Love dA Lit Loves You: Vol. 7

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Hello lovelies. Love dA Lit Loves you! Well, it would if it were a sentient being, in the meantime please accept my undying love.  :lovely: 

I don't actually get a lot of notes / comments from people sending me news or contests, so when I do I'm super happy. Like. Super duper happy. Bear Emoji-05 (Excited) [V1] by Jerikuto And what better way to say thank you than feature those who support Love dA Lit [I will feature those that frequently comment and fave too]! Then I might surprise you and randomly feature some people just because I can or those who've sent me in DD suggestions. It's all about spreading the love! Heart

As always I welcome suggestions for news, events, projects, groups, or contests for Love dA Lit! ♥



Love dA Lit (and Stephany) Gives Lots of Hugs and a Big Thank You To...

:iconquiestinliteris: :iconthesekrimzonflames: :iconintroverted-ghost: :iconjustayne: :iconmoonbeam13:
:iconlionesserampant: :iconhypermagical: :iconinknalcohol: :iconnemox7: :iconbeccajs:


The Mora - Intro*****Hit the description first.*****
“Does it really matter if he killed his wife?”
“Benedykta!”
“Don’t look at me like that. You know what I meant. Isn’t the rest of it enough? It should be enough.”
“No, you’re right. I wouldn’t send her off with an abuser any more than with a murderer, and there can’t be any doubt that his reputation is well-founded.”
“Even if it can’t be proven…”
“It’s proven well enough. I saw the marks on the footman.”
“Then we are agreed. It must be broken off at once. No financial security is worth that kind of risk.”
“No. I’ll send a letter. I don’t know that I have the courage to confront him in person. Unless your father would be willing to accompany me…”
“Father would kill him if he threatened you. I don’t want this to become an open conflict, Jan. I just don’t w
For TomorrowI gaze down at my daughter,
She is just now five years old,
And the world she sees is so different,
Than the one I used to know
Money is so much scarcer,
Dreams are so much rarer,
And when given the chance to rise above,
So many just sit there...
In the past, when we saw a stranger,
On the street, them we would greet,
But now when we see someone we do not know,
We instead stare down at our feet
We are taught to doubt,
To distrust, and to fear,
No wonder the world has become an evil place,
In just my thirty-eight years...
But many forsake this path,
And they fight back,
After a lifetime on the defensive,
They choose to attack
There is protesting,
So much anger in the streets,
In so many nations across our world,
So many...they do...
They do bleed...!
For tomorrow, we must stand,
Heads held high, hand in hand,
Create a world...the future cannot ignore
For tomorrow, we must plan,
Teach our children as best we can,
So that they don't...repeat our mistakes from before
For tomorrow, we must
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ReplacementYou've found another sunshine
to wake you up at 10 AM.
I'm still trying to find the peace
in the sound of rain.
Eggy by moonbeam13
Heat AdvisoryWe are an air-mass thunderstorm at the height
of an Indian summer -- a cloudburst colliding
into a cyclone, raising the temperature of any
who wander through our sweaty inversion.
I soar above the earth buoyed on your thermals,
straight into a clap of thunder conceived by
lightning fever. A roiling heatwave travels
across our connection, evaporating the atmosphere
surrounding the eye of our storm. Your humid
breath wisps over the thermodynamics of my skin,
pushing cumulonimbus up the drought in my spine.
Muggy kisses trail down my body like volcanic ash,
a haze blurring the lines between our hurricanes.
And as the barometer spikes, my heartbeat quickens;
I am sucked into the vortex of your tropical storm.
<da:thumb id="461504014"/><da:thumb id="439522652"/>
The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.
It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.
The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.
I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the








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