If you'd like to see how multi-tasking can lead to dual identities, then check out the recent interview over at Where the Map Ends.
Jeff Gerke is interviewing himself.
Sounds like something an alien would do. Or a publisher.
Showing posts with label Blog reviews. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blog reviews. Show all posts
9.22.2008
6.03.2008
Fiction FIRST: Excerpt from Donita K. Paul's book, DragonLight
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It is June FIRST, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!
Castle Passages
Kale wrinkled her nose at the dank air drifting up from the stone staircase. Below, utter darkness created a formidable barrier.
Toopka stood close to her knee. Sparks skittered across the doneel child’s furry hand where she clasped the flowing, soft material of Kale’s wizard robe. Kale frowned down at her ward. The little doneel spent too much time attached to her skirts to be captivated by the light show. Instead, Toopka glowered into the forbidding corridor. “What’s down
there?”
Kale sighed. “I’m not sure.”
“Is it the dungeon?”
“I don’t think we have a dungeon.”
Toopka furrowed her brow in confusion. “Don’t you know? It’s your castle.”
“A castle built by committee.” Kale’s face grimaced at the memory of weeks of creative chaos. She put her hand on Toopka’s soft head.
The doneel dragged her gaze away from the stairway, tilted her head back, and frowned at her guardian. “What’s ‘by committee’?”
“You remember, don’t you? It was just five years ago.”
“I remember the wizards coming and the pretty tents in the meadow.” Toopka pursed her lips. “And shouting. I remember shouting.” “They were shouting because no one was listening. Twenty-one wizards came for the castle raising. Each had their own idea about what we needed. So they each constructed their fragment of the castle structure according to their whims.”
Toopka giggled.
“I don’t think it’s funny. The chunks of castle were erected, juxtaposed with the others, but not as a whole unit. I thank Wulder that at least my parents had some sense. My mother and father connected the tads, bits, and smidgens together with steps and short halls. When nothing else would work, they formed gateways from one portion to another.”
The little doneel laughed out loud and hid her face in Kale’s silky wizard’s robe. Miniature lightning flashes enveloped Toopka’s head and cascaded down her neck, over her back, and onto the floor like a waterfall of sparks.
Kale cut off the flow of energy and placed a hand on the doneel’s shoulder. “Surely you remember this, Toopka.”
She looked up, her face growing serious. “I was very young then.”
Kale narrowed her eyes and examined the child’s innocent face. “As long as I have known you, you’ve appeared to be the same age. Are you ever going to grow up?”
Toopka shrugged, then the typical smile of a doneel spread across her face. Her thin black lips stretched, almost reaching from ear to ear. “I’m growing up as fast as I can, but I don’t think I’m the one in charge. If I were in charge, I would be big enough to have my own dragon, instead of searching for yours.”
The statement pulled Kale back to her original purpose. No doubt she had been manipulated yet again by the tiny doneel, but dropping the subject of Toopka’s age for the time being seemed prudent.
Kale rubbed the top of Toopka’s head. The shorter fur between her ears felt softer than the hair on the child’s arms. Kale always found it soothing to stroke Toopka’s head, and the doneel liked it as well.
Kale let her hand fall to her side and pursued their mission. “Gally and Mince have been missing for a day and a half. We must find them. Taylaminkadot said she heard an odd noise when she came down to the storeroom.” Kale squared her shoulders and took a step down into the dark, dank stairwell. “Gally and Mince may be down here, and they may be in trouble.”
“How can you know who’s missing?” Toopka tugged on Kale’s robe, letting loose a spray of sparkles. “You have hundreds of minor dragons in the castle and more big dragons in the fields.”
“I know.” Kale put her hand in front of her, and a globe of light appeared, resting on her palm. “I’m a Dragon Keeper. I know when any of my dragons have missed a meal or two.” She stepped through the doorway.
Toopka tugged on Kale’s gown. “May I have a light too?”
“Of course.” She handed the globe to the doneel. The light flickered. Kale tapped it, and the glow steadied. She produced another light to sit in her own hand and proceeded down the steps.
Toopka followed, clutching the sparkling cloth of Kale’s robe in one hand and the light in the other. “I think we should take a dozen guards with us.”
“I don’t think there’s anything scary down here, Toopka. After all, as you reminded me, this is our castle, and we certainly haven’t invited anything nasty to live with us.”
“It’s the things that come uninvited that worry me.”
“All right. Just a moment.” Kale turned to face the archway at the top of the stairs, a few steps up from where they stood.
She reached with her mind to the nearest band of minor dragons. Soon chittering dragon voices, a rainbow vision of soft, flapping, leathery wings, and a ripple of excitement swept through her senses. She heard Artross, the leader of this watch, call for his band to mind their manners, listen to orders, and calm themselves.
Kale smiled her greeting as they entered the stairway and circled above her. She turned to Toopka, pleased with her solution, but Toopka scowled. Obviously, the doneel was not impressed with the arrival of a courageous escort.
Kale opened her mouth to inform Toopka that a watch of dragons provides sentries, scouts, and fighters. And Bardon had seen to their training. But the doneel child knew this.
Each watch formed without a Dragon Keeper’s instigation. Usually eleven to fifteen minor dragons developed camaraderie, and a leader emerged. A social structure developed within each watch. Kale marveled at the process. Even though she didn’t always understand the choices, she did nothing to alter the natural way of establishing the hierarchy and respectfully worked with what was in place.
Artross, a milky white dragon who glowed in the dark, had caught Kale’s affections. She sent a warm greeting to the serious-minded leader and received a curt acknowledgment. The straight-laced young dragon with his tiny, mottled white body tickled her. Although they didn’t look alike in the least, Artross’s behavior reminded Kale of her husband’s personality.
Kale nodded at Toopka and winked. “Now we have defenders.”
“I think,” said the doneel, letting go of Kale’s robe and stepping down a stair, “it would be better if they were bigger and carried swords.”
Kale smiled as one of the younger dragons landed on her shoulder. He pushed his violet head against her chin, rubbing with soft scales circling between small bumps that looked like stunted horns. Toopka skipped ahead with the other minor dragons flying just above her head.
“Hello, Crain,” said Kale, using a fingertip to stroke his pink belly. She’d been at his hatching a week before. The little dragon chirred his contentment. “With your love of learning, I’m surprised you’re not in the library with Librettowit.”
A scene emerged in Kale’s mind from the small dragon’s thoughts. She hid a smile. “I’m sorry you got thrown out, but you must not bring your snacks into Librettowit’s reading rooms. A tumanhofer usually likes a morsel of food to tide him over, but not when the treat threatens to smudge the pages of his precious books.” She felt the small beast shudder at the memory of the librarian’s angry voice. “It’s all right, Crain. He’ll forgive you and let you come back into his bookish sanctum. And he’ll delight in helping you find all sorts of wonderful facts.”
Toopka came scurrying back. She’d deserted her lead position in the company of intrepid dragons. The tiny doneel dodged behind Kale and once more clutched the sparkling robe. Kale shifted her attention to a commotion ahead and sought out the thoughts of the leader Artross. “What’s wrong?” asked Kale, but her answer came as she tuned in to the leader of the dragon watch.
Artross trilled orders to his subordinates. Kale saw the enemy through the eyes of this friend.
An anvilhead snake slid over the stone floor of a room stacked high with large kegs. His long black body stretched out from a nook between two barrels. With the tail of the serpent hidden, she had no way of knowing its size. These reptiles’ heads outweighed their bodies. The muscled section behind the base of the jaws could be as much as six inches wide. But the length of the snake could be from three feet to thirty.
Kale shuddered but took another step down the passage.
Artross looked around the room and spotted another section of ropelike body against the opposite wall. Kegs hid most of the snake.
Kale grimaced. Another snake? Or the end of the one threatening my dragons?
The viper’s heavy head advanced, and the distant portion moved with the same speed.
One snake.
“Toopka, stay here,” she ordered and ran down the remaining steps. She tossed the globe from her right hand to her left and pulled her sword from its hiding place beneath her robe. Nothing appeared to be in her hand, but Kale felt the leather-bound hilt secure in her grip. The old sword had been given to her by her mother, and Kale knew
how to use the invisible blade with deadly precision.
“Don’t let him get away,” she called as she increased her speed through the narrow corridor.
The wizard robe dissolved as she rushed to join her guard. Her long dress of azure and plum reformed itself into leggings and a tunic. The color drained away and returned as a pink that would rival a stunning sunset. When she reached the cold, dark room, she cast her globe into the air. Floating in the middle of the room, it tripled in size and gave off a brighter light.
The dragons circled above the snake, spitting their caustic saliva with great accuracy. Kale’s skin crawled at the sight of the coiling reptile. More and more of the serpentine body emerged from the shadowy protection of the stacked kegs. Obviously, the snake did not fear these intruders.
Even covered with splotches of brightly colored spit, the creature looked like the loathsome killer it was. Kale’s two missing dragons could have been dinner for the serpent. She searched the room with the talent Wulder had bestowed upon her and concluded the little ones still lived.
The reptile hissed at her, raised its massive head, and swayed in a threatening posture. The creature slithered toward her, propelled by the elongated body still on the floor. Just out of reach of Kale’s sword, the beast stopped, pulled its head back for the strike, and let out a slow, menacing hiss. The snake lunged, and Kale swung her invisible weapon. The severed head sailed across the room and slammed against the stone wall.
Kale eyed the writhing body for a moment. “You won’t be eating any more small animals.” She turned her attention to the missing dragons and pointed her sword hand at a barrel at the top of one stack. “There. Gally and Mince are in that keg.”
Several dragons landed on the wooden staves, and a brown dragon examined the cask to determine how best to open it. Toopka ran into the room and over to the barrel. “I’ll help.”
Kale tilted her head. “There is also a nest of snake eggs.” She consulted the dragon most likely to know facts about anvilhead vipers. Crain landed on her shoulder and poured out all he knew in a combination of chittering and thoughts.
The odd reptiles preferred eating young farm animals, grain, and feed. They did nothing to combat the population of rats, insects, and vermin. No farmer allowed the snakes on his property if he could help it. “Find the nest,” Kale ordered. “Destroy them all.”
The watch of dragons took flight again, zooming into lightrockilluminated passages leading off from this central room. Kale waited until a small group raised an alarm. Four minor dragons had found the nest.
She plunged down a dim passage, sending a plume of light ahead and calling for the dispersed dragons to join her. Eleven came from the other corridors, and nine flew in a V formation in front of her. Gally and Mince landed on her shoulders.
“You’re all right. I’m so glad.”
They scooted next to her neck, shivering. From their minds she deciphered the details of their ordeal. A game of hide-and-seek had led them into the depths of the castle. When the snake surprised them, they’d flown under the off-center lid of the barrel. As Mince dove into the narrow opening, he knocked the top just enough for it to rattle down into place. This successfully kept the serpent out, but also trapped them within.
Kale offered sympathy, and they cuddled against her, rubbing their heads on her chin as she whisked through the underground tunnel in pursuit of the other dragons.
Numerous rooms jutted off the main hallway, each stacked with boxes, crates, barrels, and huge burlap bags. Kale had no idea this vast amount of storage lay beneath the castle. Taylaminkadot, their efficient housekeeper and wife to Librettowit, probably had a tally sheet listing each item. Kale and the dragons passed rooms that contained fewer and fewer supplies until the stores dwindled to nothing.
How long does this hallway continue on? She slowed to creep along and tiptoed over the stone floor, noticing the rougher texture under her feet. Approaching a corner, she detected the four minor dragons destroying the snake’s nest in the next room. Her escort of flying dragons veered off into the room, and she followed. The small dragons swooped over the nest, grabbed an egg, then flew to the beamed roof of the storage room. They hurled the eggs to the floor, and most broke open on contact. Some had more rubbery shells, a sign that they would soon hatch. The minor dragons attacked these eggs with tooth and claw. Once each shell gave way, the content was pulled out and examined. No
hatchling snake survived.
The smell alone halted Kale in her tracks and sent her back a pace. She screwed up her face, but no amount of pinching her nose muscles cut off the odor of raw eggs and the bodies of unborn snakes. She produced a square of moonbeam material from her pocket and covered the lower half of her face. The properties of the handkerchief filtered the unpleasant aroma.
Her gaze fell on the scene of annihilation. Usually, Kale found infant animals to be endearing, attractive in a gangly way. But the small snake bodies looked more like huge blackened worms than babies.
Toopka raced up behind her and came to a skidding stop when she reached the doorway. “Ew!” She buried her face in the hem of Kale’s tunic, then peeked out with her nose still covered.
The minor dragons continued to destroy the huge nest. Kale estimated over a hundred snake eggs must have been deposited in the old shallow basket. The woven edges sagged where the weight of the female snake had broken the reeds. Kale shuddered at the thought of all those snakes hatching and occupying the lowest level of the castle, her home. The urge to be above ground, in the light, and with her loved ones compelled her out of the room.
Good work, she commended the dragons as she backed into the passage. Artross, be sure that no egg is left unshattered.
She received his assurance, thanked him, then turned about and ran. She must find Bardon.
“Wait for me!” Toopka called. Her tiny, booted feet pounded the stone floor in a frantic effort to catch up.
It is June FIRST, time for the FIRST Blog Tour! (Join our alliance! Click the button!) The FIRST day of every month we will feature an author and his/her latest book's FIRST chapter!
The feature author is:
and her book:
DragonLight
WaterBrook Press (June 17, 2008)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Donita K. Paul is a retired teacher and award-winning author of seven novels, including DragonSpell, DragonQuest, DragonKnight, and DragonFire. When not writing, she is often engaged in mentoring writers of all ages. Donita lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado where she is learning to paint–walls and furniture! Visit her website at www.dragonkeeper.us.
The Books of the DragonKeeper Series:
DragonSpell
DragonQuest
DragonKnight
DragonFire
DragonLight
Visit her website.
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Donita K. Paul is a retired teacher and award-winning author of seven novels, including DragonSpell, DragonQuest, DragonKnight, and DragonFire. When not writing, she is often engaged in mentoring writers of all ages. Donita lives in Colorado Springs, Colorado where she is learning to paint–walls and furniture! Visit her website at www.dragonkeeper.us.
The Books of the DragonKeeper Series:
DragonSpell
DragonQuest
DragonKnight
DragonFire
DragonLight
Visit her website.
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Castle Passages
Kale wrinkled her nose at the dank air drifting up from the stone staircase. Below, utter darkness created a formidable barrier.
Toopka stood close to her knee. Sparks skittered across the doneel child’s furry hand where she clasped the flowing, soft material of Kale’s wizard robe. Kale frowned down at her ward. The little doneel spent too much time attached to her skirts to be captivated by the light show. Instead, Toopka glowered into the forbidding corridor. “What’s down
there?”
Kale sighed. “I’m not sure.”
“Is it the dungeon?”
“I don’t think we have a dungeon.”
Toopka furrowed her brow in confusion. “Don’t you know? It’s your castle.”
“A castle built by committee.” Kale’s face grimaced at the memory of weeks of creative chaos. She put her hand on Toopka’s soft head.
The doneel dragged her gaze away from the stairway, tilted her head back, and frowned at her guardian. “What’s ‘by committee’?”
“You remember, don’t you? It was just five years ago.”
“I remember the wizards coming and the pretty tents in the meadow.” Toopka pursed her lips. “And shouting. I remember shouting.” “They were shouting because no one was listening. Twenty-one wizards came for the castle raising. Each had their own idea about what we needed. So they each constructed their fragment of the castle structure according to their whims.”
Toopka giggled.
“I don’t think it’s funny. The chunks of castle were erected, juxtaposed with the others, but not as a whole unit. I thank Wulder that at least my parents had some sense. My mother and father connected the tads, bits, and smidgens together with steps and short halls. When nothing else would work, they formed gateways from one portion to another.”
The little doneel laughed out loud and hid her face in Kale’s silky wizard’s robe. Miniature lightning flashes enveloped Toopka’s head and cascaded down her neck, over her back, and onto the floor like a waterfall of sparks.
Kale cut off the flow of energy and placed a hand on the doneel’s shoulder. “Surely you remember this, Toopka.”
She looked up, her face growing serious. “I was very young then.”
Kale narrowed her eyes and examined the child’s innocent face. “As long as I have known you, you’ve appeared to be the same age. Are you ever going to grow up?”
Toopka shrugged, then the typical smile of a doneel spread across her face. Her thin black lips stretched, almost reaching from ear to ear. “I’m growing up as fast as I can, but I don’t think I’m the one in charge. If I were in charge, I would be big enough to have my own dragon, instead of searching for yours.”
The statement pulled Kale back to her original purpose. No doubt she had been manipulated yet again by the tiny doneel, but dropping the subject of Toopka’s age for the time being seemed prudent.
Kale rubbed the top of Toopka’s head. The shorter fur between her ears felt softer than the hair on the child’s arms. Kale always found it soothing to stroke Toopka’s head, and the doneel liked it as well.
Kale let her hand fall to her side and pursued their mission. “Gally and Mince have been missing for a day and a half. We must find them. Taylaminkadot said she heard an odd noise when she came down to the storeroom.” Kale squared her shoulders and took a step down into the dark, dank stairwell. “Gally and Mince may be down here, and they may be in trouble.”
“How can you know who’s missing?” Toopka tugged on Kale’s robe, letting loose a spray of sparkles. “You have hundreds of minor dragons in the castle and more big dragons in the fields.”
“I know.” Kale put her hand in front of her, and a globe of light appeared, resting on her palm. “I’m a Dragon Keeper. I know when any of my dragons have missed a meal or two.” She stepped through the doorway.
Toopka tugged on Kale’s gown. “May I have a light too?”
“Of course.” She handed the globe to the doneel. The light flickered. Kale tapped it, and the glow steadied. She produced another light to sit in her own hand and proceeded down the steps.
Toopka followed, clutching the sparkling cloth of Kale’s robe in one hand and the light in the other. “I think we should take a dozen guards with us.”
“I don’t think there’s anything scary down here, Toopka. After all, as you reminded me, this is our castle, and we certainly haven’t invited anything nasty to live with us.”
“It’s the things that come uninvited that worry me.”
“All right. Just a moment.” Kale turned to face the archway at the top of the stairs, a few steps up from where they stood.
She reached with her mind to the nearest band of minor dragons. Soon chittering dragon voices, a rainbow vision of soft, flapping, leathery wings, and a ripple of excitement swept through her senses. She heard Artross, the leader of this watch, call for his band to mind their manners, listen to orders, and calm themselves.
Kale smiled her greeting as they entered the stairway and circled above her. She turned to Toopka, pleased with her solution, but Toopka scowled. Obviously, the doneel was not impressed with the arrival of a courageous escort.
Kale opened her mouth to inform Toopka that a watch of dragons provides sentries, scouts, and fighters. And Bardon had seen to their training. But the doneel child knew this.
Each watch formed without a Dragon Keeper’s instigation. Usually eleven to fifteen minor dragons developed camaraderie, and a leader emerged. A social structure developed within each watch. Kale marveled at the process. Even though she didn’t always understand the choices, she did nothing to alter the natural way of establishing the hierarchy and respectfully worked with what was in place.
Artross, a milky white dragon who glowed in the dark, had caught Kale’s affections. She sent a warm greeting to the serious-minded leader and received a curt acknowledgment. The straight-laced young dragon with his tiny, mottled white body tickled her. Although they didn’t look alike in the least, Artross’s behavior reminded Kale of her husband’s personality.
Kale nodded at Toopka and winked. “Now we have defenders.”
“I think,” said the doneel, letting go of Kale’s robe and stepping down a stair, “it would be better if they were bigger and carried swords.”
Kale smiled as one of the younger dragons landed on her shoulder. He pushed his violet head against her chin, rubbing with soft scales circling between small bumps that looked like stunted horns. Toopka skipped ahead with the other minor dragons flying just above her head.
“Hello, Crain,” said Kale, using a fingertip to stroke his pink belly. She’d been at his hatching a week before. The little dragon chirred his contentment. “With your love of learning, I’m surprised you’re not in the library with Librettowit.”
A scene emerged in Kale’s mind from the small dragon’s thoughts. She hid a smile. “I’m sorry you got thrown out, but you must not bring your snacks into Librettowit’s reading rooms. A tumanhofer usually likes a morsel of food to tide him over, but not when the treat threatens to smudge the pages of his precious books.” She felt the small beast shudder at the memory of the librarian’s angry voice. “It’s all right, Crain. He’ll forgive you and let you come back into his bookish sanctum. And he’ll delight in helping you find all sorts of wonderful facts.”
Toopka came scurrying back. She’d deserted her lead position in the company of intrepid dragons. The tiny doneel dodged behind Kale and once more clutched the sparkling robe. Kale shifted her attention to a commotion ahead and sought out the thoughts of the leader Artross. “What’s wrong?” asked Kale, but her answer came as she tuned in to the leader of the dragon watch.
Artross trilled orders to his subordinates. Kale saw the enemy through the eyes of this friend.
An anvilhead snake slid over the stone floor of a room stacked high with large kegs. His long black body stretched out from a nook between two barrels. With the tail of the serpent hidden, she had no way of knowing its size. These reptiles’ heads outweighed their bodies. The muscled section behind the base of the jaws could be as much as six inches wide. But the length of the snake could be from three feet to thirty.
Kale shuddered but took another step down the passage.
Artross looked around the room and spotted another section of ropelike body against the opposite wall. Kegs hid most of the snake.
Kale grimaced. Another snake? Or the end of the one threatening my dragons?
The viper’s heavy head advanced, and the distant portion moved with the same speed.
One snake.
“Toopka, stay here,” she ordered and ran down the remaining steps. She tossed the globe from her right hand to her left and pulled her sword from its hiding place beneath her robe. Nothing appeared to be in her hand, but Kale felt the leather-bound hilt secure in her grip. The old sword had been given to her by her mother, and Kale knew
how to use the invisible blade with deadly precision.
“Don’t let him get away,” she called as she increased her speed through the narrow corridor.
The wizard robe dissolved as she rushed to join her guard. Her long dress of azure and plum reformed itself into leggings and a tunic. The color drained away and returned as a pink that would rival a stunning sunset. When she reached the cold, dark room, she cast her globe into the air. Floating in the middle of the room, it tripled in size and gave off a brighter light.
The dragons circled above the snake, spitting their caustic saliva with great accuracy. Kale’s skin crawled at the sight of the coiling reptile. More and more of the serpentine body emerged from the shadowy protection of the stacked kegs. Obviously, the snake did not fear these intruders.
Even covered with splotches of brightly colored spit, the creature looked like the loathsome killer it was. Kale’s two missing dragons could have been dinner for the serpent. She searched the room with the talent Wulder had bestowed upon her and concluded the little ones still lived.
The reptile hissed at her, raised its massive head, and swayed in a threatening posture. The creature slithered toward her, propelled by the elongated body still on the floor. Just out of reach of Kale’s sword, the beast stopped, pulled its head back for the strike, and let out a slow, menacing hiss. The snake lunged, and Kale swung her invisible weapon. The severed head sailed across the room and slammed against the stone wall.
Kale eyed the writhing body for a moment. “You won’t be eating any more small animals.” She turned her attention to the missing dragons and pointed her sword hand at a barrel at the top of one stack. “There. Gally and Mince are in that keg.”
Several dragons landed on the wooden staves, and a brown dragon examined the cask to determine how best to open it. Toopka ran into the room and over to the barrel. “I’ll help.”
Kale tilted her head. “There is also a nest of snake eggs.” She consulted the dragon most likely to know facts about anvilhead vipers. Crain landed on her shoulder and poured out all he knew in a combination of chittering and thoughts.
The odd reptiles preferred eating young farm animals, grain, and feed. They did nothing to combat the population of rats, insects, and vermin. No farmer allowed the snakes on his property if he could help it. “Find the nest,” Kale ordered. “Destroy them all.”
The watch of dragons took flight again, zooming into lightrockilluminated passages leading off from this central room. Kale waited until a small group raised an alarm. Four minor dragons had found the nest.
She plunged down a dim passage, sending a plume of light ahead and calling for the dispersed dragons to join her. Eleven came from the other corridors, and nine flew in a V formation in front of her. Gally and Mince landed on her shoulders.
“You’re all right. I’m so glad.”
They scooted next to her neck, shivering. From their minds she deciphered the details of their ordeal. A game of hide-and-seek had led them into the depths of the castle. When the snake surprised them, they’d flown under the off-center lid of the barrel. As Mince dove into the narrow opening, he knocked the top just enough for it to rattle down into place. This successfully kept the serpent out, but also trapped them within.
Kale offered sympathy, and they cuddled against her, rubbing their heads on her chin as she whisked through the underground tunnel in pursuit of the other dragons.
Numerous rooms jutted off the main hallway, each stacked with boxes, crates, barrels, and huge burlap bags. Kale had no idea this vast amount of storage lay beneath the castle. Taylaminkadot, their efficient housekeeper and wife to Librettowit, probably had a tally sheet listing each item. Kale and the dragons passed rooms that contained fewer and fewer supplies until the stores dwindled to nothing.
How long does this hallway continue on? She slowed to creep along and tiptoed over the stone floor, noticing the rougher texture under her feet. Approaching a corner, she detected the four minor dragons destroying the snake’s nest in the next room. Her escort of flying dragons veered off into the room, and she followed. The small dragons swooped over the nest, grabbed an egg, then flew to the beamed roof of the storage room. They hurled the eggs to the floor, and most broke open on contact. Some had more rubbery shells, a sign that they would soon hatch. The minor dragons attacked these eggs with tooth and claw. Once each shell gave way, the content was pulled out and examined. No
hatchling snake survived.
The smell alone halted Kale in her tracks and sent her back a pace. She screwed up her face, but no amount of pinching her nose muscles cut off the odor of raw eggs and the bodies of unborn snakes. She produced a square of moonbeam material from her pocket and covered the lower half of her face. The properties of the handkerchief filtered the unpleasant aroma.
Her gaze fell on the scene of annihilation. Usually, Kale found infant animals to be endearing, attractive in a gangly way. But the small snake bodies looked more like huge blackened worms than babies.
Toopka raced up behind her and came to a skidding stop when she reached the doorway. “Ew!” She buried her face in the hem of Kale’s tunic, then peeked out with her nose still covered.
The minor dragons continued to destroy the huge nest. Kale estimated over a hundred snake eggs must have been deposited in the old shallow basket. The woven edges sagged where the weight of the female snake had broken the reeds. Kale shuddered at the thought of all those snakes hatching and occupying the lowest level of the castle, her home. The urge to be above ground, in the light, and with her loved ones compelled her out of the room.
Good work, she commended the dragons as she backed into the passage. Artross, be sure that no egg is left unshattered.
She received his assurance, thanked him, then turned about and ran. She must find Bardon.
“Wait for me!” Toopka called. Her tiny, booted feet pounded the stone floor in a frantic effort to catch up.
5.31.2008
Hunting for The Hunted
I admit it. Sometimes it's hard to find the books you want to buy. Maybe you heard about a new book online or from a friend. Then you go to purchase the book but can't find it. Trust me, it's happened to me too. In the pursuit of good reading material, I've visited up to four different bookstores before I realized that no one in my little corner of Southern California carried what I was looking for.
What's an avid reader to do?
Here are some suggestions if you go looking for Mike Dellosso's new book, The Hunted, and you can't find it on the shelves...
1. Talk to someone who works at the bookstore. Ask them to help you look for the book. Sometimes it really is there. And this will help the bookstore folks know which books are in demand.
2. If no one can find the book on the shelves, ask them to order it for you. Then be sure to follow through and go to pick up the book when it comes in.
3. Order the book online. I can't even tell you how many books I buy online. My only rule is that I make sure I buy a new book from a bookstore, like Amazon.com. That way, the person who wrote the book will get a piece of the pie. If you are buying used books online, then the only person making the profit is the one selling the book. I personally believe in supporting the arts—that's the main reason why I participate in blog tours and book reviews. It's my way of giving back to the people who supply me with my favorite drug: books.
And if you want just a little taste of what this particular book is about, here's a trailer.
5.30.2008
The Tale of Two Stories
Every writer tells two stories.
The first is seen by everyone. Written in black and white, this tale is published and promoted; destined to be in the public eye, on the video screen, at the theater; meant to be remembered and quoted and studied.
This is the publishing dream. The novel that you hold in your hands. The book signing where you meet your readers. The blog tour where everyone talks about your latest story.
But every writer tells two stories.
The second tale is written quietly, day by day, sometimes in daylight and sometimes in shadow. And it’s written in flesh and blood.
It’s often told in whispers, in confidence, in quiet prayers. Here, the writer is sometimes seen on his knees, in prayer, living sacrificially, one day at a time. Waiting for the next horizon colored by sun. Waiting for the shadows of night to pass.
Every person has a mountain top and a valley—but sometimes these two are so close to one another that the landscape suddenly feels like a desert flatland. You can no longer distinguish the landmarks that normally guide you. In this case, you have to walk by faith, like in the middle of the night. You believe the wall is here, so you turn. You believe the door is there, so you walk that way.
You believe God is listening. So you talk to Him. A lot. You tattoo His name on your heart, you write His words on your knees.
I’ve had more than one friend go through the valley of cancer. Maybe you know someone who is going through it right now. If so, I would highly recommend you visit the blog of Mike Dellosso. There is so much to be encouraged by there, so much hope in the midst of his valley walk. He is writing his second story there, the story most people write in silence. He is writing it for everyone to see.
Go and see.
And I highly recommend you take a look at his first book, The Hunted. You can read an excerpt here. This is his first story, the one meant to be read by the world.
Both of Mike’s stories, the first and the second, are quite beautiful. And both are destined to be read.
5.29.2008
The Hunt for The Hunted
A town’s deadly secret will drive one man to the edge of his faith…
Debut novelist Mike Dellosso delivers a spine-tingling drama in the style of Frank Peretti and Stephen King
Novelist Mike Dellosso offers a bone-chilling mystery about the town of Dark Hills and the deadly secrets it holds, in his first novel, The Hunted, to be released June 3, 2008.
Joe Saunders is determined to unravel the mystery surrounding the brutal mauling of his nephew.
Police Chief Maggie Gill is determined to protect the mystery surrounding her family’s deadly secret.
But neither is prepared for the truth when the mystery revealed uncovers the horror that is lurking in the shadows of Dark Hills.
After learning of the disappearance of his nephew, Joe Saunders returns to his childhood home of Dark Hills to aid in the search effort. When Caleb is found, badly mauled and clinging to life, Joe embarks on a mission to find the beast responsible. But the more Joe delves into the fabric of his old hometown, the more he realizes Dark Hills has a dark secret, shrouded for three generations in a deadly code of silence. As Joe unravels the truth behind a series of unexplained animal attacks, murder, and corruption at the highest level of law enforcement, he is led to a final showdown where he must entrust his very life into God’s hands.
About the Author
Born in Baltimore, Maryland, Mike now lives in Hanover, Pennsylvania, with his wife, Jen, and their three daughters. He writes a monthly column for Writer . . .Interrupted, was a newspaper correspondent/columnist for over three years, has published several articles for The Candle of Prayer inspirational booklets, and has edited and contributed to numerous Christian-themed Web sites and e-newsletters. Mike is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance, the Relief Writer’s Network, and International Thriller Writers. He received his BA degree in sports exercise and medicine from Messiah College and his MBS degree in theology from Master’s Graduate School of Divinity.
Praise for The Hunted:
A great first book from an exciting new author! A vicious enemy, a family secret, a thirst for revenge, and a need for reconciliation all drive The Hunted from intriguing beginning to thrilling conclusion. Skillful prose and great storytelling make Mike Dellosso a writer to watch. I can’t wait for his next book!
—Kathryn Mackel, author of Vanished
Mike Dellosso delivers a spine-tingling tale of hidden secrets, buried hopes and second chances. Interwoven through page-turning drama is the truth about vengeance and the triumph of God’s mysterious ways. The Hunted is a story best read with all the lights on and an extra flashlight handy–just in case!
—Amy Wallace, author of Ransomed Dreams
Something’s coming for you… and you might not be able to stop it. Read this someplace safe as you experience the incredibly descriptive world of The Hunted through the vivid writing and spine-tingling imagination of Mike Dellosso. And sleep with the lights on.
—Austin Boyd, author of the Mars Hill Classified trilogy
With hints of Frank Peretti and Stephen King, The Hunted is a chilling debut. Author Mike Dellosso is certain to make his mark in Christian fiction.
—Creston Mapes, author of Nobody
Mike Dellosso’s pins and needles thriller hurtles the reader down a dark and twisted path. Flickers of faith light the way, and fateful decisions determine the outcome of a horrifying climax. I dare you to take this one home!
—Jill Elizabeth Nelson, author of the To Catch a Thief suspense series
From page one The Hunted grabbed me by the collar and wouldn’t let go. Full of intrigue, supernatural undertones, and true to life characters, I highly recommend this superb debut novel. —C.J. Darlington, Co-founder & Book Editor, TitleTrakk.com
. . . The Hunted places Dellosso on the list of authors to keep your eye on.
—Vannessa Ng, Aotearoa Editorial Service
Author: Mike Dellosso
Title: The Hunted
Publisher: Realms Fiction (Strang Book Group)
ISBN: 978-1-59979-296-5
BISAC: FICTION / Christian / Suspense
Retail Price: $13.99
Purchase the book HERE.
Debut novelist Mike Dellosso delivers a spine-tingling drama in the style of Frank Peretti and Stephen King
Novelist Mike Dellosso offers a bone-chilling mystery about the town of Dark Hills and the deadly secrets it holds, in his first novel, The Hunted, to be released June 3, 2008.
Joe Saunders is determined to unravel the mystery surrounding the brutal mauling of his nephew.
Police Chief Maggie Gill is determined to protect the mystery surrounding her family’s deadly secret.
But neither is prepared for the truth when the mystery revealed uncovers the horror that is lurking in the shadows of Dark Hills.
After learning of the disappearance of his nephew, Joe Saunders returns to his childhood home of Dark Hills to aid in the search effort. When Caleb is found, badly mauled and clinging to life, Joe embarks on a mission to find the beast responsible. But the more Joe delves into the fabric of his old hometown, the more he realizes Dark Hills has a dark secret, shrouded for three generations in a deadly code of silence. As Joe unravels the truth behind a series of unexplained animal attacks, murder, and corruption at the highest level of law enforcement, he is led to a final showdown where he must entrust his very life into God’s hands.
About the Author
Born in Baltimore, Maryland, Mike now lives in Hanover, Pennsylvania, with his wife, Jen, and their three daughters. He writes a monthly column for Writer . . .Interrupted, was a newspaper correspondent/columnist for over three years, has published several articles for The Candle of Prayer inspirational booklets, and has edited and contributed to numerous Christian-themed Web sites and e-newsletters. Mike is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance, the Relief Writer’s Network, and International Thriller Writers. He received his BA degree in sports exercise and medicine from Messiah College and his MBS degree in theology from Master’s Graduate School of Divinity.
Praise for The Hunted:
A great first book from an exciting new author! A vicious enemy, a family secret, a thirst for revenge, and a need for reconciliation all drive The Hunted from intriguing beginning to thrilling conclusion. Skillful prose and great storytelling make Mike Dellosso a writer to watch. I can’t wait for his next book!
—Kathryn Mackel, author of Vanished
Mike Dellosso delivers a spine-tingling tale of hidden secrets, buried hopes and second chances. Interwoven through page-turning drama is the truth about vengeance and the triumph of God’s mysterious ways. The Hunted is a story best read with all the lights on and an extra flashlight handy–just in case!
—Amy Wallace, author of Ransomed Dreams
Something’s coming for you… and you might not be able to stop it. Read this someplace safe as you experience the incredibly descriptive world of The Hunted through the vivid writing and spine-tingling imagination of Mike Dellosso. And sleep with the lights on.
—Austin Boyd, author of the Mars Hill Classified trilogy
With hints of Frank Peretti and Stephen King, The Hunted is a chilling debut. Author Mike Dellosso is certain to make his mark in Christian fiction.
—Creston Mapes, author of Nobody
Mike Dellosso’s pins and needles thriller hurtles the reader down a dark and twisted path. Flickers of faith light the way, and fateful decisions determine the outcome of a horrifying climax. I dare you to take this one home!
—Jill Elizabeth Nelson, author of the To Catch a Thief suspense series
From page one The Hunted grabbed me by the collar and wouldn’t let go. Full of intrigue, supernatural undertones, and true to life characters, I highly recommend this superb debut novel. —C.J. Darlington, Co-founder & Book Editor, TitleTrakk.com
. . . The Hunted places Dellosso on the list of authors to keep your eye on.
—Vannessa Ng, Aotearoa Editorial Service
Author: Mike Dellosso
Title: The Hunted
Publisher: Realms Fiction (Strang Book Group)
ISBN: 978-1-59979-296-5
BISAC: FICTION / Christian / Suspense
Retail Price: $13.99
Purchase the book HERE.
3.01.2008
FIRST Day Fiction: The Restorer's Journey by Sharon Hinck
If you've ever met this lovely young lady, then you know how wonderful she truly is. If you haven't met her, then here's the next best thing: read one of her books. Her characters are just as vibrant as she is. And I have a secret to share: if you like fantasy, this writer is on the cutting edge. Who am I talking about?
Sharon Hinck, of course.
And one of her new books, The Restorer's Journey, is being featured this month. What? You've never read anything by Sharon Hinck?
Well, then this is your day of unexpected blessings. Because I have the first chapter of this book posted below.
But I have to post a warning. If you read this chapter, you're going to want to read more. I know. I'm sorry. I can only give you this much for free. But you can get the book at Amazon.com or you can order it at any bookstore, even if you don't see it on the shelf. Because it might not stay on the shelf very long.
It's that good.
Chapter One - JAKE
My mom was freaking out.
She stared out the dining room window as if major-league monsters were hiding in the darkness beyond the glass. Give me a break. Our neighborhood was as boring as they came. Ridgeview Drive’s square lawns and generic houses held nothing more menacing than basketball hoops and tire swings. Still, Mom’s back was tight, and in the shadowed reflection on the pane, I could see her biting her lip. I didn’t know what to say to make her feel better.
I ducked back into the kitchen and used a wet rag to wipe off the counters. Clumps of flour turned to paste and smeared in gunky white arcs across the surface. I shook the rag over the garbage can, the mess raining down on the other debris we’d swept up. Broken jars of pasta and rice filled the bag. I stomped it down, twist-tied the bag and jogged it out to the trashcan by the garage. Usually, I hated the chore of taking out the trash. Not tonight. Maybe if I erased the signs of our intruders, Mom would relax a little.
So Cameron and Medea dropped a few things when they were looking for supplies. No biggie. Why did my folks have such a problem with those two anyway? They’d been great to me. I trudged back into the house, rubbing my forehead. Wait. That wasn’t right. A shiver snaked through my spine. Never mind. They were probably long gone by now.
“Kitchen’s done.” I carried the broom into the dining room, hoping Mom had finished in there. But she was still hugging her arms and staring out the window.
She turned and looked at the china cabinet, then squeezed her eyes shut as if they were hurting. “Why?” she whispered.
Glass shards jutted from one cabinet door, and the other hung crooked with wood splinters poking out. Broken china covered the floor. Mom and Dad had been collecting those goofy teacups ever since they got married.
I pushed the broom against the edge of the fragments, but the chinking sound made her wince, so I stopped.
Dad strode past with an empty garbage bag from the hall closet and stopped to give my mom a squeeze. He nodded toward me. “Honey, Jake’s alive. Nothing else matters. We all got back safe.” He leaned his head against hers, and I edged toward the kitchen in case they started kissing. For an old married couple, they were a little too free with their public displays of affection. No guy wants to watch his parents act mushy.
But my mom didn’t look like she was in a kissing mood. She pressed her lips together. I had a sneaking suspicion that she was more freaked out about what had happened to my hand than our house. Like when I had cancer as a kid. She’d gotten really stressed about the details of a church fundraiser and cranky about everything that went wrong—stuff that wasn’t even important. It gave her a place to be angry when she was trying to be brave about a bigger problem.
“It’s only a piece of furniture.” Dad was doing his soothing voice. When would he catch on that only made things worse?
“Only a piece of furniture we bought as a wedding gift to each other.” She swiped at some wet spots on her face. “Only twenty years’ worth of poking around garage sales and thrift stores together. Don’t tell me what it’s only! Okay?”
“Okay.” Dad backed away from her prickles.
I made another ineffectual push with the broom. My folks didn’t argue much, but when they did, it grated like a clutch struggling to find third gear. Typical over-responsible firstborn, I wanted to fix it but didn’t know how.
Mom picked up a Delft saucer, smashed beyond repair, and laid the pieces gently into the garbage bag. Dad folded his arms and leaned against the high back of one of the chairs. “I can fix the cabinet. That splintered door will need to be replaced, but the other one just needs new hinges. I can put in new glass.” His eyes always lit up when he talked about a woodworking project. The man loved his tools.
Mom smiled at him. Her tension faded, and she got all moony-eyed, so I ducked into the kitchen just as the doorbell rang. Thank heaven. “Pizza’s here!” I yelled.
Dad paid the delivery guy, and I carried the cartons into the living room. Flopping onto one end of the couch, I pried open the lid. “Hey, who ordered green peppers? Mom, you’ve gotta quit ruining good pizza with veggies.”
That made her laugh. “We’d better save a few pieces for the other kids.” She cleared the Legos off the coffee table and handed me a napkin.
I gladly surrendered the top pizza box, along with its green pepper, and dove into the pepperoni below. “Where is everyone?”
“Karen’s spending the night at Amanda’s—trying out her new driver’s license. Jon and Anne are at Grandma’s. But if they see the pizza boxes when they get home tomorrow . . . ”
I nodded. “Yep. Pure outrage. I can hear it now. ‘It’s not fair. Jake always gets to have extra fun.’” I did a pretty good impression of the rug rats. What would the kids think if they found out what else they had missed? This had been the strangest Saturday the Mitchell family had ever seen.
I popped open a can of Dr. Pepper. My third. Hey, I’d earned some extra caffeine. “So, what do we tell the kids?”
Mom smiled and looked me up and down, probably thinking I was one of the kids. When would it sink in that I was an adult now? I guzzled a third of my pop and set it down with a thump. “We could tell them there was a burglar, but then they’d want to help the police solve the case, and they’d never stop asking questions.”
“Good point.” Mom licked sauce from her finger. “Jon and Anne would break out the detective kit you gave them for Christmas.”
Dad tore a piece of crust from his slice of pepperoni. “If we finish cleaning everything, I don’t think they’ll pay much attention. The cabinet is the only obvious damage. If they ask, we’ll just say it got bumped and fell.”
Dad wanted us to lie? So not like him. Then again, when Kieran told me Dad wasn’t originally from our world, I realized there were a lot of things he’d never been honest about. Now I was part of the family secret, too.
He rested his piece of pizza on the cardboard box and looked at Mom. “Do we need to warn them?”
“Warn them?” She mumbled around a mouth full of melted cheese.
“In case Cameron and Medea come back.” His voice was calm, but I suddenly had a hard time swallowing. Something cold twisted in me when he said their names. The same cold that had numbed my bones when I’d woken up in the attic. Why? They’d taken care of me. No, they’d threatened me. Confusing images warred inside my brain.
“You think they’ll come back?” My baritone went up in pitch, and I quickly took another sip of pop.
Dad didn’t answer for a moment. “It depends on why they came. If they plan to stay in our world, we need to find them—stop them. But my guess is that Cameron wants to return to Lyric with something from our world that he can use there. That means they’ll be back to go through the portal.”
Mom sank deeper into the couch and looked out the living room windows. At the curb, our family van shimmered beneath a streetlight.
They might be out there, too. They could be watching us right this second.
“Maybe we should call the police.” Mom’s voice sounded thin. I’d suggested that earlier. After all, someone had broken in—well, broken out.
Dad snorted. “And tell them what?”
He had a point, but it’s not like there was a rulebook for dealing with visitors from other universes. Unless you attended Star Trek conventions. “So what’s your plan?” I asked.
“I’ll get extra locks tomorrow. Maybe look into an alarm system.” Dad believed every problem could be solved with his Home Depot credit card. He turned to me. “Can you remember more about your conversations with Cameron? What did he ask you about? What did he seem interested in?”
A shudder moved through me, and pain began pulsing behind my eyes.
Mom gave Dad a worried glance, then rested a hand on my arm. “It’s okay, honey. We don’t have to talk about it right now.” She smoothed my hair back from my face.
“No problem.” I brushed her hand away, sprawled back on the couch, and studied the ceiling. “It just seems like it was all a dream.”
“What’s the last thing you remember clearly?” Dad pulled his chair closer and watched me.
“Braide Wood.” I closed my eyes and smiled. “It reminded me of summer camp. And I was so tired of running and hiding in caves. I finally felt safe. Tara fussed over me, and I taught Dustin and Aubrey how to play soccer. It felt like home.”
I struggled to remember the rest. For some reason my memories were tangled up, like the time I had a major fever and took too much Nyquil. Mom and Dad waited.
“I went to see Morsal Plains with Tara. Brutal. The grain was all black and it smelled weird. Tara told me about the attack. How Hazor poisoned it on purpose and how Susan the Restorer led the army to protect Braide Wood.” I squinted my eyes open and looked sideways at my mom. They’d told me she had ridden into battle with a sword. “Unbelievable.”
Even though she was watching me with a worried pinch to her eyes, she smiled. “I know. I lived it, and it’s hard for me to believe.”
“Anyway, I hiked back to Tara’s house, and some guys came to take me to Cameron. He made a big fuss over me. Said it was his job to welcome guests to the clans. Said I’d run into bad company but he’d make it up to me. He gave me something to drink, and there was this lady. She was amazing.” No matter how fuzzy my memories were, Medea was easy to remember. The long curly hair, the sparkling eyes, the dress that clung to all the right places. My cheeks heated. “I can’t remember everything we talked about. She made me feel important, like I wasn’t just some teenage kid. It was . . . ” I sat taller and angled away from my parents, my jaw tightening. “She helped me realize that no one else had ever really understood me. I wanted to become a guardian. I had an important job to do.”
“Jake.” Dad’s voice was sharp, and I flinched. “The woman you met was a Rhusican. They poison minds. Don’t trust everything you’re feeling right now.”
A pulsing ache grabbed the base of my neck. I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. Mom’s hand settled on my shoulder, and I stiffened. Weird static was messing with my head.
“Jake, they used you to find the portal. She doesn’t really understand you.” Mom’s voice was quiet and sounded far away. I felt like I was falling away inside myself. She squeezed my shoulder. “Remember my favorite psalm?”
I managed a tight smile. “How could I forget? You made us learn the whole thing one summer. ‘O Lord, you have searched me and you know me…’ blah, blah, blah.”
Despite my smart aleck tone, the words took hold and some of the static in my brain quieted.
“What’s the rest?” Dad pressed me.
What was he trying to prove? That I couldn’t think straight? I could have told him that. I struggled to form the words.
“‘You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways.’” Once I got started, I rattled off the verses by rote. In some strange way, the words actually stopped the sensation of falling away inside myself.
“Sounds like there’s someone who understands you a lot better than Cameron and Medea. Remember that.” Dad stood up and tousled my hair. Then he yawned. “Let’s get some sleep.”
Mom didn’t move. She was still watching me. “How’s the hand?”
I rubbed my palm. “Still fine. Weird, huh?” I held it out.
A scar, faint as a white thread, marked the skin where broken glass had cut a deep gash an hour earlier. My lungs tightened. What did it mean?
Dad shook his head. “Come on. Bedtime.”
Mom hesitated, but then stood and gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. “Good night, Jake. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
Oh, great. She sure loved talking. I looked at Dad. His mouth twitched. “I’ll get us signed up for some practice space at the fencing club.”
Good. He hadn’t forgotten his promise. I couldn’t make sense of my trip through the portal, or the sudden-healing thing, but I knew I wanted to learn to use a sword.
My parents gathered up the pizza stuff and carried it to the kitchen, out of sight, but not out of earshot.
“If we hide the portal stones Cameron and Medea won’t be able to go back,” Dad said over the crinkling of a sheet of aluminum foil.
Someone slammed the fridge door shut hard enough to make the salad dressing bottles rattle. “We don’t want them running around our world. They don’t belong here.” Mom sounded tense.
“I know. We have to send them back. But on our terms. Without anything that would hurt the People of the Verses. And what about Jake?”
Silence crackled, and I leaned forward from my spot on the couch.
When Mom refused to answer, Dad spoke again, so quiet I almost couldn’t hear. “We need to keep the portal available in case he’s needed there. But how will we know?”
Needed there? Did he really think . . .?
I waited for them to head back to their bedroom, then slipped down the steps from the kitchen to the basement. Most of the basement was still unfinished – except for my corner bedroom and Dad’s workbench.
I hurried into my room and shut out the world behind me. Tonight everything looked different. The movie posters, the bookshelves, the soccer team trophy. Smaller, foreign, unfamiliar.
I pulled a thumbtack from my bulletin board and scratched it across my thumb. A line of blood appeared, but in a microsecond the tiny scrape healed completely. I had assumed the healing power was some heebie-jeebie thing that Medea had given me, or that had transferred over from my interactions with Kieran.
But now that my head had stopped throbbing, I could put the pieces together. Excitement stronger than caffeine zipped around my nerve endings. My folks thought this was more than a weird effect left over from my travels through the portal. They thought I might be the next Restorer.
9.17.2007
The Secret Life of the Real Becky Miller: Part 2
Today we are continuing our interview with the REAL Becky Miller . . .
MD: What would you like to see change within the next year?
RLM: Well, the most obvious thing I would like to see changed is more fantasy on book shelves. And I wouldn’t mind seeing The Return to Efrathah included on the list. ;-)
Seriously, CBA publishers seem to be more open to fantasy, though some, cautiously so.
Ironically, I still don’t see a lot of the sword-and-sorcery fantasy I enjoy. I hear publishers saying they want something fresh, but when there are few s-and-s titles written from a Christian worldview, I claim that IS fresh.
Some of the “fantasy-friendly” editors have made it plain their interest is in a much narrower slice of the speculative pie, and sword-and-sorcery is not part of that mix. So I guess I would hope editors would expand what they are willing to consider.
Even the little science fiction that CBA has produced is borderline contemporary and is sometimes marketed as such.
MD: I agree. I’ve noticed that most of the science fiction in CBA, and even in ABA, tends to be futuristic fiction rather than what we might consider classic sci-fi that takes place on other planets.
How do think these changes will take place, or what is required for these changes to manifest?
RLM: Editor after editor says that what spurs change is sales. I wish publishing houses would do marketing studies because this reliance on sales is so nebulous. If there are only two speculative titles on the shelf of a CBA store, one an urban fantasy and one a science fiction, I, who love sword-and-sorcery fantasy, will probably go elsewhere. Then when sales don’t exceed expectations, marketers will say, Fantasy doesn’t sell in the CBA.
Compare that to the romance reader who has, 20 or more titles to choose from. What chance does she have of finding something she will like? The percentages are obviously in favor of the romance reader.
That being said, I think things like the CSFF Blog Tour and the Latest In Spec Classifieds can help the speculative titles find their audience. If sales improve, I see publishers increasing the number of titles exponentially.
MD: One thing I’ve noticed is that the CSFF Blog Tour really seems to be a great marketing tool for this growing market. It’s the perfect place for publishers to help introduce their speculative books to the readers who are interested. And, from my perspective, it’s an awesome opportunity for someone like me to get involved, to help promote the same type of fiction that I want to see when I walk into any bookstore, Christian or otherwise.
Who is the real Becky Miller and what is her secret life?
RLM: Hahah. Sharon Hinck put me on the map with The Secret Life of Becky Miller. I couldn’t be more different than Sharon’s character, however. I’m single, a baby-boomer, and living the life I’d dreamed of. I used to say my pipe-dream was to teach Bible, coach, and write. I lived that one year, but the writing was … secondary. When I had the opportunity to step away from teaching and begin writing full time, I felt like I’d become a whole person.
MD: What project are you working on now?
RLM: I’m working on a rewrite of the third book in The Lore of Efrathah trilogy. Its working title is The Battle for RevÃn.
MD: Okay, I have to ask this: What do aliens dream about?
RLM: I’m SURE they dream about the land of Efrathah. ;-)
MD: I think you're right. One more signature question: Where will you be in 10,000 years?
RLM: Heaven!
MD: Is there anything else you’d like to say or share
with the Alien Dream blog readers?
RLM: It’s a privilege to be included as part of this uber creative effort here at Alien Dream. Thanks for having me, Merrie.
MD: It’s my pleasure, of course! Like I mentioned, I’m thrilled to be part of the CSFF Blog Tour. If any of you readers are interested in joining the tour, stop over at CSSF.
And don't forget. We're going to run an excerpt from one of Becky's books tomorrow.
So stay tuned. Same bat time. Same bat channel.
9.16.2007
The Secret Life of the Real Becky Miller
There are a series of books about a fictional character named Becky Miller. Written by talented author, Sharon Hinck, these stories tell the adventures of a woman lost in a world of fantasy.
In the Grand Blogging Universe, however, there is another story being written about a different Becky Miller, a real live woman this time, who also happens to dwell in the world of fantasy. This tale unfolds on a daily basis in the land of cyberspace, in an interlinked set of Web sites visited often by faithful readers. These sites cater to those who enjoy their speculative fiction with a unique twist: an element of faith.
For the next several days, we will be interviewing the real Becky Miller, otherwise known as Rebecca Luella Miller, and, faithful Alien Dream readers will get to read a portion of one of her novels on Thursday.
QUESTIONS:
MD: Can you give us a brief bio?
RLM: The thumbnail sketch is, I grew up in a Christian home, became a teacher for thirty years, then changed professions and became a writer. Of course, that leaves out my summer attending school in Mexico City, my year in Tanzania, my three years teaching in Guatemala, but you can’t get much on a thumbnail.
MD: I know you were a teacher. Can you give us your credentials?
RLM: I was a Literature major in college and taught some level of English for twenty-nine of my thirty years in the classroom. As a teacher, I wrote. One year it was a play for a summer school class. Another year it was a short story for a speech unit. Off and on I wrote poems as examples for our poetry unit. And regularly I wrote countless worksheets and other curriculum aids.
Six years ago, I decided to write full time. A year later I became a stringer for the San Gabriel Newspaper Group, covering local high school and college sports. I also began doing some freelance editing, most prominently for AMG Publishing (three of the Dragon in Our Midst books and Eye of the Oracle). I’ve also published two short stories and have an article coming out in Victorian Homes magazine.
MD: Tell us about your blogs. How and why and when did all that get started?
RLM: My personal blog is A Christian Worldview of Fiction. I began that in February 2006 because a writer friend of mine told me about a contest called Everyday Hogwash. It was for blog posts ranting about the ineptitude of some business. I ranted about bookstores. I’d wanted to start a blog to begin building a “platform,” so this contest was the nudge that got me started.
The following summer, I teamed with a group of authors to create Speculative Faith, a blog focused on a Christian view of speculative literature.
That same summer we also started the Christian Science Fiction and Fantasy Blog Tour. Some months later one of our members created the CSFF blog site where she posts, among other things, my emails to the group.
MD: What results have you seen from all of this?
RLM: Because I’m not selling anything, I don’t have a good measuring stick for “results,” but I definitely have a web presence now. I’ve seen growth in the number of people who stop by my blog, and the e-mail list for CSFF is nearing 100.
The most exciting thing, of course, is that publishers are expanding their list of speculative titles, but I have no way of knowing if any of our grassroots efforts factored into this development.
MD: What is your vision for future of speculative fiction?
RLM: I started writing fantasy because, in my view, it is the perfect genre to tell the whole story—because of the good versus evil motif, it is a natural fit to include a spiritual dimension.
In addition, I do not see fantasy as a niche genre.
The books I love are the same ones that thousands upon hundreds of thousands of other readers love: Lord of the Rings, Narnia, Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever, Watership Down. These are books that people of all ages have read, that sold in shocking numbers, and created a stir in the populace at large.
Quite honestly, I don’t understand how fantasy ended up in the niche closet, given its history.
My hope for the Christian arm of the genre is to see it again reach the general public. Harry Potter certainly did. Why not CBA fantasy? Or another ABA fantasy written from a Christian worldview.
Without a doubt the Phillip Pullmans of writing have discovered fantasy as an avenue to distort the truth. It seems imperative, from my perspective, that Christians counter with fantasy that tells the truth.
MD: Thank you, Becky, for the first of our two-part interview! I hope our readers stay tuned for the second half of the interview tomorrow. Plus, an excerpt from one of Becky's novels on Wednesday.
And if any of you want to see what this CSSF blog tour is all about, today is great day to go surfing. Austin Boyd's Sci-Fi thriller, The Return, is the featured book.
In the Grand Blogging Universe, however, there is another story being written about a different Becky Miller, a real live woman this time, who also happens to dwell in the world of fantasy. This tale unfolds on a daily basis in the land of cyberspace, in an interlinked set of Web sites visited often by faithful readers. These sites cater to those who enjoy their speculative fiction with a unique twist: an element of faith.
For the next several days, we will be interviewing the real Becky Miller, otherwise known as Rebecca Luella Miller, and, faithful Alien Dream readers will get to read a portion of one of her novels on Thursday.
QUESTIONS:
MD: Can you give us a brief bio?
RLM: The thumbnail sketch is, I grew up in a Christian home, became a teacher for thirty years, then changed professions and became a writer. Of course, that leaves out my summer attending school in Mexico City, my year in Tanzania, my three years teaching in Guatemala, but you can’t get much on a thumbnail.
MD: I know you were a teacher. Can you give us your credentials?
RLM: I was a Literature major in college and taught some level of English for twenty-nine of my thirty years in the classroom. As a teacher, I wrote. One year it was a play for a summer school class. Another year it was a short story for a speech unit. Off and on I wrote poems as examples for our poetry unit. And regularly I wrote countless worksheets and other curriculum aids.
Six years ago, I decided to write full time. A year later I became a stringer for the San Gabriel Newspaper Group, covering local high school and college sports. I also began doing some freelance editing, most prominently for AMG Publishing (three of the Dragon in Our Midst books and Eye of the Oracle). I’ve also published two short stories and have an article coming out in Victorian Homes magazine.
MD: Tell us about your blogs. How and why and when did all that get started?
RLM: My personal blog is A Christian Worldview of Fiction. I began that in February 2006 because a writer friend of mine told me about a contest called Everyday Hogwash. It was for blog posts ranting about the ineptitude of some business. I ranted about bookstores. I’d wanted to start a blog to begin building a “platform,” so this contest was the nudge that got me started.
The following summer, I teamed with a group of authors to create Speculative Faith, a blog focused on a Christian view of speculative literature.
That same summer we also started the Christian Science Fiction and Fantasy Blog Tour. Some months later one of our members created the CSFF blog site where she posts, among other things, my emails to the group.
MD: What results have you seen from all of this?
RLM: Because I’m not selling anything, I don’t have a good measuring stick for “results,” but I definitely have a web presence now. I’ve seen growth in the number of people who stop by my blog, and the e-mail list for CSFF is nearing 100.
The most exciting thing, of course, is that publishers are expanding their list of speculative titles, but I have no way of knowing if any of our grassroots efforts factored into this development.
MD: What is your vision for future of speculative fiction?
RLM: I started writing fantasy because, in my view, it is the perfect genre to tell the whole story—because of the good versus evil motif, it is a natural fit to include a spiritual dimension.
In addition, I do not see fantasy as a niche genre.
The books I love are the same ones that thousands upon hundreds of thousands of other readers love: Lord of the Rings, Narnia, Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever, Watership Down. These are books that people of all ages have read, that sold in shocking numbers, and created a stir in the populace at large.
Quite honestly, I don’t understand how fantasy ended up in the niche closet, given its history.
My hope for the Christian arm of the genre is to see it again reach the general public. Harry Potter certainly did. Why not CBA fantasy? Or another ABA fantasy written from a Christian worldview.
Without a doubt the Phillip Pullmans of writing have discovered fantasy as an avenue to distort the truth. It seems imperative, from my perspective, that Christians counter with fantasy that tells the truth.
MD: Thank you, Becky, for the first of our two-part interview! I hope our readers stay tuned for the second half of the interview tomorrow. Plus, an excerpt from one of Becky's novels on Wednesday.
And if any of you want to see what this CSSF blog tour is all about, today is great day to go surfing. Austin Boyd's Sci-Fi thriller, The Return, is the featured book.
This Way
You might not know it, but there are some super-snazzy, ultra-hip Sci-Fi things happenin' in the Blogging Universe. Even on Sunday.
Here are my Top Three picks for the day:
1. Check out the new issue of Residential Aliens. Yes, they live here, and yes, they're friendly.
2. Check out the latest and greatest over at Eight Twenty. Steve Parolini is ending the world with a bang, one story at a time.
3. Check out the Countdown to Premier Week over at SciFi Chick.
Stay Tuned: Same Bat Time, Same Bat Channel
Yikes! A shocking revelation for all Alien Dream lovers:
Monday we will begin the 3-day interview with Becky Miller.
And we will attempt to keep up with the blog tour for Austin Boyd, a way cool writer dude that all of you need to check out. Really.
So, as we say in the biz, be there or be alien square.
Stay tuned, same bat time, same bat channel.
9.10.2007
Check It Out
Some ulta-hip blogs you might want to check out, in between your sci-fi wardrobe changes:
SciFi Journalist
SciFi Chick
Fantasy & Sci-Fi Lovin’ Blog
9.08.2007
Life Goes On
I may be boring because I'm all worker bee and then some, but, here's the cool thing, there still are some super fantastic things happenin' in Blogger Land.
Pal Rachel Marks is working on a book that will take your breath away.
Check it out here and here.
There you have it. Proof positive that life doesn't come to a screeching halt just because I get too busy to have fun.
Way to go, Rachel!
9.03.2007
They Did It Again
The next issue of Residential Aliens is up and ready to read. Locked and loaded.
It's got everything a sci-fi lover ever wanted and more: stories by Rick McQuiston, Gerry Sonnenschein, Stoney M. Setzer, Dan Devine, Alex Moisi, Thomas Blakemore, and art by Frida M. Bergholtz.
This is a talented team, one and all.
One top of that, Residential Aliens is having a Flash Fiction Contest.
The way I see it, in this world you're either a reader or a writer, there may even be two or three of you who fall into both categories. Any way you look it, Residential Aliens should be at the top of your TO DO list of things to check out this week.
Be there, or be oh-so-alien-square.
8.28.2007
Great News for Alien Lovers
I just heard that Lyn Perry, editor of the new Zine, Residential Aliens, is thinking about putting together an anthology. Think of it. Science fiction, fantasy and supernatural fiction stories, all from a Christian worldview. So stay tuned for more information. Same bat time. Same bat channel.
8.22.2007
Sooner Than I Expected
The end has come sooner than I expected. The end of the universe. The end of earth. The end of everything.
It isn't truly over yet. In fact, it's happening, one poignant story at a time.
Over at 8:20.
Apparently it all started in Naperville, Illinois. Not far from my home town. A little scary to have it all birthed so close to home . . .
It isn't truly over yet. In fact, it's happening, one poignant story at a time.
Over at 8:20.
Apparently it all started in Naperville, Illinois. Not far from my home town. A little scary to have it all birthed so close to home . . .
8.13.2007
Eight Minutes
What would you do if you had eight minutes? Would you answer your e-mail, would you say a quick prayer, would you call someone you haven’t talked to for 20 years?
What if you had eight minutes and 20 seconds?
Well, I don’t know about you, but if I had 8:20 to spare, I’d check out what Mr. Parolini is cooking up over at Counting on Whales.
There’s some mighty scary sci-fi stuff going on over there . . .
What if you had eight minutes and 20 seconds?
Well, I don’t know about you, but if I had 8:20 to spare, I’d check out what Mr. Parolini is cooking up over at Counting on Whales.
There’s some mighty scary sci-fi stuff going on over there . . .
8.08.2007
Death of a blog
One of my favorite blogs is dying. I wish there was some alternative medicine we could try, some new drug on the market, some renowned doctor we could call. But it just doesn’t work that way.
Blog death is final. Don’t bother calling the priest for last rites.
Still, I completely understand this writer’s need to put the Great Blogosphere on hold. At a point when most people would have sheltered behind armor-plated walls, Steve Parolini allowed his writing to be transparent. Like a reigning King of Hearts, he poured his soul into cyberspace, perhaps a heroic attempt to stop the vacuous Internet from sucking our own souls dry. And for a few, brief moments there was honest-to-God deliriously good content on the Web. Stuff that I would have paid money for; stuff that I would have dog-eared and underlined and refused to lend, even to my best friend.
But this stuff was free. So, of course, it was addictive.
Counting on Whales, a site that focused on “loneliness, loss, love and the unfathomable ubiquity of God,” delivered up a fresh perspective on romance. It’s oh-so-easy to write about love at the beginning of a relationship, when butterflies and bluebirds spring out of every corner. But it takes a purple-heart-warrior to write about love when things are falling apart.
We might not want to admit it, but all those who walk and breathe understand loss. It’s part of life. It’s the bridge to the next world. It’s our passport into God’s presence.
Parolini struck a universal chord with his words. He became a guide through a painfully familiar horizon.
Below is a short quote from "The Almost." If you listen, you can almost hear the regret, the sense of loss at the same moment as discovery. Like someone took a blue crayon and colored over a black and white photo.
“She speaks and he wants to press pause for every word. He wants to rewind, press play, rewind again. He wants to study her inflection. Her tone. The dance of her tongue. The way her head tilts and her dark chocolate hair drifts in front of her eyes, only to be brushed back by absent-minded fingers; an autonomic function for her, an alluring and magnificent ballet to him.”
Parolini’s writing is so intimate and personal that it almost makes you feel like an intruder, like you’ve accidentally wandered into his house and started reading his journals. But like I mentioned earlier, it’s addictive stuff. So you crawl back in that open Web site window and start foraging through his pages again, hoping you can at least finish a couple before he walks in the door . . .
Counting on Whales is dying. Perhaps it’s a natural death, an honorable death. Perhaps we should toss rose petals in the river and mourn its demise.
But I suggest that you stop by and read a poem or two, before the dark silence descends. It may be a long, long time before the Internet offers writing this good again.
Blog death is final. Don’t bother calling the priest for last rites.
Still, I completely understand this writer’s need to put the Great Blogosphere on hold. At a point when most people would have sheltered behind armor-plated walls, Steve Parolini allowed his writing to be transparent. Like a reigning King of Hearts, he poured his soul into cyberspace, perhaps a heroic attempt to stop the vacuous Internet from sucking our own souls dry. And for a few, brief moments there was honest-to-God deliriously good content on the Web. Stuff that I would have paid money for; stuff that I would have dog-eared and underlined and refused to lend, even to my best friend.
But this stuff was free. So, of course, it was addictive.
Counting on Whales, a site that focused on “loneliness, loss, love and the unfathomable ubiquity of God,” delivered up a fresh perspective on romance. It’s oh-so-easy to write about love at the beginning of a relationship, when butterflies and bluebirds spring out of every corner. But it takes a purple-heart-warrior to write about love when things are falling apart.
We might not want to admit it, but all those who walk and breathe understand loss. It’s part of life. It’s the bridge to the next world. It’s our passport into God’s presence.
Parolini struck a universal chord with his words. He became a guide through a painfully familiar horizon.
Below is a short quote from "The Almost." If you listen, you can almost hear the regret, the sense of loss at the same moment as discovery. Like someone took a blue crayon and colored over a black and white photo.
“She speaks and he wants to press pause for every word. He wants to rewind, press play, rewind again. He wants to study her inflection. Her tone. The dance of her tongue. The way her head tilts and her dark chocolate hair drifts in front of her eyes, only to be brushed back by absent-minded fingers; an autonomic function for her, an alluring and magnificent ballet to him.”
Parolini’s writing is so intimate and personal that it almost makes you feel like an intruder, like you’ve accidentally wandered into his house and started reading his journals. But like I mentioned earlier, it’s addictive stuff. So you crawl back in that open Web site window and start foraging through his pages again, hoping you can at least finish a couple before he walks in the door . . .
Counting on Whales is dying. Perhaps it’s a natural death, an honorable death. Perhaps we should toss rose petals in the river and mourn its demise.
But I suggest that you stop by and read a poem or two, before the dark silence descends. It may be a long, long time before the Internet offers writing this good again.
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