Hi everyone, I’m back! Thank you so much Ally, for inviting me to your blog to talk about my brand new release, Flowers Under My Pillow, a contemporary story infused with some of the Midsummer magic of the olden days.
The idea for the story came from old Swedish folklore. In olden times, Midsummer was considered a time of magic. Its proximity to the summer solstice makes it one of the brightest nights all year because the sun barely (or never) sets, and it was believed to be one of the most magical nights of the year. The boundaries between the human world and the paranormal were blurred, and anything could happen.
Plants and herbs with healing powers were believed to be extra powerful during this night, so people picked them and dried them to preserve the power of Midsummer all year. Walking barefoot—or rolling around naked—in the morning dew supposedly helped keep you healthy and strong during the year, and people also collected the dew and added it to bread and beer to help leaven and ferment. They also used the dew for medicinal purposes.
People also believed you could predict the future on nights like this, and this is where the idea for my story came from.
If a young lady wanted to know who she was going to marry, all she had to do was pick seven kinds of flowers on Midsummer’s Eve and put them underneath her pillow and she’d dream of her future husband. There are variations to the tradition; in some places, you had to pick nine kinds of flowers, and in other places, you needed to jump over the corresponding number of fences before putting your bouquet under the pillow. And if you didn’t do it in silence, you broke the magic and it didn’t work.
So I took this idea and adapted it to suit my purposes. I threw out all the heteronormative crap and made a man dream about a man because this is the 21st century and even old folklore needs to be more inclusive, amirite? 😊
Excerpt:
“You’re certainly beautiful enough to be a hallucination,” he murmurs. “Are you some kind of forest spirit, here to lure me into your lair?”
His thumb strokes, strokes, strokes my lip, but his words make my breath stutter. Make my words stutter. “Wh-wh-what did you just say?”
“I asked if you’re a forest spirit, here to captivate me and hold me prisoner for the rest of eternity.” His smile tells me he’s joking.
“I can’t believe you said that.”
“Why?”
“My mom calls me her forest spirit son. She has a mad scientist daughter and me. The forest spirit.”
“So you are here to abduct me.” He runs his finger along my hairline and then twists an errant lock around his finger. “I can totally believe it. What’s happening here is too surreal; you must be some kind of sprite.”
I snort. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I come willingly. I’m yours; do what you want with me.” He tugs lightly on my hair, his brown eyes twinkling like stars in a night sky.
“Whatever I want?” I let my gaze fall to his mouth; the darkness of his beard surrounding his full lips makes them shockingly red, like sun-ripened strawberries.
“Yeah.”
I run my finger along the seam of his mouth and my skin buzzes at his touch, as though one of the bees had gotten stuck between my digit and his skin. His eyes darken and hypnotized, I trace the outline of his lips. Then I skim my fingers down his beard, careful to not disturb the blossoms. “Every year, I pick the same flowers as I did that first year. And now, you’re wearing them.” His beard looks wild, wearing my bouquet. The cow-parsley is sprawling everywhere, the forget-me-nots and buttercups are dainty and almost disappear among the thick strands, the daisies take up too much space, and the cornflowers are so blue against the dark hairs they’re almost too bright to look at. It should be crazy, but it’s amazing and I can’t take my eyes off him.
“May I take a picture of you?” I ask.
“Of course.”
I take out my phone, and he smiles at me as I snap several photographs of him before stuffing my phone back into my pocket, my hand returning to his face like a magnet, my finger softly ghosting over his lips.
What would kissing him feel like? Would his beard scratch and prick me? Or would it be a gentle rasp, drawing my blood to the surface, arousing me? I squirm at the thought.
His brown eyes burn into me and his grip strengthens on my hand. “Anything,” he whispers.
I move closer to him, crane my neck until our noses nudge. I let my eyes fall closed and wait for a heartbeat, giving him the opportunity to pull away if he wants to, but he doesn’t. So I rub my nose along his, feeling the first tickle of his beard against my clean-shaven cheek. It provokes a shudder and spurs me on. Unable to wait a nanosecond longer, I lean in, and hum when our mouths touch.
It’s a chaste kiss, so light and fleeting I wouldn’t have believed it was real if it hadn’t been for his beard tickling my lips, inviting me to press a little harder. My heart hammers so hard in my chest, I’m certain he can feel it pulsing through my lips, certain it reverberates through the forest like some ancient, shamanistic drum. The kiss is everything I’ve ever dreamed of and I want more. I need more.
Flowers Under My Pillow
Smiling brown eyes. A dark beard. Dandelions. Sunny, happy dandelions.
For thirty years, Frode’s had the same dream. Every Midsummer’s Eve since he was a kid accompanying his sister to pick flowers to put under his pillow, he’s dreamed of the same man. A dream he never shares with anyone, that makes him wish for impossible things…like true love.
“It’s you.”
Then one Midsummer’s Eve, the man of Frode’s dreams stands before him in the flesh. Both men recognize each other despite never having met in real life. Both men are instantly drawn to each other and want to know more.
“Who are you, Viljar? Are you even real?”
Their questions are many but do the whys and the hows matter? Or should they allow the Midsummer magic that brought them together to lead the way into each other’s arms? Into each other’s hearts?
Traditional Swedish folklore tells you that if you pick seven kinds of flowers in silence and put them under your pillow on Midsummer’s Eve, you’ll dream of the man you’ll marry.
M/M Contemporary / 17 477 words
Buy Flowers Under My Pillow: JMS Books:: Amazon :: Books2Read
About Nell
Nell Iris is a romantic at heart who believes everyone deserves a happy ending. She’s a bonafide bookworm (learned to read long before she started school), wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without something to read (not even the ladies room), loves music (and singing along at the top of her voice but she’s no Celine Dion), and is a real Star Trek nerd (Make it so). She loves words, bullet journals, poetry, wine, coffee-flavored kisses, and fika (a Swedish cultural thing involving coffee and pastry!)
Nell believes passionately in equality for all regardless of race, gender or sexuality, and wants to make the world a better, less hateful, place.
Nell is a bisexual Swedish woman married to the love of her life, a proud mama of a grown daughter, and is approaching 50 faster than she’d like. She lives in the south of Sweden where she spends her days thinking up stories about people falling in love. After dreaming about being a writer for most of her life, she finally was in a place where she could pursue her dream and released her first book in 2017.
Nell Iris writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angsty, short over long, and quirky characters over alpha males.
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