L M Dee

"Open the door!" The door shook with repeated thumps. Mrs George sat at the top of the stairs, shaking, with the children hiding under their beds. Mr George opened the door with reluctance. Immediately a police officer grabbed him and dragged him from his home.
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"Just wear it," her brother says, unable to understand her reluctance. "It's just a bit of cloth."

"I don't want to," she says tearfully.

"It's for the public good!" He gives her a sympathetic look. "It is for your own safety."

It's a symbol of oppression and control. She protested but the protest did nothing, not when so many citizens welcomed the law. Now she must cover up or face punishment and public shaming.

"Maybe it won't be forever," he says, exasperated. "Now put it on."

Amaya puts on the headscarf before she leaves the house. The revolution which overthrew the monarchy did not make her free.

Note: since the 1979 Islamic Revolution, the hijab has become compulsory in Iran. Women are required to wear loose-fitting clothing and a headscarf in public to this day. Mandatory covering laws are never fleeting.

Epistolary near future fic.
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Originally written for the 2013 writerverse prompt dialogue only fiction, “What’s in the Bag?” and posted previously February 2018.

One character is being nosy and the other tries to stop them being inquisitive, while correcting their grammar.
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When Mike yelled at her, "Stop hugging that damn cat, it'll never love you like I do!" while she held Cinnamon close and kissed his nose, his purrs reverberating against her chest, he sealed his fate.

Anyone that jealous of her affection, anyone that hateful towards Cinnamon, wasn't someone she could trust or love, definitely a Mr Wrong.

When Ben first came to her house and greeted Cinnamon with a smile, and Cinnamon pawed at him, wanting to be picked up, she smiled as Ben scooped up the cat and cooed at him; this one might be Mr Right.

Throw a coin into a well, blow out a birthday candle, pick up a pin. Small acts of superstition? Yes, but also they are small acts of magic that brighten an otherwise mundane world.

She's tired of the usual New Year's resolutions. They're so predictable and boring, uninspiring and leaning towards self-denial (give up this, cut out that) or self-torture (get up at 5am and run 5 miles every morning, go to the gym 6 days a week).

January, cold and wet, with still more hours of dark than daylight - all the more obvious when the Christmas decorations are carefully packed away until next year - is a bad time for these things. Late spring is the time that a fruit smoothie and a walk by the river might win over a bar of chocolate eaten while huddled inside in an oversized jumper and fuzzy slippers.

Breaking these over enthusiastic resolutions just seems to make people more miserable.

So this year she's choosing happiness. What that means she hasn't fully decided. Sometimes it might mean staying home instead of going to a party she doesn't want to attend, sometimes it will mean going to a party because seeing her friends and sharing a bottle of wine sounds fun. Sometimes it will mean drawing, however badly, because she enjoys sketching for the pleasure of it rather than as a means to any monetary end. Sometimes it will mean doing housework and then a long hot bath she feels she's earned.

Choosing happiness is a goal she can happily work towards, not something she'll be miserable over three weeks into January, and that's a good start.

Double drabble (200 words). On a wet night a man approaches the meeting point. For this month's prompt 'rain'.



The rain hammered against his black umbrella as he walked toward the streetlight, the collar of his jacket pulled up, his footfalls splashing rainwater onto his polished oxford shoes.

He slowed his pace; it wouldn't do to hang about too long on a night like this, far from a pub or café, taxi rank or bus stop. It would draw suspicion. Thankfully he spotted his contact approaching, a tall man in blue baseball cap with a green puffer jacket left unzipped, and they reached the designated meeting point together.

The handover was smooth, the small brown envelope passed into his free hand without either man breaking stride. He tucked the envelope into his pocket and continued on his way, taking a convoluted route back to his car, parked half a mile away.

There was a low rumble of thunder and he thought of his half-brother's cosy suburban home and mundane but well-paid office job. Not the life he'd chosen nor would want for himself but sometimes the waiting, the cold or the heat, the snow or the rain, made the idea of such domesticity desirable and he pondered the wisdom of his profession.

Espionage was not a fair weather job.

A fourth wall breaking tale of history vs historical fiction

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.