Stronghold

She made her heart a stronghold
and firmly locked the gate
Then hardened it with fire
in order to survive

But hearts are made for hurting
and though it was to late
She let her walls be crumbled
to bleed and feel alive

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Audio Story: “This is Ground Control”

Another audio story happened, yay! This time I have taken the mike to my original text “This is Ground control” which can be found here.

But for this one something amazing also happened. I was contacted by super talented graphic artist Mio Dal, who wanted to make animated artwork for my recording. It’s totally awesome and you can watch it by clicking the video below. Then you should really check out their Instagram: @miosresidue. I mean for reals, just do it.

And here goes:

The music track this time is called “Eleanor” and was composed by Josh Spacek. You can find more of his music here.

This will also be my submission for November’s Open Mic event on the site Words and Feathers.

I really hope you liked the story and the fantastic artwork. Feel free to comment (I love comments) and check back again later for even more stuff like this.

In a while crocodile!

May it Be

May the brightest star that is
shine to light your way
So you can find a safe path through your life
every night and day

That guardian light I send to you
is bound to never fade
‘Cause like the moon with its silver light
of eternity it’s made

May a gentle wind carry you
on your journey, so let it be
May your steps be light, and so your heart
May your road be the one of destiny

And if darkness comes between us
and the end draws near it seems
May we meet again someday, somehow
in a world beyond the dreams.


I vividly remember writing this one. I was sitting at my old desk – I had had it since childhood – at my parents’ house one dark night back in December 2002. I was fifteen years old, my cousin had just died in a snowmobile accident and I felt guilty for still wanting to dedicate this poem to my then-boyfriend. Some memories just stick, don’t they?

Anyway, this poem has switched meanings for me several times over the years – but I think now it has finally found its way home.

Audio Story: “In the Heart of a Star”

Last night I sat up late and finished yet another recording of one of my short stories. This one is called “In the Heart of a Star”, and the original text from last autumn can be found here.



Recording audio versions of my stories turned out to be both fun and somewhat addictive. The music for this one was composed and recorded by a very talented composer named Kai Engel – I recommend you check him out!

I also noticed that the blog Words and Feathers hosts an October Open Mic event, and decided to offer this audio story as a contribution to it. If you like listening to stories, you should follow that link.

I hope you enjoyed listening to this story as much as I enjoyed writing and recording it. Feel free to comment, I am somewhat new to this and manically appreciate feedback (mohaha).

Until next time!

A Good Talk In The Night

Most good talks happen during the night. What I had not managed to convey well enough before I was able to tell him tonight, in those secret hours between twilights where rules and conventions simply don’t apply. Then he listened.

He listened while I told him everything. About how my mind had started turning from beginning insight already three years earlier, even though I didn’t fully understand it at the time. About how I had fought, ever since then, to hold myself together, to stay the same. Not to lose anything and everything. But after that trip nothing was the same. It journeyed farther and farther away from the same, as did I.

I told him about the numbness that came over me during this struggle. Repressing insights growing inside of oneself takes also repressing thoughts and feelings and passions. He listened, and I saw in his eyes that finally he began to understand. This was never about him. I never meant to break his dream and his story, I wanted to be part of it but I couldn’t.

One thing I didn’t tell him, but in that moment maybe he knew that as well. It felt like that, anyway. And he smiled sadly but knowingly, when finally I described my feelings when in the end none of my struggles were enough. When I realized I had failed, that I could not repress this and that this had always been a losing fight. But that it was never about him, that those feelings were never affected. This was simply something I had to go through to be whole, to be me. And I saw no other way than the changing of everything to make that happen.

I was finally able to explain to him this whole transgender business and all the thinking and contemplation and development I had gone through since last we spoke, more than a year ago. He understood, finally, how things had exploded in my life after I left his. How so many thoughts had been released and finally allowed to be thought and how I had changed in all ways imaginable. On the inside, at least.

And of course I listened to him as well. He had much to say, and I respected him for all of it. He had his own struggles and battles and fears, and he had his own story about all of this. But it was not about me, not entirely. And I felt such relief to hear him talk about it, because I had worried for him and thought about him every day, not knowing anything. A monumental weight was lifted from my shoulders and from my heart by just hearing him talk about the things I had been thinking for so long.

We agreed, finally, that we both had our own, personal stories. They intermingled and entwined, but they were not the same. His story was his, and my story was mine, as all people’s stories are their own. We could not save one another, but we could do our best to understand and so make our own stories more whole. We would speak again, he told me, and hugged me, and let me go. He let me go.

And I don’t remember what I felt or thought when I walked away and he walked away, each back to resume our own separate stories. But I was lighter, I was almost flying. I hadn’t broken anything, I hadn’t failed. All I had done was to allow my own story to tell itself finally, and now he understood that as well. He and his story would be alright, and we would speak again. And then I woke.

How come that most good talks, the ones that really matter, happen in dreams? How come that I always meet him there, and how come that talking there always feels so good but makes me sink like a stone upon waking? I don’t know any of this, but I know that I am crying as I am typing these lines and that one of my greatest regrets is that all our good talks only ever happen inside my own head.

Christina Smedbakken 2015-10-31