The devil’s arms

You want to hear a story?

I will tell you a story – just don’t expect a happy end. That’s not how it goes. Because as always it started with a bottle, finished faster than it should be. Which is a sign that something will happen – either you remember, or you don’t, but something will happen. And the need for adventure starts running through your veins. Whatever common sense you were holding on to, you are suddenly willing to let go, and see what happens.

That’s when the danger starts. I put on black eyeliner and greeted the devil. He gently laid his hand upon my shoulder. I smiled at my reflection.

And into the darkness we went. Darkness dances best, and we only drank more – of course. I like that atmosphere of disappearing into yourself with the excitement in your veins and muscles. It crawls upon you and holds you tight. It points at the world around you and tells you you can do everything. Do it. Do it.

Then he came along.

I held the devil’s hand as he slowly started leading me further and further away from where I used to be. My vision got worse and worse, to the point where everything was blurry. Away from the lights at the other side. Wave goodbye to what is good and reasonable.

He kissed me, clawed his hand in my hair and kissed me. I closed my eyes and let it happen.

Don’t let go of me now, you were leading me somewhere. Beyond many points of no return – but with my eyes closed, I couldn’t see them anymore. They were humming, I could feel them, but I kept my eyes closed. Touched them goodbye. Didn’t let go of the devil’s hand, leading me away from all of that. He led me to somewhere deep, a place where I could curl up and fall asleep peacefully. He covered me with a blanket and kissed me goodnight.

I lost everyone, and I started feeling not well. I pushed myself up on the sofa, where we were sitting, almost alone, and tried to inhale deeply. For a moment, it was overwhelming. He took my hand and said: “We should go outside, maybe that will help.” So we went outside. There was a bench right in front of the door, which made me so happy at that moment. There was nothing more delightful than sitting and waiting for it all to pass by. I did start to feel better, slowly. Somehow, we decided it was time to go home though. And home we went. My home, to be specific. With one eye open.

I wished I could sleep. I shouldn’t, because it would make me hung over, but I wished I could sleep. Forever.

He said I should go lie down. He said nothing would happen. For some reason, I let him in. Vampires cannot enter a house uninvited. How did I even manage to open all three doors? He sat down, I moved around the table and sat down next to him. It was getting lighter outside already. I had lost all track of time. I had passed too many points of no return, and I would only come to regret that.

With my hands bound, my head down, my eyes closed, my throat wide open… The song got stuck in my head.

I lay there naked and cold, too tired to move. He stood next to me and covered me slightly with the blanket I was lying on. To my satisfaction he lay down next to me.

I slept in the devil’s arms that night, and no one ever held me tighter than he did then. With a soft breathing in my hair, his strong arms enfolding me and letting me fall asleep peacefully. Deep inside, I curled up and fell asleep forever. Just a soft, sweet silence.

I don’t remember much more than his voice, “I have to go home”, and the sound of the front door closing. It woke me up and made me run to the window. There he went, walking away. That was all.

Tear my rib cage open. Drag my heart out. Hold it for a second, and then let it fall.

His strong arms dragged me back to sleep. I curled up, in anticipation of the parting. I stood at the other side, held the devil’s hand and watched the lights. Silently I sighed and asked him if there was a way back. He shook his head and kissed me softly. There was a time I was on the other side, I told him, and you can still see the good one standing there. But he’s too far away now, the devil answered. You’ve followed me here. You followed me to the darkness, out of free will. Now you will always be the bad one. But I will hold you, and I will kiss you.

I know I have made too many bad decisions to return to the good side.

He let my heart fall.

The devil and I stood there and watched it happen. His hands were heavy on my face, and my ribs were broken. I crawled my way inside, lay down and watched the blind darkness. There was nothing but me. And there, isolated, with stones on my chest, I dropped on my knees and for the first time,


I begged.

*The song is Prison Sex by Tool. Yep, that’s the actual title!*

Time will kill us

Time will kill us,
Leave our skulls battered,
Shattered all over this floor.
It crushes my ribcage
When I walk, when I talk,
Eats at my fingers, it lingers,
Threatens to kill me
Each time I go to sleep.
Time will tell
When to part, when to leave,
When to bury me underneath
Sweet moments, silver seconds
That faded – so do we.
I think I dug our grave. A tomb
That is sealed and silenced,
In some place only we know.

You poison me – I let you.
I’m losing nonetheless.
But there I go, sleeping
By his side – quite fearless.
There will be time tonight.
And we’ll pull back our bones,
Our skin, what’s left
To fight. But in the end I’ll still beg
For this sweet, sweet cyanide.

Oh the drama, don’t you love it. It’s been a long time since I wrote something creative, but time has become my biggest enemy and from time to time I need to make a lot of drama. That’s how I function. To give you an idea about my reason of writing, it’s not about death or dying, but more about parting… Though you may of course read it the way you want. There is a small chance I’ll be working on this some more, but you’ll notice then.

Enjoy your weekend, everyone!

The Punishment

They gave me a ridiculously long, shapeless black dress to wear, which made me trip all the way to the court. Two guards held me firmly by the arms, and suddenly I was glad about that. At least I wouldn’t drop on the floor.
The court was a high, dark building. Some daylight fought its way inside, but there was only big window, placed directly above the main jury. I figured it was done like that to create a dramatic atmosphere. Not very original, I thought. But I see through it. The thought somehow consoled me a little bit.

The judge was an old, partially bald man with a sharp nose and cold eyes. He wore a black dress as well it seemed, or something that resembled it at least. How does one get a job like this? He’s probably frustrated because he had always been too shy to talk to women, I decided. I imagined him in a bar, unable to find the right words to talk to that pretty brunette with the cute smile. Seemingly humble I bowed my head, but inside I was grinning.

“Nina?” he suddenly said. The room got quiet. All men in black were staring at me. I looked up.

Bring it on.

“Yes”, I said. The judge looked at me with angry eyes. Was I not supposed to speak? Then someone should have told me.

“We have come here to look at your punishment and to decide upon new ones, or, in the best case, the abolition of it.”

I nodded, but at the same time thought: Punishment? What punishment?

“Are you sorry?”

That was unexpected.

“What for?”

The judge took a deep, disapproving breath.

“Apparently you are not sorry.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“You’re only regret is that you don’t understand?” He smiled bitterly, then continued talking to the men in black surrounding me. “I don’t think it’s time to stop the punishment.”

Some men mumbled in agreement. It was too dark to see their faces and that annoyed me.

“Let’s see what that punishment included so far. We noticed that you wanted to be loved, so we sent some boys you trusted your way. We let them use you and make you feel that you’re not good enough.”

Oh, that seems to have worked.

“But apparently that wasn’t enough. So as soon as we saw you wanted to go to Russia, we delayed everything. In short, your punishment is broken hope.”

I bowed my head again.

“As you still seem to refuse to show remorse, we might need to refuse to let you go to Russia.”

Don’t cry.

“On what grounds then?” I tried again. The evil judge gave me a death stare. The light grew weaker and I barely saw anything anymore. I looked at my hands clawing in my black dress.

“I think we haven’t made our point clear yet”, the judge said. Some more muttering in the court. Heads nodding. I sighed. How was it possible that I was being punished without knowing why? Apparently they wanted me to figure that out by myself, but I couldn’t find a single thing I had intentionally done wrong. Of course I wasn’t a saint, but who is? And yet it didn’t matter. The punishment would go on.

“Unless now you show remorse. We grant you one more chance.”

I didn’t even try to say anything anymore.

“Get her out.”

The guards took me by my arms again. I lifted my dress, turned around and started walking away. Daylight was still forcing its way in. It appeared to be a sunny day. Right before the guards would let go of my arms, I turned to them.

“Do you have any wine for me?”


There was something in the way he looked at me. He had very blue eyes, which caught my attention straight away when we first met. He seemed such a nice and sympathetic young guy. He did something with music. He had a vivid way of laughing. He was a good stranger to meet, a good acquaintance to have. But we stayed in our worlds, like we were supposed to do.

In a year and a half , we would meet three times. We had a common friend, J, who sometimes invited both of us at the same time. Then our worlds would overlay for a little while. I liked the fact that he would be there, since I had seen him more often than the other friends of J. It would still stay to that, and we would still stay in our worlds. There was a fine line though. A fine web. Nearly impossible to see, barely something you could feel.

The third time we both met up with J, I noticed that there was something in the way he looked at me. Just a second too long, just a little too strong. With those very blue eyes of him he could almost pierce through you. As ever I was happy to see him again among these other people I knew less well. I did enjoy talking to him. I did enjoy hearing him laugh since he had such a vibrant way of laughing. We talked and talked.

Slowly, I spread my wings.

As always, leaving a place where you want to be is hard. It took me about an hour to go from the promise of leaving to actually deciding to do it.

“I have to leave now, for real. I have classes tomorrow… And I need my sleep.”

He then kissed me. I hadn’t seen that coming – at least, not until he put his arm around me just a short while before that. I wrapped my wings around him. Could we stay there forever? In that peaceful zone in between? No, of course not. There has to be a continuation. Something has to happen.

“Shall I go home with you?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

I could feel something sticking on me, enfolding my wings and myself. There was this look in his eyes. I broke my own promise and my own defense. Right there, on the corner of that street, the guilt crept upon me and clawed in my skin, tore at my ribs, aiming at what was underneath.

There was something in the way he kissed me. I kicked at the guilt as if it was a foul beast trying to kill me. It is okay. It is safe. The beast threw a white sheet at me, but I closed my eyes and turned away. I know it is okay. I trust.

I jumped to fly and flew right into the web he had woven.

And there, there I was left to die.


Written for this challenge. As soon I read it, I knew this would happen.



The Sweetest

It was still dark when I left your room, your house and later on your street. I didn’t tell you I was leaving. I murmured I would be gone for a second and then gathered my clothes and took my bag. You didn’t notice, I believe. One last time I looked back and saw a silhouette, yours. Quietly, at peace, happy. I smiled. I stood there and smiled.
Then, as quietly as you were sleeping, I opened the door and not only left your room, but left your life. You didn’t notice, I believe.

It was still dark when I walked home. I had decided to walk, because it made my mind clear. Soon enough the sun would come up and end the darkness. For now I enjoyed the silence on the roads. There was barely anyone awake and I avoided the places where all the drunk people would still be going out. My way home was a great one, silent and happy. How could I not be happy now? This was as close to perfection as it could get. When I got home, I logged in on Facebook and deleted you. I even blocked you, so you wouldn’t find me again. Then I put on a loose shirt and went to sleep.

Recalling what happened before we ended up in your place together made me smile and slowly fall asleep. I slept so well. I haven’t slept so well in ages, it seems. It was just a great feeling. I even smiled when I woke up. I could feel the triumph running through my veins and making my heart beat. I felt glorious. I wasn’t even tired, and got a lot done that day. There was always so much work to do, but today it didn’t bother me. Today I felt like I could carry the world.

I told you I wouldn’t forgive anymore. I told you I no longer wanted to be forgotten about. And you told me it was alright, it was all good, you wouldn’t hurt me. It’s a bit sad, don’t you think? It’s sad to see how people can lie to you, just like that. But see, I didn’t lie. I told you I no longer forgive people, and here we are. I believe you now notice that. You have woken up alone. You even texted me, what you refused to do the first time we met, the time when you told me how you wouldn’t hurt me. I never answered. I broke the line between us. The fine, vulnerable line that caught you, and then me, the one that tied us together until I got my revenge.

I’ve been patiently planning this. I have been waiting and when we finally got to see each other again, I smiled my sweetest smile. We had such a great time, we talked like we did last time. Everything seemed normal and good. Exactly like I wanted it to be. Then you asked me to come home with you and I didn’t refuse. It may have seemed that I hesitated, but I didn’t. I didn’t, because I wanted to rip out your heart like you ripped out mine.

And look. You’re standing in front of my door, confused, longing. The tides have turned.

The tides have turned, my friend! And my revenge is sweet.

Was this intended?

Today, I read the Daily Post post on blog names and decided that it was about time to explain why this thing is called No Blog Intended. Why would you say it’s not intended when actually it is? I have been worrying a little that people might think I’m not a ‘real’ blogger with regular updates since it was ‘not intended’. But when you start reading other blogs, they start reading you, and well, the problem solves itself. In fact I’m glad that I don’t have all too many readers. It makes it easier for me to know who’s reading. Though this is the Internet, I don’t want to be exposed to the whole world just like that.

But I’m going off topic.

So, why is this called No Blog Intended? Let me tell you a story.

I started blogging together with a friend a few years ago (two? three?). It started out as a joke, then became real and suddenly we were blogging. But after a while I felt like I wanted recognition for what I wrote. We shared one account, so no one could know which one of us wrote something or said something. And since I became addicted to blogging and spent quite some time on it, I just wanted people to know it was me saying certain things, writing things. Also, when having two different people, we could show two different views and yet no one would know it as written by two different people.
So I slowly started feeling limited.

And then I decided to move out, leaving our original blog to my friend and starting all over again, from the beginning, with everything I wrote. When you take such a decision, you just want to get it over and done with. In a few days I needed to fix the posts transport and come up with a new name. That was really hard. Since I don’t like to blog about one subject only, I needed something that didn’t limit the content. It couldn’t be ‘balletgirl’ or ‘shortstorygirl’ or ‘musiclover15’. It had to be something that wouldn’t make all of you think it was only about one subject. It had to be something that was easy to remember, that had nothing to do with my real name, that was just a general sign of me and my blog.

It was obviously too hard to come up with something good that wasn’t already taken. And then, my brother came with the idea of No Blog Intended, as a variation on no pun intended. I was getting really impatient and decided upon that name, adding ‘but the pun is’ as a subhead. That was that. I moved out, took all my posts with me and started from scratch again. From that moment on, things really changed. It seemed like I had more freedom to write, because I think no one I know in real life still reads this and that makes me more open in some way. I would never have the guts to share short stories with people I have to face everyday. NBI became more successful than the former blog (when I was still there) after a while. I never regretted going away. It gave me the right and possibility to say everything because it was only my opinion. That’s good.

Most of you know me now as NBI. I kind of think it doesn’t matter anymore what this blog’s name is. It’s only a little part of the entire thing it is: the posts, the video’s I share, the music and so on. And if certain people think it’s not a real blog, well, than that’s a pity, but it doesn’t matter that hard. I like it the way it is now, and I’m planning on keeping it exactly like like that.

How did you come up with your blog name?

What To Read

I’m not much of a reblogger, but since I’m working my ass of and that gives no inspiration, and since other people have written some great stuff, I would like to share these posts either way.

The first one is the very touching Spam. A Love Story by our dear El Guapo. He’s a genious and every blogger will relate to this!

The second one is the very touching (and this time I mean it to the fullest) poem Ignite Hell by Twindaddy. It’s the kind of poem I could have written if only I was such a good writer. It just sticks with you. So good.

So, what are you still doing here?

Repeat after me

There is no light to
Show the way home
And there is no place for you to
There are no hands on my back
To tell me what to do –
I will not obey.
I should not obey.

And I lie. Like you.
The strangled words are
Nowhere to be seen,
But then again,
So are we.

Breathe again.

There is no smile. Not even eyes.
Not even him.
He doesn’t know that I lie
Like he does
He doesn’t
Know that when he’ll wake up
It will be another
Sweet illusion.

This is imagination.
This is the lie I warned you for.
There is no light to guide the way home,
And there’s no place for you to sleep.

Yet another sleepless night.
Yet another pointless smile.
This is the
Imagination and I lay here
Nowhere to be seen.
The illusion he wakes
Up to – why do you laugh?

You laugh to keep
It real. To crush
This irony. Another pointless face.
He waved illusions around
Me, and I fell asleep.
Too many times.

We’re terrible people.
Like you
I break promises and wave
These words around you
To make us both believe
This imagination.

If only I could stop this.
If only it would have a point.
Another sleepless night
With another pointless face.
There is no light here
And there’s no place for you to sleep.

Repeat after me.

Look, a poem! A good poem? A bad poem? Or just a sign that there’s a need for drama?

That One Night

“You’d better go home.”
“No. I don’t want to.”
“Really, you should.”

She turned around to take her jacket, confused at why everyone was trying so hard to make her go home. The bartender removed more glasses from the table behind her, the one she was sitting at just a while ago. This wasn’t the first time he had to do that. She and her friends had been sitting here a long time already. Being in a bar for a long time quite explains the situation.

When we first met her, she seemed all too innocent. Tall, blonde, first year at university. Didn’t drink that much. Didn’t go out that late. That all changed during the following months. But she was always the sober one, the smart one, making sure she was in class everyday again. You couldn’t say that about us. This time though, I wondered if she would make it. It was five o’clock in the morning and according to what she said, she had class at nine. And she wasn’t planning on going home. She made that clear.

I know what she would do instead. My friend stood at the door waiting.

This time she was so different from what she usually was. I remembered that one time I brought her home. I was driving her bike and she sat at the back. “Please don’t fall. Are you sure you’ve not drank too much?” We made it home safely. I even had the guts to invite myself in. I don’t know if she even hesitated. She let me in. But as easily as she decided to let me in, she made me go again.
At that point her reputation was already made: she wasn’t easy. Even my friend never got what he wanted. Not with this one. Perhaps she was too stubborn. Perhaps she realized my friend would only use her. Maybe that’s why my friend kept trying and why I couldn’t help but being a bit jealous.

What about now though? She put on her jacket, made sure everything was still in her bag and convinced a friend of hers that she would be okay. I wasn’t all too sure – she’d better go home. But my friend opened the door and they went out. We followed and I could hear her talk to her friend.

“I’ll make it home, don’t worry. I know I’m repeating myself, but everything will be okay. Don’t worry.”

My friend was still waiting there, talking to someone else now. I asked him what he would be doing.

“We’re going home.”

He wasn’t really treating her well, but I think she knew – there must have been a reason she was stubborn. They both seemed to circle around each other without ever getting closer to a relationship, nor to a sort of breakup. I knew he didn’t want a relationship, I knew he was mostly trying to use her. But I didn’t understand what she wanted. She did realize he was a jerk, right? Then why would she give in now?

Everyone started to leave. She and my friend were left. I wish she knew that I would be better for her. She smiled at my friend, not completely aware of what she was doing. Or at least, not caring anymore. This was bad and I knew it, but I couldn’t stop it. It was too late to get her out of his grip now. They were hugging again.

“Shall we go?”

She threw one more look in my direction. That innocent blonde girl, seemingly unaware of what she was doing, of what she was getting herself in to. That nice blonde girl I would like to come with me instead of him.

I turned my back and walked away.


This is a dramatised version of that night. My reputation of not being easy only got stronger. I made it into class at nine. I promised myself that this would never happen again, and it never did.

I wrote this for the Weekly Writing Challenge, after reading both this and this post. They did a way better job, but still I decided to publish this. Just because.

Beneath Thin air

I promised to write a post on why I wrote ‘Thin air‘, and actually I just really want to tell you this. I didn’t write that story out of the blue. It is the result of some coincidental things. A few weeks ago I was in a bar, and suddenly they played Rammstein’s Ohne Dich (Without You) there. I liked the song (as far as I could hear it there), so I decided to search for it on YouTube. This song has a video clip in which the members of the band climb a mountain. While doings so, the lead singer falls badly. He’s still alive, but you can see his situation worse. In the end they reach the summit, where the lead singer dies while having an incredible view.

This video clip reminded me of an article I once read. We don’t have a newspaper, but when our neighbours go on a holiday, we get theirs. So it was just coincidence that I read this article on climbing the Mount Everest. Apparently some Belgian guys had summited without using oxygen. But this article was more on the corpses spread on the Everest, where they are used as landmarks.
This terrified me.
I just couldn’t get my head around this – all these people would go to the Mount Everest for fun, slalomming in between the dead bodies. That’s like having your birthday party at a cemetery! How can you stand the idea of all those dead people there? How can you ignore the fact that they once lived but died there? There was one story in particular that stuck with me, and after having seen the clip to Ohne Dich I decided to read more about it.

The story is about a woman now known as Sleeping Beauty, who is also used as a landmark on the Everest. Her real name is Francys Arsentiev. She was 40 years old when she died there, leaving behind a son. She was climbing together with her husband, Sergej Arsentiev, whom she had met on another climbing expedition. She wanted to be the first woman to summit without the use of oxygen, and she succeeded.
But that’s where everything went terribly wrong.
Because they didn’t bring oxygen, they advanced slowly and summited late. On their way back down they became separated. When Sergej reached the camp the next day, he saw that Francys hadn’t yet arrived. He realized she was dangerously high on the mountain, so he went to search her, carrying oxygen and medicine.
Meanwhile an Uzbek team found Francys and carried her down, as she was unable to move on her own. But because they gave their oxygen to her, they became too fatigued to continue, so they had to leave her behind again. When they made their way back down to the camp, they met Sergej, who was on his way to his wife in order to help her.

Ian Woodall and Cathy O’Dowd encountered her on the next morning. They said her face was waxy because of frostbite, making her look a lot younger, like a porcelain doll. She must have noticed there was someone around, as she started talking. Apparently she kept on repeating the same sentences over and over: “Don’t leave me!” “Why are you doing this to me?” and “I’m an American.” But the couple believes she wasn’t talking to them, as it seemed more like a record that was stuck. They gave up their chance to summit in order to stay with her and try to help her, but they too were unable to do so – Francys was too weak, and they had to leave her behind to not risk their own lives as well.

Francys died there later on.


Her husband, Sergei, was lost at that point. He was found the next year, and is believed to have had a fatal fall while trying to rescue his wife.

This is a kind of tragic I can’t get my head around. I just read that article and the information over and over while trying to understand how it must feel to be alone in the freezing weather, unable to move, or to try to save someone whom you eventually have to leave behind to die. It’s something so cruel I still can’t capture it. Perhaps that’s the reason I felt I should write about it. While I was reading about Sleeping Beauty, I felt this story growing inside me. I knew it would write itself. I knew it would be good, because somehow, this wasn’t my story, this wasn’t something I would write. It seriously felt as if it was all ready somewhere, just waiting for my fingers to type it out. So that’s what I did. One day I felt like I shouldn’t wait anymore, so I sat in front of my computer and started writing.

This wasn’t easy. I was afraid it would drag me in and give me nightmares, because it’s such a horrible thing to imagine. It was somewhat emotionally challenging. After having written it, everything I worried about before didn’t seem important anymore. I was glad to have it out of me.

The reason I changed their names is because it’s fiction. Of course I did my best to give an impression of what she must have gone through, and I also tried to show the encounter with Woodall and O’Dowd, but I left her son out, for example. I just couldn’t imagine how it must feel to be a mother dying. I knew I was unable to write that part of her story, so I decided to go for fiction instead. After all this is but a possibility and nothing more. No one can known what was really going on inside her.

I still can’t get my head around it, but I’m glad I wrote that story, however challenging it was. I hope this is some kind of memorial for all those people who died up there. The man with the green boots for example, is also a real person who died there and is now used as a landmark. The couple that encountered Francys have given her some kind of burial, removing her from view.

It’s a tragic thing.

My information comes mainly from Wikipedia. I even stole some sentences. I’m sorry.