Insight into Labelled Love: Terms

On Instagram there is this #6wordchallenge and a fellow writer, @joshuacallawaypoetry challenged me to participate.
I ended up having more than one inspiration, but one was actually taken from one of the chapters of Labelled Love, a little bit modified, but nevertheless.
So, instead of just using it on insta, I thought, I’m going to share the whole chapter with you to set it into context.
Enjoy the read, my dears 😉


Stamps, labels, scales, measurements.
This seems to be the way we understand the world, our surroundings.
In her life, she was allowed to experience the miracle of unconditional love.
A love without conditions.
Without thinking “I love you, but…”, or “I love you, but only if you…”.
The universe had allowed her a glimpse on the utmost and only truth: Love.
A small glimpse, the rush of a moment and since then, she understood that she was able to love someone without expectations, without ‘buts’ and ‘ifs’.
That was why she revolted against stamps, scales, measurements and labels. They just didn’t matter to her.
Once she had discovered that she loved him, that was the only thing she needed to know.
Where would it go from there? Would she be defeated? Tricked and fooled again? Would she fly too high and fall too hard?
She banished those fearful thoughts and exchanged them with the only reasonable answer or contra question possible:
What does it matter? Does it matter at all?
If she fell, she’d get up again. This might be the most stupid and risky or the best and most moving idea ever. Anyway, it would be an experience.
Truth or dare? She dared the truth.
And she was rewarded by the soft words of a smart young man, who didn’t care about labels either. He told her that the term ‘relationship’ was what they both would define it as. And that they would discover this definition together in time.

Gina Laventura©2014


Taking a shower

Dieser Beitrag ist auch auf Deutsch verfügbar

Photo & Edtiing: GOTOX, 2011

Today a result from a writing exercise I had to do in one of my courses.
Basically the exercise was this: Normally you handle adjectives and comparisons carefully, just like stereotypes, but this time, think about something that you did today and try to compare it to anything and use many adjectives. Exaggeration helps to become aware of stylistic devices.

Taking a shower

This morning I woke up and my back was hurting like hell. I felt as if I had been run down by a lorry.
I knew the only suitable pain relief I could get was a hot shower, so I took my towels and my peeling gloves which remind me of goose-bumps on a shivering body when I touch them and opened my door which made a similar shrieking noise like me after having noticed the severe pain in my back. I tiptoed over the blue carpet that was leading my way to the shower from one edge of the hallway to the other just like those tunnel visions people have when they are about to die. I could even see the white light at the end of the corridor. While I was tiptoeing the blue carpet tickled my feet and it felt as comfortable as the grass did back in my childhood days when I ran across the green of our back garden.
When I finally reached the bathroom door I opened it as quiet as I could to not be reminded of that shrieking sound again. I entered the shower room and closed the door, put my towels on the doorknob and started undressing myself like in slow motion. Although for me it felt as if I was moving like an old woman who was suffering from some severe disease, I imagined myself as undressing with a sexy slowness as if I was about to seduce somebody with this striptease. I let my clothes drop like leafs of a tree in autumn and entered the shower. Then I shut the door and despite the fact that this shower room is more reminiscent of a cabin in a psychiatric clinic and unsuitable for claustrophobics, I just felt protected like a pearl in a shell.
I turned on the hot water and let it run down my aching body, stretched my arms and reached on tiptoes for the top of the shower door in a position that reminded me of some random BDSM story where the victim is tied up, about to being whipped.

Gina Laventura © 2012

funny anecdote: I read this story out loud in class and my lecturer said “Well, your story seems to work as all the boys, the further you went in your story, blushed and started watching their feet.”


This entry is also available in English

Photo & Edtiing: GOTOX, 2011

Heute ein Ergebnis einer Schreibaufgabe, die ich mal im Zuge einer meiner Kurse machen musste. (Dies hier ist nur die Übersetzung, da das Original auf englisch verfasst wurde und bis heute unübersetzt blieb)
Die Aufgabe war Folgende: Normalerweise dosiert man Adjektive und Vergleiche eher vorsichtig, genau wie Stereotypen, aber diesmal sollten wir an etwas denken, das wir an dem Tag gemacht haben und es mit irgendwas vergleichen und viele Adjektive benutzen, wirklich übertreiben. Übertreibung hilft eine Achtsamkeit gegenüber Stilmitteln zu entwickeln.


Heute morgen stand ich auf und mein Rücken schmerzte wie die Hölle. Ich fühlte mich, als sei ich von einem Lastwagen überfahren worden.
Ich wusste, dass die einzig mögliche Schmerzlinderung, die ich bekommen konnte, eine heiße Dusche war, also nahm ich mein Handtuch und meine Peeling-Handschuhe, die mich an Gänsehaut auf einem Körper erinnern, wenn ich sie berühre und öffnete meine Tür, die ein ähnlich schrilles Kreischen von sich gab wie ich selbst, nachdem ich den heftigen Schmerz in meinem Rücken bemerkte. Ich lief auf Zehenspitzen über den blauen Teppich, der mir meinen Weg zur Dusche von einem Ende des Korridors zum anderen wies, ganz so, wie dieser Tunnelblick, den Menschen haben bevor sie sterben. Ich konnte sogar das weiße Licht am Ende des Korridors sehen. Während ich auf Zehenspitzen lief, kitzelte der blaue Teppich meine Füße und es fühlte sich so gemütlich an wie das Gras aus meinen Kindertagen, als ich über das Grün unseres Gartens rannte.
Als ich endlich die Badezimmertür erreichte, öffnete ich sie so leise wie ich nur konnte um nicht wieder an das schrille Geräusch erinnert zu werden. Ich betrat den Duschraum und schloss die Tür, hing mein Handtuch über die Türklinke und begann mich auszuziehen wie in Slow-Motion. Auch wenn es sich für mich anfühlte, als bewege ich mich wie eine alte Frau, die an einer schweren Krankheit litt, stellte ich mir vor, dass ich mich mit einer attraktiven Langsamkeit auszog als wäre ich dabei, jemanden mit diesem Striptease zu verführen. Ich ließ meine Kleidung fallen wie der Baum die Blätter im Herbst und betrat die Dusche. Dann schloss ich die Duschtür und auch wenn dieser Duschraum eher an eine Zelle in einer psychiatrischen Klinik erinnert und ganz sicher nicht für Klaustrophobiker geeignet ist, fühlte ich mich beschützt wie eine Perle in ihrer Muschel.
Ich stellte das warme Wasser an und ließ es über meinen schmerzenden Körper laufen, steckte meine Arme und griff nach dem oberen Ende der Duschtür und stand nun in einer Position da, die mich an eine willkürliche SM-Geschichte erinnerte, in der das Opfer gefesselt und hochgebunden ist, kurz bevor es ausgepeitscht wird.

Gina Laventura © 2012

witzige Anekdote: Ich las diese Geschichte laut im Kurs vor und mein Dozent sagte “Also, deine Geschichte scheint zu funktionieren, denn alle Jungs, je weiter du vorgelesen hast, sind errötet und haben angefangen ihre Füße anzustarren.”

#sundaystory: Light at the End of the Tunnel


The information given was:
a) English
b) Light at the end of the tunnel
c) hope, end, tired
d) sarcastic

dedicated to Mathias

Work is done. I’m hitting the road with my car. Rush hour. Traffic.
I’m tired, I’m stressed, I’m exhausted.
Red lights in front of me. On the other lane white and yellow lights staring at me. Inch by inch we move.
How much this situation resembles my life at the moment, I think. I’m moving, but barely do I get forward. Everywhere I look I see red lights, stop and go, slow movement, while on the other side of the road it’s going quicker, people rushing by, leaving me behind.
I just want to get home, it’s my daughter’s birthday and I hope I make it in time to see her opening all the gift boxes. And I still need to prepare a presentation for the meeting tomorrow. Big client. Important client. Sleep is overrated anyway.
All those obligations, musts, have tos. What makes a man a good man? What makes a father a good father? What makes an employee a good employee? Here’s the path. This is how it has to be done.
No options, just obligations.
Similar to my ride in the car. You want to rush, but you can’t, unless you want to crash the car in front of you. You want to turn right, but the lane goes straight forward. Only options are the junctions, the exits. But somebody else established them.
A look on the clock. Tic toc. Time’s running, but nothing’s moving. I get nervous, angry, my hands start sweating.
Deep breath. I put my head on the steering wheel.
Oh, we’re moving again. Slowly, but moving, entering a tunnel.
The darkness embraces me as one of its own. Red lights blinding my eyes. We stop again.
I’m trapped.
In a dark tunnel.
The black walls swallow all my hope, all my senses, all my sanity.
And what they spit out is fear. A fear that creeps up my chest. Barely can I breath.
What if it is going to stay like this forever? Stop and go, but no real forward movement? Blackness around me, lost hopes, and the only thing that stays is a pain in the leg from trying to push the pedal. In vain.
The further we get into the tunnel, the more lost I feel. The more I can only think of black walls surrounding me, the red light directly in front of me, the white light directly behind me.
Everything blurs and turns.
I can’t look ahead. I can’t think ahead. I. am. stuck.
While I’m pushed and pulled by darkness, red and white dots dancing around me, mocking me, I suddenly perceive a beam. Is that the sun?
I close my eyes for a minute. I open them slowly. Inch by inch.
Yes, indeed, it must be the sun.
The red light that beforehand was so close in front of me had moved further away.
We were moving!
Not only were we moving, but we were moving towards the sun.
Its beautiful radiance becoming bigger and bigger, smiling at us.
The darkness vanishes. Slowly. Inch by inch.
I see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Finally, I can breath again.

Sex sells


Being a female author I somehow managed to write this bestseller containing bits and pieces like “I was lying in bed in our shared flat, reading a book, when somebody knocked at my door. I answered with a “yes” and my housemate Trish sneaked in. She was in her nearly see-through nightdress. With her very female and cat like movements she closed the door silently and turned around the lock of my door. Then she came over and stood in the middle of my room whilst I was putting my book and my glasses aside. I asked her what the matter was. She said, ‘May I ask you a question, Elisa? Do you find me attractive?’ While I was wondering whether this was one of those typical conversations between women but couldn’t figure it quite out she suddenly dropped her nightdress and stood there, still in the middle of my room, in her battle dress, completely naked. I couldn’t help myself and began to stare, not this shocked way of staring but more of this I-don’t-know-what’s-happening way of staring. My eyes wandered from her pretty face with the deep brown eyes down her cheekbone, passing her sensual lips, her throat, her well formed breasts, her slim waist, her hips and her seemingly endless legs to her toes, then up again until they stopped somewhere between her breasts and her mound of Venus, indecisive where to stay. She looked at me quizzically and said ‘So?’ After I finally could convince my eyes to lift their glance from her body to her face again I stuttered, ‘Ehm, yes, of course you are attractive and you should know that! Why do you ask me that?’ Whilst speaking my mouth got dry and I had to swallow several times. Trish smiled, wetted her lips and slowly moved forward from the middle of the room towards my bed where I was still half lying, half sitting, unable to move. While she was moving she became even more attractive to me, the seductive way she moved her hips when walking through the dim light of my bedside lamp, the shadows on her breasts and her shiny lips made my body shiver. Finally she stood close to my bed and took my hand, putting it on her rips. My hands couldn’t help themselves and I had to let them run from her rips over her waist, everything very gently and carefully as if I could not only break her fragile body but as if the moment could break as well. When my hands reached her breasts she shivered a bit and when they began to move slowly downwards she started bending over towards me, breathing heavily, her hands running through my curly hair and when I finally reached the velvet part between her legs, her lips reached my mouth and…” and so forth and so forth.
So, well, as I said before, it became a bestseller and now everybody was wondering whether this was a kind of autobiographical text referring to experiences I have had in my life mixed up with my innermost desires or if it was only my experience or only my desires or if I just stole from some books, movies and porn. The tabloids and magazines, internet forums and morning shows on TV were full of discussions whether I was bisexual, a lesbian or had some undisclosed desires. Up to that one Friday evening I never answered these questions but one week ago I let my manager give the announcement that I will give an answer to these seemingly omnipresent questions in the Friday Night Late Show. So after having talked about my success, the bestseller and all that standard stuff I could feel the tension not only in the audience but seemingly everywhere, a whole audience across the country or maybe across the world was waiting for my answer after the show master had asked me “So, what was it that made you write this book which is now a bestseller? Was it some experience you have had in your life, so is it autobiographical or is it some undisclosed desire you were only able to express in writing? I bet many of your readers would like to know whether you are a lesbian or bisexual to know whether they would have chances to ask you out.” He winked and tried to raise tension and attention. “So, Mia More, will you give us the answer to the question we are all so deeply interested in, what was it that made you write this book?”
I smiled. I opened my mouth, everybody held their breath.
I said: “It was a simple fact that made me write this book: Sex sells.”

Gina Laventura © 2012

Raindrops in my Coffee

Dieser Eintrag ist auch auf Deutsch verfügbar

Photo & Editing: Ralph Wietek

Normally I don’t like to publish unfinished stories, but I guess, even unfinished stories have a charming character, eh?

This night I woke up from a noise. It was a moaning and it got louder and louder. Being in this state of half awake and still half asleep, it took me several minutes to realise that it was my own moaning that woke me up.
It was as if I couldn’t stop myself, so I just turned around and inhaled deeply, wished for some more hours of sleep. With a sigh I fell asleep again. It was only two hours later that I woke up from another distracting dream.
My body was still tired and turned from side to side, indecisive whether to give it another go or to just get up and set an end to this troubled night.
I decided to do the latter, got up, walked into the kitchen and made coffee. I poured the hot water into the cup where one spoonful of instant coffee granules was lying on the bottom, like little broken bits and pieces of a big whole.
Waiting for the coffee to get a bit cooler, I went back into my room and sat down on my bed, legs spread, my elbows on them, my downward facing head watching the dark liquid move in the cup.
Like raindrops.

Gina Laventura © 2012