Day 3: Dream

D: This is such a spoiler, A.
A: I know! I know but I can’t help it!
D: You must!
A: But! But it was so perfect and everything made me cry yesterday but this really made me cry. And I just had to share it, because, crying.
D: Who are you, and what have you done with A?
A: I know, right?!
D: You don’t really get all emotional . . .
A: Well, not with you.
D: Gee, thanks, A
A: No seriously – I’m so used to you and your theatrics and dramatics–
D: My what now?
A: Oh, come on. You know what I think of you – you have this . . . this feel to you that’s a little overblown. We all know you lost your true love. You’re pained. You’ve hidden yourself away bla bla bla – but Sean and Maureen. . . They were separate from all that.
D: This is why you don’t like me.
A: Well. . . . yeah. Yeah, that is why I don’t like you. Your story was known to me from the beginning. And seriously, it’s soooooo melodramatic. I mean, I like it, sure, but gods, there was nothing for me to explore there.
D: Or perhaps you’re just exploring it from Maureen and Sean’s point of view.
A: . . . Don’t make points I can’t argue with, Druid.
D: Ha!

Score one for the Druid; he’s not wrong. And weirdly, not upset with me for that whole melodramatic bit.

Whatever. He knew his author when he took up residence in her head.

Some days, writing can suck. It can be lifeless and uninspired, uninteresting and meaningless, and all the other un-and-less words out there.

Last night was not one of those nights.

Until last night, I hadn’t read what I wrote for April’s Camp NaNoWriMo.

This book is a definite challenge for me, and re-reading what I’ve already done either confuses me because it’s not linear, or makes me want to get down to the granular details, which is not in this book’s best interest, yet.

Last night was different. I re-read what I wrote in April and I was surprised – hell, I was moved.

It wasn’t the jumble of words I thought it was – I mean, there was enough of that to last a lifetime, sure, but it wasn’t all bad.

It took me by surprise; it made me cry – for real! And most importantly, it reminded me that there is a story here – it reminded me that I’m completing a story and it’s hard. It hurts. These characters have been hurt and – no pressure – it’s up to this book – it’s up to me, and them, and everything – to address it, to write it out, and complete the story.

There’s something to this week – maybe it’s the new moon, maybe it’s the eclipse, maybe it’s some magic I can’t quite name – but for once, I’ve acknowledged I’m a writer. Or storyteller. Or something.

It only took 6 years.

Dream, Maureen.

Dream.


Day 3 Camp NaNoWriMo Total: So far, 560 (the post above), but I still have a goal of 1,000 WIP words, so those 560 don’t count.
Words To Go: 47,211
Day 3 Brainwave: We need more (spoiler).
Day 3 Reminder: Just because they’re not likely to end up in the final draft, some scenes just need to be written so they’re there. It’s a repeat of Day 2, but honestly – this might just be the standing reminder.


Welcome to the World of the Changelings. Pick your Poison:

Be Our Guest: Dilettante vs Druid

Please welcome to the blog, the delightfully witty Helena Hann-Basquiat, our very favorite Dilettante. She graciously wrote up a hilarious account of her most recent run-in with D.  So, lend her your eyes and enjoy! Be sure to tell her how much you love this in the comments!

Dilettante vs Druid

The one, the only Helena Hann-Basquiat, everyone's favorite dilettante

The one, the only Helena Hann-Basquiat, everyone’s favorite dilettante

When I arrived at the house, I was at first a bit apprehensive. There were strange noises coming from within, and what appeared to be a tornado hovering over the roof — not doing any damage, just spinning there like a child’s top.

I rang the doorbell, and heard the rushing of feet stomp toward me from behind the door. The door swung upon violently, and I confess I flinched.

“Who rang that bell?” an annoyed looking Druid poked his head out the open door, looked me up and down like a side of beef, and then sneered. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes, Mr. Druid. It is I, your favourite dilettante, Helena Hann-Basquiat.”

“You’re not my favourite anything,” he scoffed. “And anyway, can’t you read?”

“Read what?” I asked, looking around in case I’d missed something.

The Druid seemed to be flustered, and slammed the door. He returned a few seconds later with a huff, hung a sign on the door knob, and then closed the door again, barring my entry.

I stared in amusement at the sign, and read it aloud.

“Bell out of order — please knock.”

I laughed. “You know, A. would find this hysterical, but you, you probably don’t even get it, do you, you humourless bastard?”

“I’m no bastard,” Dubh an Súile mac Alasdair, a.k.a. ‘D’ coughed a protest. “And I do too have a sense of humour.”

“Oh, I think not,” I argued. “I think it got shot off in some war or another.”

“And now you’re cribbing lines from Roland of Gilead,” D said.

“Wait,” I shook my head in disbelief. “You don’t know the Wizard of Oz but you know Roland of Gilead?”

“Correction,” he raised a pointed finger. “I knew Roland of Gilead. Excellent fellow, if a bit dusty and intense.”

The one, (and thank heavens) the only, D as imagined by Green Embers)

The one, (and thank heavens) the only, D as imagined by Green Embers)

“You must have got on like fireworks,” I said under my breath. “But Roland is a fictional character in a Stephen King story. How do you…”

“Never mind that,” D interrupted. “What of this Wizard you speak of? Is he very powerful?”

“Not really,” I sighed. “He’s a humbug.”

“I know not this bum hug,” D furrowed his brow intensely. “Is he a traveller, like me?”

“You ever travel by hot air balloon?”

“Certainly not!” D protested. “How archaic!”

“Yeah, well, this conversation is getting archaic,” I murmured. “Is A. home? I really came to see about collecting those pancakes she promised months ago.”

“Pancakes, pancakes, bloody pancakes!” he snapped.

“Well, you just kind of ruined them for me now,” I said, imagining pancakes covered in blood.

“She’s not here!” he said, sounding a bit like Keanu Reeves, and even had a bit of smoulder going on around the eyes.

“Well, then, aren’t you going to invite me in?” I asked.

“Well, I was making some tea…” the sly Druid began, with a look of mischief in his eyes. “Would you care for a trip… um, that is, a sip?”

Something about the way he was looking at me told me that I should probably run, lest I find myself awakening in a compromising position some hours later with no recollection of how my underwear ended up hanging from the ceiling fan. But I was feeling a bit dangerous myself, and as A. wasn’t home, I gave the old goat a wink.

“Yeah, alright.”

Warning: Here be Splinters

Castle Hill House Image: Google Images

Castle Hill House, 8 Group HQ
Image: Google Images

A: Did you know that the De Havilland Mosquito was made of wood – plywood, balsa and birch?

D: I do recall something of that nature. If I remember correctly, that is why I had no interest in flying in one of them.

A: So, the immediacy of the war, death, danger and the fact that you never saw a plane before you were exiled from Faerie and sent to 1944 wasn’t part of that reason?

D: And the plane was made of wood.

A: You sailed to Ireland in a boat, didn’t you?

D: Yes, but I can swim, A. I cannot fly if the aeroplane disintegrates.

A: Point taken. See, this is why I don’t use you as a research source.

D: Not that you use your research, anyway.

A: What’s that supposed to mean? I did! I found this great book, Pathfinder, by DCT Bennet (head of 8 Group) that I’m seriously thinking of getting. Then there is the name, location and pictures of a convenient convalescent military hospital for the Druid/soldier with no memory. I saw where the Path Finder Force’s headquarters were in 1944 and I know which squadron of 8 Group flew the Mosquito. I even have a suspicion that the mission on March 30 was pretty much a cluster. It could be suggested, in fiction, anyway, that someone on the German side knew what was going on that night. All in all, it is a perfect backdrop for an interlude.

D: An interlude?

A: It’s kind of like a flashback, but with dips and music, so it’s more fun.

D: I think that is a shindig vs a gathering, A. And stop comparing me to Buffy.

A: Yes, but you lurk.

D: You defy reason.

A: I know. Your patience and forbearance are appreciated, D. Really. They are. No, seriously. Stop looking at me like that.

D: I am not looking at you, I am looking at your name on the menu – what did you do to the blog, woman? And wait! Why is it so clean in here?

A: You’re just noticing this, now?

D: I was distracted by plywood planes and interludes.

A: (Eye roll) I cleaned up the blog, and my name is up there because this blog just got a baby sister.

D: I’m not changing diapers.

A: . . . um, okay. By baby sister, I meant I created an author site.

D: And what does one do with an author site?

A: List credentials–

D: Wait, you have credentials?

A: Stop laughing.

D: (Guffaws)

A: No, seriously D. Stop.

D: (Snickers).

A: Any time now.

D: (Giggles into his sleeve. Snorts).

A: Oh, that’s just disgusting. Here’s a tissue. Blow. Gross.

Perhaps credentials wasn’t the right word, but a quick overview of my work, where else I can be found and how to connect with me on the interwebs. It has a blog component that will sum up where I’ve been on the blogosphere, as well as a recap of our thrice-weekly posts here. Nothing fancy, just another way to promote myself.

D: You mean, when you would rather people not know that you talk to imaginary characters.

A: I’m a writer, that’s pretty much a given, D. Plus, I link directly to the blog here, so hiding you is out.

D: You could never hide me, A.

A: (Sigh) Oh, don’t I know it!

D: Speaking of authors with real credentials–

A: Oi—

D: John W. Howell, Marie Ann Bailey and Pamela Beckford have been published in Issue Six of the Paperbook Collective!

A: Congratulations, you three – that’s wonderful news!

D: And Briana is celebrating her blog’s one-year anniversary with a sale on A Girl Named Cord.

A: We should also mention that Charles completed the draft of another Legends of Windemere novel.  Head over there and congratulate him, and then stay for the song in the post (what, I’m feeling nostalgic for the Verve!). That heady feeling of being done never gets old!

D: And should you feel the need to be inspired, Papi Z has a prompt over at the Literary Syndicate.

A: I feel inspired.

D: Oh, do tell!

A: I feel inspired to have a cup of tea, write 500 words and then go to bed.

D: Don’t tell me this post counts towards that number.

A: It does not, D. You may actually get to Tír na nÓg when I’m done this evening.

D: Wonders never cease. No time to waste then – good night folks! A has to sign off before she gets distracted again!

A: Cheers, D. Goodnight everyone – thank you for reading1

I solemnly swear. . .

De Havilland Mosquito Yorkshire Air Museum Image Courtesy Google Images

De Havilland Mosquito
Yorkshire Air Museum
Image Courtesy Google Images

D: You are never up to any good.

A: Yes, I am. I’m up to researching-good.

D: Researching-good? Never mind your abhorrent abuse of words, I thought this was going to be about resolutions.

A: Yeah, that ship could have docked last week. If it had, I was going to mention something about organization, staying tuned because the blog is about to have a baby sister called “author website,” please don’t mind our dust as we reorganize, and that whole thing about only posting on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays (I mean it this time). As it was, that ship found incredibly cold waters, had to take a detour around the Rock of Hibernation and has since sailed.

D: You are taking that metaphor much further than it ever needed to go.

A: Yep, where no man, woman –

D: Or character –

A: Has gone before.

D: Hyperbole, too.

A: I aim to please.

D: Or distract.

A: Don’t look at the man behind the curtain, D.

D: You are a man?

A: (Eye-roll). No. No, I’m not, but thank you, D. That, again, was a figure of speech.

D: Pardon me for being a seventh-century Pict (you know that is not what we called ourselves, right?)

A: (Yes, but no one has determined what exactly it was you called yourselves, so I’m going with Pict for the mo, ‘k?)

D: (Was that English?)

A: (Nope). Anyway, writing Book 2 to completion and drafting all of the Catherine books is my first resolution of the year, and organization is my second. My third is research. Hence, researching-good.

D: Any research in particular?

A: At the moment, anything on Pathfinder Group 8, Squadron 109 and the Battle of Berlin, specifically the attack on Nuremberg on March 30, 1944. I took one look at the Mosquito planes and knew that was the plane Patrick O’Malley and James McAndrew flew.

D: Oh, you’re going there. Oh, joy. I thought you were waiting until my story to tell that part of the tale.

A: Try to contain your excitement, D. I was going to wait, and then I realized I needed to know why you were kicked out of Faerie. The readers will need to know, too. They need to know what the kids are up against. It eases the transition between the first book and the second book. I’m excited.

D: Or you just thought the Mosquito plane looked ‘really cool’ and you wanted to write about it.

A: . . .

D: Don’t deny it. I heard you.

A: Okay, fine. I’m not denying it. But, considering I know nothing about planes (besides wanting to fly one), or WWII (beyond the basics) I was actually hoping to postpone the research, but I just can’t. So, off to the library I go!

D: Can I make one request?

A: Yes?

D: Don’t turn me into Captain Jack. I know you have been watching an awful lot of Torchwood lately, and I’m a bit concerned . . .

A: I would never!

D: . . .

A: His name starts with a J, and your alias’ all start with a D. Any other similarities between you are coincidence.

D: (Mutter, grumble) Bloody woman.

A: Cheers, D!

With that, I’m off to the library – tomorrow, when it’s not below 0° Fahrenheit! Wish me luck! Good night, folks!

Hidden: Dubh Súile Speaks

D: My name is Dubh Súile mac Alasdair.

A: No, it is not.

D: We’ve been over this, A.

A: I know, but how can you open a post with that? It isn’t your name (name changer)!

D: I thought you were going to give me the floor today.

A: Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Go ahead. I’ll shut myself up in this blue box over here. Gee, I wonder what that – wheeee!

D: That she roams free upon this earth startles me.

I am Dubh Súile mac Alasdair. Some know me and say that I am kind. Others say that I am powerful and merciless. Others still see a battle-scarred young man whose father – a king of his people – was slaughtered before his eyes.

Then there is me. There is the me I show to you all, the me that exists here within the mystical lines and dashes of code that make up the internet. There is the me that exists within the stories A has allowed herself to see and write thus far. Then there is the me that she has yet to write. She has seen glimpses, and she has shared them with you in poetic form as she searches for more ways to feel who I am. As she looks deeper within the soul she has carried in her head for these many years, the me that is will begin to shine.

I was born in 668 near Loch Ussie in what is now Scotland. My people and their history are gone from this world, but we were princes once. We counseled kings, and won for them wars. We were apostate, yet monks of Rome taught our young together with venerable Druids. I was raised to join them, these priests of dying gods. I was taught to be the greatest of their number, and lead them, while my brother would lead our clan.

Instead, I ran away.

I was young, foolish and in love. I was betrayed and saved in one breath. I lost and was not gracious in defeat. Time tempered my soul – time, war and a journey into myth that afforded me as much as it stole from me.

Now I no longer run.

Who am I? What is in the hidden window of my soul?

I am Dubh Súile mac Alasdair and I am powerful. I am the son of kings. The blood of old gods flows in my veins yet I alone control my destiny.

I am merciless, but I will not countenance suffering nor allow treachery to take root in my heart.

I am tender and know love well. The memory of my Mairead’s touch warms my soul, and I smile, although it is through tears.

I walk alone. Doubt brought me to my knees, and duty has torn me from the side of all those who were dear to my heart. I risk much to right old wrongs and see to it that those who come after me may walk freely upon this earth.

I am Dubh Súile mac Alasdair and I am flawed. I am human.

The heart of humanity is resilient and I have watched it beat unfailingly throughout these many centuries – and it beats within this old body, yet. It carries me through the deepest terrors of my soul and gives me hope that one day A will finish my tale and allow my journey to end. When she does, I will finally be at peace.

Hidden: Dubh Súile Speaks was brought to you by The Queen Creative’s Prompts for the Promptless: Johari Window.

Check out these other offerings for this week’s prompt:

PS: This is the last Prompts for the Promptless of Season 3. Season 4 starts up again on January 7!

 

 

 

The Man Behind the Curtain

Courtesy Google Images

The *real* man behind the curtain. At least today.
Courtesy Google Images

D: Who is behind the curtain?

A: You.

D: But – are you accusing me of being a hack who subs sawdust for brains?

A: You’re rather attached to that reference, aren’t you?

D: It comes in so well with you.

A: Cheers, D. And while that was part of the allusion, I was more referring to these shots and videos of Benedict Cumberbatch doing the motion capture work for Smaug.

D: That’s it?

A: Yep.

D: Really?

A: Just not feelin’ it today, D. It was either this, or rant about darling killing and how much I want to rip Part 2 to shreds right now because I can’t get the kids to Dublin in any fashion that resembles believable.

D: Believable? From you, A? Honestly, woman. I have four words for you:  Time-Traveling Pict Druid.

A: Yeah, and?

D: You blog with a figment of your imagination.

A: . . .

D: Believability ain’t got nuthin’ on you, to paraphrase my favorite hillbilly bounty hunter.

A: Really? Your favorite?

D: Considering that ‘A the Bounty Hunter’ is the only hillbilly bounty hunter I know, yeah, I think so.

A: Gee, D – that’s the nicest thing you could have said to me!

D: You have some very strange ideas on what ‘nice’ is, A.

A: Consider the source.

D: . . . Fair enough. Just do this old Druid a favor, please?

A: Maybe.

D: Have fun with this story. If you do – then like as not, so will everyone else.

A: I’m not even going to ask what you did with my Druid. You’re calmer, older, timey-wimey D, aren’t you?

D: Shhh. Don’t ruin the moment, A.

A: Cheers, D.

And there you have it ladies and gentlemen: every once in a while, the Druid has something decent to say. I’ve done three iterations of this ‘dialogue’ – all with the reproach to keep it fun. It’s something I need to remember for the introduction to 1916 Dublin. An uprising timed to piss off the Brits in the midst of WWI isn’t really lighthearted fare, but over-thinking on my part is really going to kill the momentum for the story. So, that’s what I’m doing right now – I have at least three different versions of the six chapters in question . . . and this is why beta readers and sounding boards are so very important!

Anything to which you give the greater part of your heart can sometimes swallow your reason, too. What do you find most difficult to remember – even as it is necessary – when in the process of creating something ?

A Date with A Druid, Part 2

Is D ready for the modern world of dating? Is the modern world of dating ready for D?

It started out as a desperate cry from lonely Druid – let me have a date with your character, 1WriteWay (Marie Ann Bailey), I promise I’ll behave. Yeah right, said the writers. Nevertheless, the date happened. Read on for the exciting conclusion to “A Date with A Druid” as D attempts to woo Mary, a contemporary woman in a series about three widowed cousins who start a private investigation firm.

Previously. . .

The Druid picked up the bouquet of roses and held them out to her. “Has your lover ever given you flowers as beautiful as these? Has his lips burned a kiss onto your hand, as I have. Oh, yes, dear lady, I felt you shiver with that kiss.”

Mary took another gulp of wine. She was going to have to have a long talk with 1WriteWay, her author. She studied her glass, wondering why it was empty so quickly and, more importantly, how to extricate herself from this large, overbearing, egotistical hunk of a man . . .

By Green Embers

By Green Embers

“Come, my lady – don’t tell me you haven’t wondered what it’s like to live outside the lines your writer has given you.”

He gestured to the gentleman behind the bar for another round. Mary twisted herself around to shake her head at the man but he was already gone. Damn. She turned back to D. He was still talking. Well, he certainly enjoyed the sound of his own voice, didn’t he? Too bad she did, too.

“She doesn’t give me – I mean, she’s very good at interpreting my story–”

“Don’t you want to feel for yourself? Feel alive in ways no one else can possibly imagine?”

Mary had a hot denial at the ready but paused. She lifted the new glass of Chardonnay and eyed D over the rim. He had a point.

But he was far too pleased with himself to give in.

She touched her lips to the glass – just a small taste this time. Her cheeks were already flushed with the heat of the alcohol and it would not do to let that heat encourage those ridiculously blue eyes any further than she already had.

“I suppose you can help me do that, then?”

A slow, wicked smile spread over the man’s face and his eyes drifted to her lips. A cool tingle of wine still lingered there and Mary resisted the urge to lick them.

This was not fair. What was it about Druids that made them special? Was it magic? 1WriteWay should have warned her to brush up on her history before allowing this date to happen. And that A – she had a lot to answer for, letting this man loose.

“Not magic, my lady – just several centuries of watching man’s progress and interaction with one another.”
“Oh.” Mary frowned. Had she said that out loud? She didn’t remember speaking. No more Chardonnay. “You know, you’re making this very difficult for me.”

“And what could I do to make it better for you? I do only wish to please.”

“Why is it when you say that, it sounds so . . . so . . . naughty?”

“Only if you wish it so, my lady.”

“Why, I  – Oh for heaven’s sake, put on a shirt.”

The Druid burst out laughing and Mary covered her cheeks with her hands. Her face was burning.

“Alas, all I have is a rag from my days as a pirate – I did not wish to embarrass you with my poor wardrobe.”

“Pirate?” Mary fanned her cheeks. Visions of swashbuckling heroes flickered through her mind.

No. No swashbuckling. No pillaging of her honor. No. No. No. Overbearing, that’s what he was. Overbearing, egotistical and . . . and . . . deeply affecting . . . No!

Mary gave herself a mental shake. Chauvinistic. Yes, that was it.

Perhaps his naked torso was better. “Maybe, um, you could just button up your coat,” she muttered.

“As my lady desires.”

“And stop with that – my lady this, my desires that. My name is Mary, and I would prefer you use it.”

D bowed his head. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he was laughing silently. His eyes were far too merry for him not to be. Honestly, this was just too much.

“And what’s this about not wishing to embarrass me? Quite frankly D, I think you’re enjoying my discomfort far too much. My God, if Randy ever said—What? Why are you laughing?”

“Your lover’s name is Randy?”

“Yes?”

D was giggling into his stout. Giggling.

Druids shouldn’t giggle, Mary thought as she sipped her Chardonnay.

“I’m sorry, my lady – much of my life was spent in the British Isles,” he said. He was gulping at the air, trying to catch his breath.

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Oh well, it’s just that – excuse me – the word ‘randy’—“

God, he was snorting now. Mary rolled her eyes.

“The word ‘randy’ is slang for – for–” The Druid took a deep breath and managed to compose himself. He arched an eyebrow at her but the effect was lost in his ruddy face and the tears that were still coursing down his cheeks. “For the sexually excited – well, for you my lady.”

His smile turned into a leer and he reached for her hand again.

“Why, you conceited pig! You are the worst kind of – of man!”

Mary yanked her hand from his heated paw and bolted from her seat with enough force to rock the chair on two legs. D stared up at her and she thought she caught a glimmer of surprise in his face before the mask of suave confidence smoothed his features.

“I am the only kind of man—“

Before he could even finish the sentence, Mary smashed the bouquet of roses in his face and stomped to the door. Of all the—1WriteWay owed her for this, that was for damn certain.

But even as she reached the door, the Druid’s words echoed in her head. “Don’t tell me you haven’t wondered what it’s like to live outside the lines.” She paused, her hand wrapped around the handle. She did wonder.

Against her better judgment, Mary spared the Druid a glance over her shoulder.

Oh, for the love of—not only had the waitress rushed to his aid, but D was also smiling graciously at the barman as he stooped to clear the scattered rose petals. As she watched, D turned those deep bedroom eyes on the girl until she twirled her hair.

Honestly. Man or woman, it didn’t matter to that randy—Mary caught herself and grinned. It was funny – somewhat. Perhaps she should go home and teach Randy what his name really meant.

A Date with the Druid, Part 1

It all started when Marie Ann Bailey, at 1WriteWay, agreed to allow D to interview her. He somehow got it into his head that one of her characters, Mary, was a suitable focus for his attention. After much begging–

D: A. 

A: Sorry. After much pleading–

D: A!

A: Fine. After subtly insinuating that perhaps he could entertain the lady for an evening, Marie and I granted D and Mary a chance to get outside our heads for a date. This is what happens. . . 

A Date with the Druid, Part 1

By Green Embers

By Green Embers

Mary stood in front of the dark wooden door.  The glass inset was opaque and tinted green so she couldn’t see through to the interior of the pub.  She took a deep breath, pulled her mirror out of her Louis Vuitton knock-off wallet purse, and took one last look at herself.  The streetlamp behind her set a halo about her short salt-and-pepper hair.  Her face was in shadow.  She sighed.

“Well, I promised her one date,” she muttered to herself as she clasped the door handle.  “One date … with a Druid.”  Mary pulled at the door, releasing heat scented with body odor and beer.  She wrinkled her nose and walked in.

The pub was lively, with nearly every round table filled with people eating, drinking and talking, seemingly all at once.  The bar before her was lined with every manner of backs and butts.  Most of those at the bar were focused on the soccer game playing out on a telly stuck high up in a corner.  The hazy yellow light of the dirty overhead lamps cast everyone and everything in a dull glow.  It seemed that no one had noticed her walking in, and yet she felt eyes on her.

Off to her left, there was a sense of someone watching.  She turned and there, in a corner, sitting alone but for a bouquet of red and white roses and a pint of dark ale, was he.  The Druid.  The … man … that Mary had agreed to meet.  He stood up as Mary approached the table.  Oh my, she thought, he’s taller than I imagined.

His hair was long and dark and, to her relief, he wore clothes, a long dark coat and pants.  Mary had only seen the drawing of the Druid on The D/A Dialogues and had been anxious that he would show up dressed, or undressed rather, pretty much as he was in the drawing.  The Druid looked down at Mary and smiled, his dark eyes peering into her blue.  Mary felt her knees ready to buckle.

“Hi! You must be D!”  Mary knew her voice was a bit too loud as she thrust her hand out in front of her.

The Druid’s smile deepened.  He took her hand but instead of shaking it, as he knew Mary expected him to, he gently turned it and kissed the top.  Her skin was cool, no doubt from the chilly night air outside the pub, but his lips were warm.  Mary shivered slightly with the kiss and firmly but slowly withdrew her hand.

D pulled a chair out for her and, with a slight nervous laugh, Mary sat down. God, I’m acting like a schoolgirl, she thought as the Druid took a seat to her right.

“What would you have to drink, my lady?”  He still had that all-knowing smile, as if he could read her thoughts.  Mary started to feel annoyed.  She was in love with Randy.  No Druid, no matter how tall, dark and well-muscled, could interfere with that.  Not to mention that he was much too old for her, several centuries too old.

“A glass of Chardonnay, thank you.”  She smiled back at him, revealing her perfect white teeth.  The Druid snapped his fingers, ordered another pint for himself, the Chardonnay for Mary when the server came.  Then he leaned in.

“I’ve heard so much about you.  You are more beautiful than my imagination allowed.  You remind me of a wench … I mean, a woman I knew, oh, a couple of centuries ago.  She was feisty, very independent.  But she could not resist me.”  He gave her a large smile, revealing his perfect white teeth.  Mary bristled.

“Really, I … is that a compliment, somehow?”

“Oh, indeed, my good lady.  Ah, here are our drinks.”  He paused to attend to the bill, and Mary was relieved that he wasn’t running a tab.  She didn’t want to have to deal with a drunk Druid.

“So how is it a compliment? I mean, really, we’ve only just met and yet you imply that I will not be able to resist you.”

The Druid leaned back in his chair, his dark woolen coat falling open, revealing his broad, toned, naked chest.  Mary grabbed her Chardonnay and took a big gulp.  I love Randy, I love Randy, she started chanting in her head.

“The only woman I know that has so far resisted me is A, and I believe that’s simply because I live in her head.  One cannot have an affair with a figment of one’s imagination. However …”  The Druid leaned forward and grabbed Mary’s hand.  “However, since we are both figments of imagination …”

Mary pulled her hand away so abruptly that she almost knocked her wine over.

“Nevertheless,” she said as she tried to steady her breathing.  “I am in love with someone.  I am not about to cheat on him.”

The Druid picked up the bouquet of roses and held them out to her.  “Has your lover ever given you flowers as beautiful as these?  Has his lips burned a kiss onto your hand, as I have.  Oh, yes, dear lady, I felt you shiver with that kiss.”

Mary took another gulp of wine.  She was going to have to have a long talk with 1WriteWay, her author.  She studied her glass, wondering why it was empty so quickly and, more importantly, how to extricate herself from this large, overbearing, egotistical hunk of a man.

Read on for Part 2!

Will Mary yield to the … charms (?) of the Druid?  Will the Druid find him with wilted roses and a glass of Chardonnay thrown in his face?  Will either character ever speak to their authors again?  Let us know what you think, dear Reader.  Where should this story go?

Terrifically told tales

A: So, how did your little boy’s night with Charlie go?

D: I’m not talking to you.

A: Then you won’t mind if I start the tale-telling?

D: What? Of course I mind! It’s Wednesday – that’s Druid’s Day, not A’s day to steal D’s thunder day.

A: Is Druid’s day anything like Durin’s Day?

D: . . .

A: Well?

D: I refuse to encourage you.

A: Like I need any help from you, Druid.

Read

A: First, go buy, and then go read, Echoes in Darkness. Andra at the Accidental Cootchie Mama, as well as several other wonderful writers (we’re looking at you Kate Shrewsday, among others!) contributed to this collection and you need to buy it now.

D: While A is a little on the demanding side, I must concur. There’s also this new phenomena called “Read Tuesday” it’s rather like Black Friday, but better.

A: I should hope so. I mean, I love shopping and all, but I’m not really down with trampling three old ladies and kid in a wheelchair just to get my hands on the latest gigipet-elmo-bracelet weaver hybrid toy. Those wheels hurt and don’t get me started on Grandma.

D: Are you quite finished?

A: Certainly, D – please, go on.

D: (Sigh) Head on over to Read Tuesday to find out what it is and what you can do to make it a success.

A: Well, that was rather anti-climactic.

D: (growl)

Wowzers

A: Since D is growling and that is a little more than horrific, check out Jack Flacco’s weekly feature, Women Who Wow. For the month of October he’s featuring women of the horror genre who really have it.

D: Also stop by The Literary Syndicate for Papi Z’s daily review of all things horrorThe list so far. . .

Interviews

D: Since A is slow and tardy and all around a p—

A: Watch it, Druid.

D: Since A has been delayed in getting questions out to my potential interviewees, please enjoy this interview of SK Nicholls by Marie Ann Bailey, at 1WriteWay.

Out and About

A: Our dear friend, and one of the few people who can make D behave, Briana Vedsted will be having her very first book signing on November 16. If you find yourself in Cortez Colorado on November 16, stop by the local library!

D: Woo hoo!

A: There you have it, folks – the praise of a Druid. Don’t get too loquacious on me, D.

D: (Snarl).

Check it out

A: I’m not really sure if he’s thinking the snarling and growling are good things. Regardless, as he’s off being a cave man sort, this one is for the ladies – check out The Nongenue. Because as they say, being a girl really isn’t pretty, but with these ladies, it is really really funny.

Just for Fun: Shopping

D: Cave man indeed . . .hmph. Two can play at this game. Want to know the most random shopping list I ever witnessed A create? No really, this one was beyond the beyond.

shopping listA: It was for a Halloween party, D.

D: You mean every day isn’t Halloween for you? I’ll have you know that Griffin Guts and Toe Jam are NOT a herb-crusted cheese ball with Tomato jam.

A: I don’t want to know how you know that. What about Dried Dragon Snot?

D: Oh A, everyone knows there’s no such thing as Dried Dragon Snot.

A: But the Griffins—

D: Dragon snot does dry, A. It burns. Forevermore.

A: This random bit of nonsense was brought to you by Prompts for the Promptless: Shopping! Visit Queen Creative today to read others!

D: Some of our favorites included

A: You heard it folks, endorsed by a Druid. Go. Read!

D: Don’t forget the Community storyboard prompt for this week, One Day!

A: And finally, a poem from another set of prompts, Friday Fictioneers, that really caught my attention. It speaks to what can lurk in the heart of an artist. Head over to Being the Memoirs of Helena-Hann Basquiat for The Sound Your Heart Makes.

D: Funny, I don’t have anything snarky to say to this.

A: It’s either a sign of the end –times, or a sign that it’s time to wrap this up. Good night, folks!

Talented Taliesin Tells Tall Tales

By Green Embers

By Green Embers

I’m baaaack – admit it, you missed the troubadour extraordinaire, the bardest with the mostest, the Druid who is fluid (with words)–

D: What are you doing, A?

A: Oh, Hi D. Um, I’m impersonating you?

D: Go to bed, woman, and leave the tale telling to the pros.

A: So you know how you have yet to take corporeal form outside of my head? If I go to bed–

D: You know what I meant.

A: All right, all right – take it away, Taliesin.

D: Taliesin was Welsh.

Rome Construction Crew

Allow me to start with a round of felicitations to Green Embers, proprietor of the Rome Construction Crew. It may be the place that A goes to hide from me, but it is my belief that she comes back stronger and better able to face the magnificence that is yours truly. Don’t look at me like that; I can be benevolent.

Without further ado, here is what you’ve been missing over at the Rome Construction Crew. For encouragement, goal-setting and general fun, there is no place better.

Literary Syndicate

Papi-Z has style, pizzazz and more than a little desire to help promote artists, writers, poets and all sorts of creative people. Check out the Literary Syndicate, in particular his interview with Red Clay and Roses author, SK Nicholls, and his own version of tale-telling, the Syndicate Shout-outs.

Prompted

Are you at a loss for words? Do you find your mind drawing a blank and need just that edge to help it move again? Me neither, but A insists that prompts are just the thing. As such, here are two prompts to whet your whistle, light your fire and help you spin that tale.

At the community storyboard, they’re talking about angst and longing. In poetic form. Go on, read them all and just in case, bring your tissues, and perhaps something to thrash in your frustration. And if you’ve a mind to, submit your own poem.

The Prompt for the Promptless this week, at The Queen Creative, is lapsus linguae. We’ve all had a slip of the tongue (Keep it clean, D. Erotica week was two weeks ago. . . A, seriously. Tee hee) and this is your opportunity to share it with the world.

A: Could a post on lapsus linguae itself be a slip of the tongue?

D: Do you honestly think these things at this hour?

A: Yes.

D: I knew there was a reason I was in your head. How about impossible things before breakfast?

A: At least 10. But you’re getting off topic. Move on, D.

Super-freaky

It seems fitting that the Bayou Bonhomme Serial is continuing into October. Enjoy every deliciously creepy bit of it  over at Being the Memoirs of Helena Hann-Basquiat, Dilettante, especially the latest installment, The Truth Will Out.

The OneRing.Net challenges you – if you like this sort of fan-fiction thing – to re-write Tolkien as Poe. It’s potentially terrifying (in many ways) and equally fitting for October.

Are you not entertained?

When is a cliché a trope, a standard, a time-honored tradition? Charles Yallowitz looks for answers to that question at the Legends of Windemere: One Man’s Cliché is Another Man’s Entertainment.

Speaking of words and entertainment, WordCloud Wednesday is one of A’s favorite things. Check out this week’s offering at wePoets Show It. 

Honorable Mentions

A: Because apparently a week cannot go by without me mentioning The Hobbit, cast your hearts, minds and soul on the latest trailer for The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug. TC has already declared that sushi and The Hobbit will be acceptable for his birthday celebrations. I can’t think of a better way to turn 13 than with dragons.

Because Smaug is awesome.

D:  What she means is that the voice distorter on Mr. Cumberbatch is awesome, but you know, that’s just me.

A: Jealous.

D: Jealous?! Me? Of a dragon. Voiced by a man. Voiced by a tall, gangly English man.

A: Yeah. Of a dragon.  Of Sherlock. Of Kha-freakin-an. Jealous.

D: And with that, we will end our tale-telling. I hope you visit our dear friends and enjoy what you see. But most importantly, you have my deepest regards for visiting with us here at the D/A Dialogues.