowned because I could breathe underwater.Breathing would be slow, heavy, but it was always enough to sustain me.I would float in the warm water, darkness around me, and just open my mouth and ever so carefully breathe.The water would fill my mouth, then my throat, all the way down to my lungs. It never hurt; it even felt nice.Nostalgic.I’d get enough oxygen to sustain me, not much more. It was too hard to move with the little bit of air my strange feat of unknown biology could muster.But, I only needed enough to survive.To not drown.Yet, this is not a dream.This is real.The taste of salt on my tongue tells me so, for in none of my dreams did I ever taste that.I hold my breath as the current pulls me down. The water is cold, strong.Nothing like my dreams.Struggling would deplete my oxygen supply faster, so I stay as still and calm as possible—I know I can’t fight my way back to the surface. Not with just my arms.At least I’m not in the wheelchair; that would’ve dragged me down even faster.I look up at where the ship’s hull blocks the sunlight.It doesn’t seem to be stopping.Help doesn’t seem to be coming.No-one is jumping in after me.Did she not tell anyone?She was there when I tumbled over the railing.She was the one supposed to support me, yet she let me slip.Or did she push? It happened so fast, I’m not quite sure now.The current tugs at my clothes and pulls me deeper and farther away.Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter if nobody comes to help me.I try to recall what she had said before she had helped me out of my chair. She hummed something when she guided me to the railing, that I do remember—just not what.The cold water makes it so hard to focus. The lack of air makes it hard to focus.My lungs burn; too little oxygen in them and too much carbon dioxide.I let out a small bubble and it eases my chest ever so slightly.The surface is moving farther and farther away. The pressure against my ears increases, but what can I do?I can’t swim, only float—and I’ve failed horribly at that so far.But, maybe I can pretend this is a dream.I part my lips and let the cold seawater fill my mouth—but only my mouth.I watch the bubbles that escaped float up to the faraway surface.The light of the sun seems so distant. The water around me grows darker with every beat of my heart.There is nothing.No reef, no fish, no bottom I can see.Just a big, black abyss that’s pulling me in.My ears stop hurting from the pressure now that my head is filled with the salty water, yet it stings.My chest, however, burns.My body needs oxygen, but the surface is beyond my reach.Maybe I should try…Pretend I’m asleep.Pretend I’m dreaming.In my dreams, I can breathe underwater.The cold liquid flows down my throat, an involuntary spasm follows.It’s okay—I can do this.I imagine being able to take the oxygen from the water.It’s difficult, heavy, but I’ve done it before.The burning sensation in my chest slowly vanishes and my head feels lighter.I’m still drifting farther down into the dark.Whispers from the void are at the edge of my mind. What is it they want? Do they desire my death? Or do they want me to keep on living?I take another “breath”.The surface is becoming nothing but a memory now that the light fades away.But I’m still alive.In my dreams, I can breathe underwater.As long as I dream, I can breathe.It’s difficult and takes all my focus, but I’m determined to keep going.To stay alive.I keep sinking and the pressure keeps increasing, every hint of light now gone.But I can dream.And thus, I can breathe.The dead don’t dream, therefore I’m not dead.I close my useless eyes, nothing there to see.Breathe.Dream.Never stop dreaming.I open my eyes.Grotesque pillars are emerging from the depths. Obelisks darker than the seawater.Atlantis?No, that would have been a very different sea.These structures don’t have any architectural style I know of.But… how am I seeing them?There is no light at this depth—there shouldn’t be.Dream…Breathe…Don’t die.The whispers are louder now, but I still can’t understand what they say.Are they helping me?I can’t move; I just float on the current as it drags me along.How tall are these pillars? Where is the bottom of this ancient sunken city?I close my eyes again, but the monoliths remain visible.It would make sense that I am not seeing them with my eyes, considering the lack of light.But how then am I seeing them?Something is wrong with this place. I can feel it in my entire being, but I just can’t quite explain what or why.Is it the size of the structures? Of how they seem so alien? Or is it because I can still see them while everything around me is pitch black?The salty water keeps slowly flowing in and out of my lungs, but I can’t help but wonder…Do I really want to keep on dreaming? If it takes me to this forsaken metropolis of drowned onyx structures… Structures too big to have ever been constructed by human hands…Those who dream can’t die.Was this my own thought, or someone else’s?The current takes me towards a gigantic structure that, if anything, reminds me of a stargate. The ring itself appears to be a helix, but I count six—no, seven strands. The portal within is a shimmering black void.I don’t want to go through.Every fibre of my being is screaming to stop nearing it. But, I can’t move.I can’t resist.No human mind, no matter how ancient its civilisation, could’ve ever engineered the monstrosity I’m being pulled towards.What lies beyond that shimmering void?I suppose it won’t be long until I find out.But, I don’t want to find out.I need to get away, as far as possible—and fast.I need to stop dreaming.And, with a gasp, that’s what I do.The saltwater burns my lungs and my body convulses.The abysmal ring fades back into the dark depths.Every pillar, every monolith, every sign of the abysmal sunken city… gone.My chest hurts; there’s no more oxygen.The dead don’t dream.I’ve stopped dreaming.

On writing polyam & sex

by L. B. Shimaira

February, 2022

One of the things that "stand out" about my published book MY LORD is the fact that it features polyamory. For the people wondering, yes, I am polyamorous myself. When it comes to polyam, or even just non-monogamy, my husband and I have been that way from almost the very start of our relationship—though, at the time, we lacked proper terms to describe the nature of our dynamic. I won't go into the details of it all, but suffice to say there's plenty of experience that I can draw on for my writing.

Be aware that from this point on, I'll be discussing my book and there will be slight spoilers in regards to the relationship dynamics and one of the later sex scenes.

When I started writing MY LORD, I initially did not intend for it to feature polyam, but my characters tend to have a life of their own and well… Things happened. I had also intended for things to get heated a lot sooner, but the main character Meya was dealing with her trauma and was simply not having it (rightfully so!). By the time things finally did escalate, her relationship with Nina was so established, there was no way they were going to end that. And thus, the polyam came in.Nina was well aware of Meya's conflicting emotions that had been going on for quite some time—they actually spoke a lot about it, so to Nina, it didn't come as a surprise at all (I'd argue Meya was more surprised than Nina was, haha). Lord Deminas was also aware of Meya and Nina being together, and he saw no reason why that couldn't continue. If Meya wanted to love the both of them, that was her decision, and there was no jealousy from Nina or Deminas.I really dislike jealousy, so I enjoyed leaving that out—though Meya did experience a pang of jealousy when she was quite ill, but I hope readers can relate to the fact that, when sick, our demeanours tend to change along with our emotional needs. (I myself can become quite emotionally fragile and unstable when sick…)One of the moments in the book that I personally love, and excuse my vagueness as I try to avoid spoilers, is when a big decision needed to be made regarding Meya. Lord Deminas made sure to also check Nina's opinion on the matter instead of ignoring her. Meya isn't just his, she's also Nina's, and he values Nina as an equal on that front.When it comes to sex, I know a lot of people both expect and want to see threesomes simply because Meya ends up having two partners. Initially, I didn't include any such scenes because I felt happily evil for withholding that kind of content… But then I saw such a perfect opening… and included a foursome instead.Now, I should say that just because a story has polyam it doesn't mean there have to be any threesomes—or any sex at all—as you don't need sex to have a valid relationship, polyam or otherwise. But MY LORD is a sexual story and the foursome was a natural progression of the plot. It also helped show Meya's journey in regards to working through her trauma and becoming more comfortable with her sexual self.Writing the foursome was a lot of fun, as once again the characters took the reins and refused to do what I had initially planned and did something else instead—which ended up being so much better. The scene went from two one-on-one to having one of the characters being the focus. I am quite pleased that the entire scene has no "penis in vagina", if only because I wanted to show there are more ways to have fun than just that.Another thing I am really happy with is how that entire scene emphasised consent and that there was no pressure to engage. The women were told multiple times that they were free to leave if they wanted to. Nina also made sure to check on Meya several times to see if she was still comfortable with it all. There were some hard-limits stated and abided, and there was also a limit that in the end got adjusted as Meya was enjoying herself to the point that she was okay with changing it—she was still the one in control and made sure to state her new limits, and they were respected.When it comes to sex, consent and communication are very important. This is even more the case when multiple partners are involved. It's easy to feel obligated to do things because you don't want to ruin the fun of others and end up doing things you're not comfortable with. Please, do yourself and your partner(s) a favour and always communicate your desires and limits and don't feel pressured to do things you don't want to do.Sadly, I've been in a situation where one of the people involved in a foursome felt pressured and only went along with it to please their partner. Thankfully, I noticed they weren't comfortable and terminated the scene. Their partner, however, didn't seem to care much for what happened or that they were unhappy. And while that relationship didn't last long (surprise!), we did remain friends for several years before we lost contact.So yeah… Please always check on your partner(s) and make sure there's enthusiastic consent all around, and not just at the beginning but throughout. If you feel uncomfortable, say so. If you're no longer enjoying yourself for whatever reason, speak up. Consent can be revoked at any time, by yourself or your partner(s), and when this happens it needs to be respected. Provide some aftercare too when that happens and talk about it. Things like this can make a relationship stronger when handled well, or have it start to fray and fall apart when handled poorly.

On writing sex when (grey-)asexual

by L. B. Shimaira

November, 2020

Asexuality remains one of the lesser known orientations and a lot of people don't know they are on the asexual spectrum, simply because they don't know it exists. I was one of them. I only found out a few years ago, and even then I had learned of the term a few years prior yet dismissed it because of the prejudices I held.Being asexual means someone doesn't experience sexual attraction, or only rarely or under specific circumstances (like after forming a close bond with someone).
That's it. It says nothing about someone's desire to engage in sexual acts or their libido. While there are asexuals who are sex repulsed, there are also asexuals who do enjoy the act of sex—and those who fall in the latter group are still asexual because they don't experience sexual attraction the way allosexuals do.I have to remind myself of the above regularly though, because I am very sex positive (yet my own stance on sex tends to fluctuate between favourable and indifferent). Yet here I am, having published a book that's an erotic gothic horror!I still feel very uncertain about my skills when it comes to writing sex scenes, because I've honestly not read that many books with sexual content (actually, I'm not sure if any of the physical books I got have sex scenes). Sure, I've consumed my fair share of fanfics as a teen and there were plenty that had sexual content—though the quality of those was rather diverse. It doesn't really help either that I am quite romance repulsed (unless it's part of a darker story and the romance aspect is not the main focal point).On Wattpad, I also come across sexual content, but those too are of varied quality. Thanks to the community on Twitter, I've also seen plenty of posts about what does and what doesn't work in sex scenes—from words to avoid (like "moist" seems to be universally hated, haha) or what not to name certain body parts (though these things tend to come down to taste, as some people like direct words while others prefer a more poetic approach), everyone does seem to agree on one thing: know what you are talking about. (So no; no surprise butt-sex without any prep or lube!)
Luckily for me, I've experimented plenty through the years and been part of the kink community with multiple friends who loved sharing their experiences too. Being sex positive has ensured I do enjoy talking about sex with friends a lot in the same way people can talk about their favourite series or game.
It was actually one of the bigger revelations for me when I realised I was grey-asexual: I suddenly understood why I don't need to feel sexually attracted to someone to do anything sexual with them (there were plenty of sexual partners where I wasn't even aesthetically attracted to them). Perhaps I might be a bit reciprosexual in that regard.MY LORD actually started out on FetLife years ago, but I quickly learned I was unable to write a pure erotica because I just found that boring. So, over the span of three years, the story grew and evolved to what it is today (excluding recent edits and bonus content).
I am quite the pantser and I tend to let my characters guide the plot I've set out. With MY LORD, it quickly became clear that certain things were just not going to happen. Lord Deminas and Meya were not going to have sex any time soon, with one of the reasons being that Meya had trauma to deal with first.
When sex scenes finally did decide to want to be written, I again let the characters guide what was going to be on paper. There were several scenes I had planned out, but when I went to write them, the characters just refused or had other ideas in mind.The scenes itself were sometimes hard to write, if only because I found that I lacked the vocabulary to describe certain parts in a way that I deemed to be in good taste. I prefer direct words for certain things. You won't catch me using "pleasure bud" or referring to a vagina as some sort of flower. (Though I might consider using the term "meat curtains" in a different novel in a more comedic setting, hehehe.) But some words just don't sound/read nice on paper. The first time I wrote "clitoris" I was feeling a bit of shame—and even more so when I posted it online and had others read those words that I had written.
I've also avoided referring to how big someone's penis is, because it actually annoys me to no end how a lot of sex scenes like to make them huge monstrosities. Do people not realise that size doesn't matter, but rather what someone does with it? (And I am saying this out of experience.) Sure, I know there are those who do enjoy huge dicks, but I fear that it being such a common thing in fiction sets unrealistic expectations for sex involving a penis.Since I am not a good judge of how good a sex scene is, I had to rely on early readers to tell me, but no matter how many people say I've done a good job, there will always remain some doubt because tastes differ so much. Some people might find I included too much detail while some might find it not enough. Some might find my language use abrasive whereas others might consider it refreshing. But please, dear reader, do feel free to tell me your thoughts if you ever decide to pick up a copy of my book—and yes, you may tell this sex-positive asexual author if they've done a good job or not. Your feedback will either help boost my confidence, or it'll help me improve my craft.

On writing horror & trauma

by L. B. Shimaira

November, 2020

Writing is therapy—at least for me. I started writing for fun and because my classmates were doing it (hooray for fanfics!), but I was already writing my bad dreams and nightmares in a dream journal as a way to process them. The first short story I wrote was "They call him Lucius" (now novel-length, but the original (part 1: Blood) was just a novella) back in 2013. I had had multiple dreams featuring the same character, and it rather messed with my head, so I decided to write it down. It was already a pretty decent storyline, and it didn't take much to string it all together into one coherent story.I knew I had "issues" and wrote my fair share of poetry when I was still struggling with depression as a teen and young adult, but for some reason, I didn't think I was traumatised. Even after having a lot of chats with a friend about PTSD, I didn't think I had it. Maybe it was denial, maybe it was imposter syndrome. (The hated "others have it so much worse" notion—so let me remind you: your trauma is valid. Your feelings are valid.)It wasn't until I had an actual "trigger" event during Xmas 2018 that I began to spiral, and by early 2019 I was unable to work. I got referred to therapy and "PTSD" was added to my medical records. It was late spring/early summer when I started to slowly return to work. I still get triggered at times, but they aren't as bad anymore and I'm able to bounce back much faster—all thanks to therapy.After all this, I reread the novels I had written previously and was rather surprised to find I had included PTSD and anxiety quite accurately without even realising. I finished "They call him Lucius" after Xmas 2018, yet the things I wrote before that were dealing with what I know as "the call of the void". It was something I struggled with a lot in the months leading up to Xmas, so perhaps the PTSD hammer was already preparing to swing by that time.Something my therapist said really stuck with me. She mused that it hit me now—years later—because I was finally in a good enough space, also emotionally, to finally start working through it. Considering all I've been writing, I'm pretty sure she was right.Some of the other short stories I wrote over the years were also a way to help me deal with their "fucked-up-ness" but sharing them as fiction does bring some anxiety. I've always been quite honest and would add at the end that it was inspired by or a retelling of a bad dream or nightmare. On Wattpad, some would get me quite some comments from readers who were rather… shocked by that revelation, but I would just laugh it off. (More denial?) Some even expressed concern and told me to seek therapy… Well, I did eventually, haha.I enjoy writing darker stuff. I want to scare my readers. On my Wattpad profile, I added a quote from the song "Divide" by Disturbed: "It's your shock and then your horror on which I feed." Because yes: I want people to be freaked out. Perhaps it is a way of feeling validated. Because if people reading my stories have such a reaction, then my reaction is valid too.
Furthermore, writing about mental health issues—hopefully—helps to remove the stigma. One of my favourite books deals with mental health: "I never promised you a rose garden" by Joanne Greenberg/Hannah Green. Yet even though I read that as a teen, I still didn't learn from it and failed to acknowledge my own struggles properly. But then again, me not acknowledging my own needs was something I had to work on in therapy.So, looking back on everything I've written so far, the common theme of trauma is there, but also: sexual abuse. One of my (now drafted for rewriting/edits) novels had quite a lot of that. I know not everyone wants to read about it. I know some even hate it when it's used as a plot device or for character progression… But, to me, writing about that is therapeutic. I want to see my characters get broken down by horrible events—and then build themselves back up. I want to see them work through it all and come out at the end, still alive and kicking (ass). This applies to everything I put my characters through if I am honest.
I want people to see the devastation of (any kind of) trauma, the working through it, the process of healing and fall-backs, and eventually the rising above it.
But also, I just want to show readers that this kind of stuff is real and not something that should be glorified or romanticised. Especially when it comes to sexual abuse, there are a lot of fictional stories out there that just… gloss over it. And I want to show the real horror of it—and that it's possible to heal from it (even if it does leave scars). Maybe my stories are not for everyone because of this—as some people who have been through sexual abuse may find it triggering—but for some, it might actually help them feel seen. It might give them hope to see a character go through a hell they can relate to, and to see them survive and rise above it.With that said, I'll leave you with the biggest lesson I learned in therapy: be kind to yourself. Allow yourself time to heal. Allow yourself to feel. Allow yourself to be.

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