L M Dee is a part-time clerk and full-time dreamer and lover of stories.
She enjoys reading, television and movies, walking, wine, digital photography, and pets.
She has an interest in fantasy, history, mythology and fairy tales, spirituality, along with science and science fiction. She is more inclined to historical fantasy than “true history” and favourite eras include the Renaissance and Regency (Regency romances in particular).
L M Dee is a childfree asexual and enjoys reading and writing stories with childfree protagonists and asexual characters.
She is based in the UK and writes from a British perspective in British English.
For this week’s #writingwednesday and in honour of Pride Month, a snippet from fantasy drama wip: Juliet where the protagonist’s daughter, Sophia, and the antagonist’s daughter, Iona, bond on their sea voyage and discuss the ways their two cultures approach sexuality.
Aron took a coin from his pocket and flipped into the waves below. “For the sea gods. May they keep my kjaereste safe, back home.” He reached into his pocket and produced two more tiny copper discs, insisting the women take them. He placed a hand on his shoulder, inclined his head, and walked away.
Sophia held the coin tightly in her hand, thinking of her mother, of Sean, of her friends Evjor and Jeanne, of her cellmate, Valarie. She tossed the coin into the ocean, praying they stayed safe.
Iona rubbed at the copper. “I have no family I want to wish for. So instead I will pray the gods watch over those my mother has wronged.” Her coin too went into the waves. She stared after it for a while and then shivered.
“Let’s go back below,” Sophia said, putting one hand on Iona’s arm. As they walked she said, “What does it mean? Aron’s…sh— sha…”
“Kjaereste? It’s your beloved. Your darling. Your boyfriend or girlfriend.”
Sophia attempted the pronunciation a few times until Iona laughed and said she’d got it perfect. “It’s a nice word,” Sophia said, glowing with pride. It was nicer that Iona’s people were so open about relationships beyond a man and his obedient wife.
They went to Iona’s cabin and Iona sat on the bed, Sophia taking the chair.
“You speak the language fluently.”
Iona nodded. “My father thought it important for me to learn about my heritage. I can see how it’s difficult though, if you try to learn it as an adult.”
Sophia leaned back in the chair. “I’d like to try and learn a few words.”
“Here’s one you are probably already familiar with. Elskeravkvinner. A woman who loves women.” Iona gave a sly smile.
Sophia knew they’d become close, but they’d never discussed what she was now sure was a mutual attraction. “I’m not El— Es…I will learn to pronounce it correctly, I promise, but that’s not me. Not entirely.”
Iona, who’d become despondent at the declaration tipped her head. “What do you mean?”
“I am a woman who loves men and women. I’ve dated young men. I still find men attractive. I like to look at women but I’ve never found one I felt…desire for. Until now.” She lowered her gaze. “Anyway, I don’t know what I am, what the word is. Or the word for those like Sean, who desire no-one.”
Iona patted the bed. “Come and sit with me. I don’t know those words either. Maybe we need new words. Or maybe we don’t need to make distinctions.”
Sophia sat next to Iona and Iona leaned her head on Sophia’s shoulder. “There are distinctions. Men, women, princess, peasant. They matter.”
Iona put one hand on Sophia’s knee. “Not so much as you think.” She kissed Sophia’s cheek. Sophia turned her head. Iona gave her an encouraging look and Sophia leaned in. Their lips met.
If you’re clued up on your Ghosts knowledge, you’ll know that the location of Button House is actually West Horsley Place, a Grade I listed medieval manor house and estate in Surrey, England that dates all the way back to 1425. You may also know that, along with some outbuildings, the estate is itself in some state of disrepair.
With an eerily similar backstory to that of the show, in 2014 Bamber and Christina Gascoigne unexpectedly inherited West Horsley Place from Bamber’s aunt, Mary, Duchess of Roxburghe, and in 2015 the Mary Roxburghe Trust was formed. (Read more here.)
We reached out to see if we could offer our help and are delighted to be working alongside West Horsley Place and the Mary Roxburghe Trust in order to raise funds to help restore this beautiful building, which is currently on Historic England’s Heritage ‘At Risk’ Register.
Fic rec. You can’t forbid a writer to write; we can’t turn off our thoughts. Even if we can resist putting the words down on paper or screen, ideas remain.
Reminiscent of how the story behind “The Yellow Wallpaper” and Gilman’s torment at being told not to write.
You’re a writer? The inside of your brain must be a terrifying place.
He could smell the sweet waft of daisies as he walked among them, with his bare feet treading over the mud, his toes peeking in and out of the soil, dirtying his nails. His hand swayed over the petals. He felt their softness on his skin, and the delicate mess that the pink bud created at the spot where it kissed the stem.
While he walked, he looked around. He looked at the water that trickled down the stream and mosaicked into millions of drops of sparkles, that shone brighter with the slant rays of the sun that was getting ready to sleep.
And he heard. He heard the cawing crows, the hum of the insects who would not be seen, but only heard, the sugary song of a blue bird perched on top of the tree…
Welcome to the Haunted Wordsmith Daily Prompt (HWDP). This prompt is going to be both familiar and different at the same time. To participate, simply read this post and follow where the muse takes you. You may select any, all, or none of the prompts…it’s all up to you. Link back to this post, or leave a link in the comments so that others can find you.
Have Fun!
Prompt A (nonfiction challenge): What is the best garden you have ever made or visited?
Prompt B (sentence starter): “I want to rip my nose off.”
Romaine hit the AWAY FROM DESK button and went off to the changing room – the double entendre was not lost on him.
He stripped off his clothes and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, held it for a count of three, let it out slowly, allowing the Wolf to take over.
The change was smooth enough, one knee creaking a bit, and he was sure his shoulders would benefit from this shift after he’d been sat at the desk so much this week. The twinge from the shrapnel was unmistakable but he didn’t grit his teeth. That only ever caused blood. He didn’t want to show El his wolf-form with blood dripping from his teeth like some fairytale predator.
He padded out into the hall and into the office. El had fetched the drinks and was sipping coffee. Her eyes widened and she put the mug down.
“Oh, Rommie. You’re gorgeous.” She moved to crouch down and stare into his eyes. “May I?” She gestured with one hand.
Sometimes I choose a theme or style for the writing I’m going to post each month. I’ve written 3 sentence fic, drabbles, and this month, double drabbles (200 words).
Since this is Wednesday #5 of the month, for this week’s #writingwednesday I’m giving you a challenge.
Write one flash fiction/fanfic/poem that is one of these:
1) 3 sentences
2) 100 words (exact drabble)
3) 200 words (double drabble)
and relates to one or more of the following:
1) seasons/nature
2) gratitude/thankfulness
3) magic/wish
and for “bonus points” (there are no actual points!) use one of the following:
1) write all dialogue
2) write without using dialogue
3) write so that the first part is the opposite of the second part (eg sun/moon, night/day, despair/hope)
Example: 3 sentences, thankfulness, no dialogue
She couldn’t sleep, restless as she tossed and turned, the night heavy and oppressive. The long dark before the dawn weighed on her, body and soul. When the sun rose she gave thanks, and stepped out into the light.
I worship the sun, bask in the life giving rays
the light brings growth, and also casts welcome shade
Reborn at the winter solstice, bringing new hope
Peaking at the summer solstice in full glory
The seasons turn, spring to summer, autumn to winter
Endless and enduring
The sun is fire and solar winds, creative and inspired
The nineteenth tarot card, sign of good fortune
Ruler of the day, rising in the east and setting the west
Helios, Apollo, Lugh, Amaterasu
I worship the moon, bathe in the life affirming rays
there is beauty in darkness, and light in the dark
Reborn at the dark moon each month, unseen but present
Peaking at the full moon, in all her glory
The month turns, waxing to full, waning to dark moon
Endless and enduring
The moon is of earth and brings the tides, reflective and empathic
The eighteenth tarot card, illusion and hidden truths
Ruler of the night, rising in the east and setting in the west
Artemis, Cerridwen, Hecate, Thoth
I acknowledge the turning of the day, the month, the year
There is a time for action and for rest
A place for opposites and the middle ground between them
The moon rises in the east but “however, depending on the phase of the Moon and the time of the year, the rising might actually occur in the east-northeast or east-southeast, and the setting might take place in the west-northwest or west-southwest.” https://www.farmersalmanac.com/does-the-moon-rise-in-the-east-2782
M Sakran’s blog gives wonderful poems with explanations about the styles or here, the content, giving insight into how poetry is written and why it resonates with us. A great follow for any readers and writers of poetry.
The rain fell – the farmer celebrated, the builder complained. This poem is about how people respond to social issue news. The news sometimes has stories about social issues. It might be a law being passed, a change in public opinion, a change in industry practices, a survey, or something else. The news presents […]
The admiral strode onto the deck where the men were fighting with swords and fists, and smoke from the earlier cannon fire and muskets still filled the air.
“We meet again at last,” said the protagonist. He’d been waiting sixteen chapters for this showdown.
The admiral smirked and drew his weapon, cold steel to match his cold demeanour. “Indeed.”
They exchanged blows. The admiral had, canonically and historically, been trained in sword fighting since he was nine years old. The protagonist had only spent chapter nine learning these moves but as the POV character had plot on his side and this battle was the pinnacle of his story arc, his quest for justice or at least revenge.
The tide turned, at least on board the vessel, if not the choppy waves below. The protagonist’s men were winning. The sun appeared from behind the clouds, symbolic of his impending victory.
The protagonist disarmed the weary admiral, held his blade against the man’s throat, a reversal of their first meeting.
“You can’t kill me,” the admiral gloated. “History doesn’t lie! I die years from here, in a duel.”
The protagonist laughed. “This isn’t a documentary,” he said, and slit the man’s throat.
