Apart from doing interviews and writing articles, I also write fiction. This story is about a stubborn young woman and a strange guy from a different world, who’s insisting on helping her out with her love life and her writer’s block.

Here I am. Living in the beautiful city of Stockholm, Sweden. Yet I feel miserable. Even though I am only in my late-twenties, I am living the life of an 80-year-old. I spend my days wandering the streets of the old city, eating and drinking in lunchrooms and observing the locals and tourists who pass me by. My nights are spent curled up in a little apartment above a book shop, reading or watching television. I hoped my move from Germany to Sweden would liven up my life and get my inspirational juices flowing, So I could actually start and finish writing a proper novel. But since my move to Sweden in mid-September, I’ve only written five pages in two months. I don’t know where the creative juices are hanging out, but they aren’t anywhere to be found in Stockholm.

“Sweetie, if you can’t write a book in Berlin, you can’t write a book here either,” a voice informs me. It sounds quite high-pitched for a masculine voice, and the words come out dripping with sarcasm. I look around to see where it came from. I had been walking through the streets of Stockholm’s old heart of the city called Gamla Stan. It’s quite crowded for a Wednesday afternoon, but everyone walks past me on Norrbro, the North Bridge, like I’m not even there. I frantically look around for a few seconds, until my eyes land on a peculiar looking guy standing a few metres away from me. I don’t understand how I didn’t notice him before. He is a little shorter than me, has a pale, Asian-looking face, bright blonde hair and unusual fierce blue eyes. It looks as if he is wearing light make-up. But the thing that captures the most of my attention is his outfit. It’s as if he has stepped straight out of a fairytale. His clothes are made of blue and pink silk.

“What did you say to me?” I ask, blinking at the rudeness of this peculiar looking stranger.
He smiles as he looks to the ground for a moment, then looks up again to meet my gaze.
“A real writer is able to write anywhere,” he emphasizes the word ‘real’.
I walk towards the guy and stop about two feet away from him. He has a cheeky look about him and it intrigues me. There is no way to estimate his age. He could be twenty years old, but also in his early forties. I find it both fascinating and unnerving.
“How did you know I’m a writer?”
It suddenly dawns on me that there is no way he can know. Apart from the cashier at the supermarket and the waiter at my favourite lunchroom, nobody here knows about my writing ambitions.
“Oh, I know lots about you, Cedar,” he casually informs me.
This is getting a bit creepy.
“Who are you? And why are you dressed like that?” I glare at him, not sure if he is some sort of maniac or just a harmless lunatic.
“My name is Ri-yo. And where I’m from everyone is dressed like this. But don’t worry, nobody can see you’re talking to me.”
“What do you mean? Are you invisible or something?” I can’t help but chuckle.
“Yes.”
He sees my confused and slightly disturbed look, so he quickly elaborates: “I’m invisible to everyone but you at the moment. Nobody else needs to see me. I’m here for you.”
“Right…” I am not sure what to do with this information.
“I think I’m going to go now,” I blurt out, getting more and more uncomfortable. I feel myself turning around and walking away, feeling weirdly stiff in my legs.
“You can walk away now, but you won’t get rid of me,” he calls out loud after me. I look around to see if people react, but nobody does.
I keep on walking till I reach my apartment, every now and again looking back to see if the guy was following me. To my relief he is nowhere to be found.
With slightly trembling hands I pull my keys out of my bag and open the door. Once inside, I lean against it and close my eyes.

I begin to retrace my steps from that morning. Maybe somebody had put something in my drink? That would explain the weird conversation with the fairytale guy. But the only person that had brought me a drink was Niklas, the waiter at the Grand Hotel Lunchroom. Why would he drug me? There is no reason.
“I must be hallucinating,” I mutter to myself.
“You’re not hallucinating, Cedar.”
“Yaaaah!” I almost jump out of my own skin.
The piercing blue eyes are staring at me from only one foot away. The smile is a little less manic than a few minutes earlier, but still terrifying.
“How did you get in here?” I gasp as I slide down to the ground, my back against the door.
“Magic,” he shrugs. “Now get up, we’ve got work to do.”
“Work?” I repeat incredulously.
Before I know what is happening, his fingers close around my arm and he pulls me up. Even though he is slightly smaller than me, I don’t manage to break free of his grip, while he pretty much drags me up the stairs and into the living room. There he unceremoniously pushes me down onto a chair.
“Do you want a cup of tea? You should calm down before we have a good talk.”
“Yeah, sure,” I mumble, feeling dazed. Might as well let the fairytale guy who teleported into my apartment make me a cup of tea.
I observe his delicate movements as he makes me a cup of chamomile tea. He happily puts it down in front of me and sits down on the chair on the other side of the small table.
“Uhm, thank you.”
It sounded more like a question than a comment of gratitude. I take a sip and hesitantly glance over at him.
“What are you?” I ask him, as he observes me with an air of some sort of subdued excitement.
“I’m Ri-yo, your new mentor. I’m going to help you with your problems here on earth,” he explains as if it was the first day of school and he is a teacher introducing himself.
“I didn’t ask for your help,” I frown.
“Yes, you did,” he retorts. “Well, sort of.”
“I don’t recall asking for some sort of magical, slightly girly-looking elf.”
Ri-yo snorts and looks at the table with an amused expression on his face.
“You didn’t specifically ask for me, that’s true. But remember when you were lying in bed a few days ago, crying and whining about how lonely you felt, how nobody wants you and how you were suffering from writer’s block?”
“Yes, I remember,” I admit, immediately feeling tears well up in my eyes. I feel vulnerable and don’t want to cry in front of this stranger. But before I can shield my face, he stands next to me with a tissue box in his hand.
“Well, here I am.”
I look up at him, and gratefully take a tissue from the box. He gives my shoulder a slight squeeze in a comforting gesture, before sitting down again.
“This is weird,” I say out loud. “Am I really the only one who can see you?”
“I decide who can see me. But for now it’s better if I only make myself visible to you.”
“So what happens now?” I ask, feeling a little more at ease because I had figured that dangerous madmen don’t go around making chamomile tea and offering tissues to dry your tears. At the same time I don’t completely dismiss the possibility that he is just a figment of my imagination.
“You go on with your life and when I feel it is necessary to help you out, I will show up. But I must warn you, I’m known for my tough love and I won’t sugarcoat things.”
“And I must warn you, I don’t respond well to criticism and nagging.”
There, now we both know where we stand.
“I like a challenge,” he coolly responds.
It is silent for a minute.
“So you’re going to help me find a boyfriend?” I suddenly perk up.
“Later. Now just relax and get some groceries. Your fridge is empty, except for a whole lot of chocolate mousse,” he says with a stern look.
“I was planning on ordering a pizza.”
If looks could kill, I would’ve been dead in a second.
“You’re going to get groceries,” he orders. “I’ll see you soon, Cedar.” Ri-yo touches my back and then instantly vanishes into thin air.

Let me know what you think of the first chapter, your feedback is much appreciated!

Click here for chapter 2