Blog

Welcome.

This is my blog. When I want to take a break from writing my fantasy series, StarDust, I come here and throw some random thoughts on the page just to see what sticks. Writers need to do that now and then, clear out the cogs, because no matter how much you love the current work-in-progress, there are always other pesky ideas clamoring to get out. But you won’t see my series, StarDust, among the blog stories because until it gets published, it’s under wraps. If you want to know more about the Stardust saga or what DrakaenWood is, then you have to click on the STARDUST link. See it? Right there on the side of the page, below HOME.

This blog is also a place for us, you and I, to chat. Your thoughts are always welcome, maybe you have some cogs you want to clear out, too. In my opinion, listening is just as important as telling, and any writer worth their salt knows that.

Thanks for stopping by, and come back often. There's always some new thing mugging for attention, and your visits quiet the squawkers so I can get some real work done. ;)

Cliché? Touché.

by D. D. Falvo on May 29, 2013 | @ddfalvo

thurschilbadgejpg

Thursday’s Children is a weekly blog hop,

 founded by Rhiann Wynn-Nolet & Kristen Perez

where writers share their inspirations.

 Inspired by ~ Idioms.

MSDWARG EC001

In the movie War Games, hacker David Lightman (Matthew Broderick) is in the  hot seat after an autonomous supercomputer misinterprets his request to play an online game–and begins a real global thermonuclear war. The viewer is on pins and needles until Lightman levels the playing field, so our gooses aren’t cooked on a grand scale.

David’s backside isn’t really on fire. Sharp objects poke no one, no hoeing is involved, and we aren’t planning a poultry dinner.

But you still understand what I’m talking about, because idioms are as old as dirt, and as common as houseflies–there are over 25K in the English language. Those catchy, little phrases pop out of our mouths with surprising ease, ringing in our ears like our mother’s voices from a decade gone by.

Idiom  . . . a combination of words that has a figurative meaning, due to common usage. An idiom’s figurative meaning is separate from the literal meaning or definition of the words of which it is made. (Wikipedia)

These snippets are so well-ingrained in our brains that they often find their way into our work. But they aren’t original vehicles. Why bump along in a Little Tykes Cozy Coupe when you can customize your own sleek ride?

(cracks knuckles) Let’s do better.

The Proposal: Pick an idiom, any idiom, (flourishes a handful of choices, here and here ). I challenge you to rephrase any idiom in your own words, or make up an entirely new one–and put it in the comments. If you’re reading the comments, reply with what you think the original might have been. If your guess is already there, let ‘er ride.

Can you figure out which idiom I rewrote for the following excerpt from my WIP, Lumen?

Celeste huffed into clasped hands, and surveyed the horizon through rising breath clouds. To the left, the manmade glow of the imperial nation, Edo, pushed back the onset of Twilight. To the right, the WilderForest blurred into an amber maze of branches and shadow. She chewed her lip and eyed the crowd of trees, seeking the ancient oak. At this moment, finding it had all the pitfalls of sorting a diamond from a pile of broken glass.

“Where are you?” she cried.

The only answer was the low moan of creaking limbs, and the whoosh of a restless breeze.

Powered by Linky Tools

Click here to enter your link and view this Linky Tools list…

Share

{ 44 comments }

ON TARGET

by D. D. Falvo on May 23, 2013 | @ddfalvo

Inspired by Setting Sights . . .

thurschilbadgejpg

A weekly blog hop

where writers share their inspirations.

Please join us!

One of the first things I remember is my mom telling me to look where I’m going. I won’t say I learned that lesson quickly, and the varying results of my resistance have caused no small amount of grief. But I’ve learned a few things along the way.

HOLD YOUR AIM TRUE

I Got This

I Got This

Kali pedaled down our quiet street, the new bike wobbled–her first time without training wheels. “I’m doing it!” she said. She gained confidence and speed, then veered toward a parked car. “Oh, nooo. Help!” she said.

“Look away, Kali!” My husband shouted. She looked toward the sound of his voice, and the bike headed for him. He jumped aside with a short exclamation,  grabbed the handle bars, and stopped the erratic driver. My husband’s eyes met mine and we tried not to laugh. Her newfound confidence faltered.

“The bike will go where you look,” my husband said. “You gotta keep your eyes on the road ahead of you.”

Doubt clouded her features

“Try again,” I urged.

She started–slow at first, her posture stiff. We cheered. She ignored us, her features set in concentration–but the grin was back. She approached a cul-de-sac-type curve, and I yelled, “Look left!”

“I know,” she yelled back, still facing forward. “I got this.”

Our bodies follow what we hold in our sights with unwavering instinct. The path we place our dreams upon are no different. Looking forward keeps me moving ahead. Twists and turns along the way are inevitable. Sometimes I lose my focus, but the way isn’t lost–the view needs an adjustment.

WATCH OUT

The Younger Daredevil

The Younger Daredevil

From the road, our previous driveway resembled a lower-case b–the long stroke a downward incline to the garage, while the circle preceded the front of the house. My youngest daughter biked a path up the circle’s graduated slope.  She rounded the last bend, heading back down, then quickly realized the error of that direction. The bike gained momentum, charging down the descent like greased lightening. Lauren did what any kid would do, she turned a panicked look to mom for help, and with that, I became her new destination. Her two-wheeled rocket jumped the curb, aimed straight for my back and the brick of our home. I was gardening on my knees. My husband watched his child–a 45 pound heat-seeking missile at full speed–hone in on his oblivious wife, and he ran; he lifted Lauren off the bike seconds before the metal frame rammed my body.

Sometimes, even though I’m on the right path, there are other challenges–the ride accelerates beyond my control. These are the times when I’m not enough. My faith is challenged, and I have to trust in something beyond me. Help comes from unexpected places and sometimes at the last minute. And sometimes I crash, it’s not the worst thing. I gotta get up and try a new direction.

IN THE CROSSHAIRS

The take away? No matter what my dreams are, I have to keep my eye on the target. Lock in on that goal and hang on.  It takes patience. Holding steady for long periods of time is a skill worth developing–a muscle that grows when flexed. I try to align my confidence with it. It’s not easy to do.

DON’T LOOK DOWN . . .

You would think that gaining some higher ground would be a relief. The truth is, for me, it’s scarier. Expectations become lofty, and there’s no looking down. I can’t second guess where I am, or worry about how far there is to go. But I believe we all have to continue the steady climb, anchoring each new strike with a solid foothold. And if the unexpected comes along, we have to trust the skills we’ve gained to pull ourselves back up.

Game of Thrones– The Climb, Jon Snow & Ygritte

 . . . OR BACK

“Don’t look back. You’re not going that way.”

I love that quote. It’s common sense, simply put. I won’t belabor it.

How about you? Where are your sights set? Are you keeping your eye on the forward path? When you’re derailed, how do you get back on track?

Powered by Linky Tools

Click here to enter your link and view this Linky Tools list…

Share

{ 24 comments }

IT’S ALL IN THE VOICE BLOG HOP

by D. D. Falvo on May 17, 2013 | @ddfalvo

Only a new blog hop from Heather Webb has the magical power to lure this reclusive writer out from her cave. Why? Because Heather’s got mad editing skills that she generously shares with others, and she’s a sweetheart.

It’s all about the voice this time! 15 authors have posted the first 250 words of their novels for your entertainment and feedback. Come on over to Heather’s blog, Between The Sheets for the linky list of participates and join the creative fun.

I’m skipping my prologue for this blog hop, and diving right into chapter one. Advance thanks for your time and comments! :D (Note: Rhys is pronounced Reese, which, IMO, is way better than Rice. :P )

Title: Lumen, Genre: High Fantasy

Chapter One, Regret

Rhys Anders should have ducked, but stubborn pride kept him stiffly unbent. He braced, for what whistled toward him was gonna hurt like hell. The oncoming fist charged with the force of a steed at full gallop, slamming his nose with a sickening crunch. His eyes watered. A searing pain spread, then dulled, and he gasped as the ballooning appendage joined his alarming collection of damage. Bound and surrounded, he swayed—battling only for balance.

Where is she!”

The cry was not so much a question as a primal roar.

The interrogator paced before him like a provoked lion, moving with sinuous grace, panting with rage. Torchlight spilled over the stockade, burnishing their sweat-soaked skin. A tawny mane crossed his captor’s face with ragged shadows, but did not hide the wrath-filled features.

Rhys cobbled his resolve and held silent. Words would not alter his fate. The night reeked of steel and bloodlust. With or without answers, the warrior, Aiden, lusted for his death—a sentiment also reflected on the callous faces of those gathered, the ones watching with postures of repressed violence and hatred in their hard stares. Gaelts. A fierce hunting clan, allies of the noble house of Ehlenroed. Border guards for the northern nation of Éland.

Where is Rhiannon?” Aiden bellowed.

Where indeed? Rhys wondered. His head dropped low, throbbing as blood rushed to meet gravity. He sucked breath open-mouthed and tongued a loose tooth, all the while considering possible whereabouts for the woman in question.

Rhiannon.

Share

{ 21 comments }

file000463038719

I am honored to fill in for Heather L. Reid at Hugs and Chocolate, today–and through May, with once a month guest posts. Heather is currently working hard on upcoming promotions for her new release, Pretty Dark Nothing. Hugs & Chocolate is a favorite among blogs for the wonderful writing team that includes Heather, Tonia Marie Houston, Jamie Raintree, Jani GreyCourtney Koscheland Rebecca Fields. I met both Heather and Tonia through the wonderful Writer Unboxed community on Facebook and am a huge fan of both their talent.

Most of the posts on H&C are either inspirational or offer keen insights to the writing process. Each is a mini treasure to be savored. Those of you who follow me know this is a step outside my comfort zone. I’m a story-teller at heart and it turns out that cannot be repressed.  I tried. :P  My thoughts about living with a mercurial muse were very much inspired by Lara Schiffbauer’s post, How To Access Your Intuition.

C’mon over to H&C, and meet my muse, Zeb–a fun-loving purple dragon with a mind of his own. Tell me your thoughts about what inspires you, and how you keep your creativity alive.  See you there!

Share

{ 2 comments }

GUTGAA–Meet & Greet

by D. D. Falvo on September 2, 2012 | @ddfalvo

Welcome GUTGAA participants! First, I really would like to thank Deana Barnhart, host of  the Gearing Up To Get An Agent Blogfest/Pitch Contest, and the participating agents. If you would like to join in with the 6 week long festivities be sure to sign up here. The GUTGAA FAQ info is here.

Questions for the Meet and Greet

-Where do you write?

This is where I write– in the attic nook of my 100+ year-old house. There’s just enough room for a whole world full of fantastical creatures, landscapes with attitude, grumbly mages, and children who are really earthbound stars. Every now and then a dragon gets out, but experience has taught me to keep the fire extinguisher close and to practice some patience–those pesky beasts always return home because everyone knows the cat treats in my kitchen are never as good as the wobble fish in Ir. You can visit them all in my fantasy series called StarDust.

-Quick. Go to your writing space, sit down and look to your left. What is the first thing you see?

A bag of dark chocolate-covered acai berries, a stack of used notebooks, and my Zebra F-402.

-Favorite time to write?

Early, before the dawn and after pouring coffee.

It’s 2 AM right now, so the deep of night is awesome, too– it’s all the secrets the dark holds, you know? But dawn is the favorite, for the promise of a new day where anything can happen.

-Drink of choice while writing?

Whoops! Nailed two dragons with one thunderbolt (see above.) Oh! But may I add, a Starbucks hot green tea latte (no foam, no sweetener) is *never* refused?

-When writing , do you listen to music or do you need complete silence?

Utter silence– which technically doesn’t exist. Noise cancellation headphones come close to getting there.

But for inspiration/editing, music draws out the muse and gets her dancing.

-What was your inspiration for your latest manuscript and where did you find it?

 Hmm . . . a life-long passion for magical things, and the driving need to push past the limits of reality.

-What’s your most valuable writing tip?

Connect with other writers.

My Tribe of author friends have taught me so much; we share our collective knowledge, our talent, and our dreams. They are my mentors, my staunchest supporters, and my guideposts for navigating the world of publishing. Without them I am nothing.

And always keep a pen and paper at hand, especially while sleeping.

Share

{ 53 comments }

BLACK BEE

by D. D. Falvo on August 19, 2012 | @ddfalvo

Photo copyright 2004 by Jackie, Essex, Ontario, Canada–Sphex pensylvanicus


I sift the earth, extracting slender green things with surgical precision. The garden is my heaven; in it, I play god, choosing what lives or dies. This is where I sift my thoughts, too, and comb the tangles of my life. The sun warms my back while I help a fat worm escape the demolition. Birds natter and scold. Butterflies dip and dance. I rub my nose with a dirty hand and shut my eyes. This peace, it’s balm to my soul.

The healthy shrieks of my two young daughters shatter the moment. I quickly assess the sound.

Little girl’s screams are, in my experience, classified by four types: the ear-splitting staccato of jubilant happiness; the guttural wail of anger/hurt; the shrill piping of terror, and the breathless squeal of shock/awe, which is a little like terrible excitement.

The girl’s feet patter through the open garage with united purpose, their yells are peppered with hushed collaboration. Okay, so—not fighting. Scratch outrage. I watch them seek my outdoor haunts with systematic composure. No mindless terror present there, but—they aren’t happy either.

The youngest spots me first, and they both rush to tower over me, babbling and gasping for breath. I relax. This is awe.

“A bee!” the younger one exclaims. Her knees buckle and spring as she hops in place.

“A black bee,” the older one impresses upon me. Her five year-old face is as serious as a newscaster announcing a contagious outbreak. “It’s really big, too.”

“He’s chasing us!” The youngest tears up. You can only be brave for so long when you are three.

My mind stumbles over this information. Wha  . . .? A black bee? Is there even such a thing?

I sigh. “Show me,” I say, but I lead and they trail behind. They trip and giggle while pushing each other, intoxicated with the thrill of fear.

“See? There!” the five year old cries out, triumphant. She points to the paladian arch over the sink.

The ebony-colored insect crawls across the window, wavering in drunken circles and buzzing like a hive on steroids. This is no bee. Its sleek body, backlit by the afternoon sun, is the length of my smallest finger. The gloss of her graceful lines is an evil shine.

“Wasp,” I whisper, though I have never seen one so large. Queen! my instincts shout, and the roiling in my stomach seconds that summation.

Tired of listless wandering, the queen takes flight and dive bombs us. I suffer age regression, yelping and ducking with my children. She circles back, and we sway and scream like we are riding the tilt-a-whirl over a bump. We cower beneath our counter-top while the black bullet commands the air space.

“What do we do?” the youngest asks, trembling. Both girls, wide-eyed, look to me to fix the problem. I know exactly what to do.

“Time to call out the big guns,” I mutter. I shuffle across the kitchen like a soldier under siege, then grapple for my lifeline—the phone tumbles into my hand.

“Hey,” my husband says, his voice low and distracted. “Everything okay?”

“There’s a bug in the house,” I hiss, and flatten against the wall as the thing zooms by. “I think it’s a wasp!”

He laughs. “Oh-kay. Is that it? I’m sorry.” His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, “We’re really busy today.” I hear him shift the phone and confer with a co-worker.

My lifeline is leaving me adrift! I persist. “I-I think it’s a queen. It’s huge. And black and . . .” I trail off as he interrupts.

“I’m sorry, honey. Talk to you later?”

“Wait! What about the wasp?” The unmistakable whine in my voice makes even me cringe.

A pregnant pause that I’m all too familiar with fills the line.

That short span of silence is one of many things that I love about my husband. Instead saying exactly what he’s really thinking, right after I do or say something stupid, he waits approximately four seconds—most likely filtering what he’s going to say, instead of giving me the reply I deserve.

He clears his throat. “What did you want me to do—come home and kill it for you?” A hint of sarcasm colors his answer.

“Of course not, that’s ridiculous.” Yes, I do. I really, really do.

I hang up the phone, then stand. I wryly note I have backbone and it is intact. My children peep at me from between the barstools, intrigued by the change in my demeanor. “Is Daddy going to come home and kill the wasp?”

“Nope. I am,” I declare. They gasp and jostle each other.

“Are you gonna use the vacuum cleaner?” the five year-old asks. I bite my lip, and shake my head. Vacuum cleaners are perfect fly traps, but the uncertainty of whether the wind tunnel and dust would kill a hardier creature weighs upon me. I have a ridiculous fear of insect vengeance. My vacuum sat out of commission for two weeks, the nozzle secured with plastic and rubber bands, right after I sucked up a three-inch wolf spider.

I march to the dish drainer and grab an empty jar, at once smug. My husband, who decries my penchant for saving them, will be assailed of this virtue tonight. Above the sink, the queen has resumed crawling on the glass. With my heart in my throat, I climb the counter and poise. Can she see me? I lean close. She vibrates with fluid motion and humps the glass with her needle-tipped back—flaunting the weapon she can use at will. I quail at the thought of getting stung. My hand shakes. What if I miss? In my mind, she has supernatural speed and looms larger than my reach. A murmur breaks my confidence. I drop my hand and look down. Buoyed by my newfound courage, the girls have collected below and wait with hushed anticipation.

“Get back,” I tell them between clenched teeth. “What if …?” They scramble before I finish. I return to my task and plunge the jar with swift aim.

“You did it! You got her! Yay!” The girls clap and jump up and down. Mom has saved the day. But, wait. I didn’t think this through. She’s trapped—yes. But the blood rushing from my arm reminds me that I cannot lift the jar from the window without repercussion. The queen rails against her glass prison, flinging her hard-shelled body in every direction like a berserker military tank. Tap, tap, tap, thunk.Tap, tap, tap, thunk.

“How are you going to get her off the window?” the five year-old asks.

From the mouths of babes.

“Quick! I need an envelope.” The three year-old runs for the item, eager to help. Later, she will tell her dad she played an important role in the wasp’s capture. The arch is lined with pie-shaped grills that defy this simple task. I drag the queen to the widest spot and worry she will sneak through the minuscule crack as I slide the stiff paper beneath. I worry she will jab me through the thin vellum before I exchange my clamped hold for a metal lid. The queen knows this is her last chance for freedom and redoubles her efforts. The gap the envelope will leave while I transfer the lid is enough to give me pause. I shake the jar hard, knocking her to the bottom, and seal the top posthaste.

The girls and I turn the jar, examining the queen in her glass prison. She rages, grating like an outboard motor, but she’s no longer a threat. I cup her in my hand and find pity.

“Now what?” the five year-old asks. “Are you going to let her go outside?”

I stiffen—I can’t let her go. More than bug vengeance, reason tells me this critter’s particular purpose will not serve my home or neighbors very well. My shoulders sag. Suffering in a jar until she wastes away seems inhumane, but a quick death is no longer possible. The queen stops her frantic lashing and pants. I admire the elegant, albeit wicked, beauty of this creature—her only crime is that she is as she was made. She is a warrior, and a mother. A twinge of sadness weights my heart.

I’m in no mood to sort this out. “Your father will know what to do,” I reply, and give the queen a temporary home in our cool garage.

Later that night, my husband pokes his head in our bathroom. I’m dressing for our evening engagement and running late, so he only gets half my attention.

“Hey! Do we still have a wasp in the house?”

I hear the snicker in his voice, and roll my eyes.

“No. I captured it in a jar.”

“Really?” He is intrigued. “Where did you put it?”

“Um . . . in the garage. Somewhere.” I finish swiping mascara on my lashes and look up, but he is gone.

We are en route to our event before I remember the queen. We have a long ride ahead, and I’m using the time to topcoat my nails.

“Did you find the wasp?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“Well?”

“I killed it.”

I chew on this information for a bit. The last time I saw the queen, she was spitting mad. I can’t figure out how he got her out without getting stung, or her flying off. To further complicate matters, I can’t understand why he of all people would take the risk.

“How?”

“I shook the jar until it got dizzy and I threw it against the ground.”

Oh. Yes. That makes sense. Hadn’t I shook her myself to fell her from the top? But, I’m surprised as well, she seemed tougher built than that.

“And that killed her?”

“Well, no.”

He is quiet. I know this particular silence. I stop painting, and look up.

“What did you do?”

He clears his throat and a rare blush stains his profile. “I torched it.” This statement is punctuated with a shrug.

“You . . . What?” I am at once dull-witted. My brain stops and starts, sputtering—This does not compute.

My husband helps me get there quicker.

“I torched it. With. A. Lighter.”

The words sink in. I envision the long-handled butane type used for the grill. Blood heats my skin.

“You torched it?” I repeat. My voice rises at the end.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “And then I stepped on it.”

“You burnt my bug?” I yell. The vehemence surprises me as much as it does him.

“Yeah. So what?”

Bewildered, I stare at the stranger beside me, attempting to reconcile him with the husband I know— the man who rescues our pond frogs, which, would otherwise be run-over because they like to party in our driveway when it rains; the man who maintains multiple feeders for wild birds and stray ducks; the man who roused me from a deep slumber to aid the seven week-old kitten who cried so piteously on our deck, and never left.

My quiet interlude prompts him to speak. “She would have stung me, you know. She would have killed me without hesitation.”

He’s right, of course. A fatal allergy to stinging insects has marked his life with much angst.

I think about my little girls and the variety of screams they use to convey their emotions. Women do that, too—in a more articulate fashion, of course. We rely on our voices, our sounds, or lack thereof, to express our feelings. My husband knows this, which is why my silence concerns him more than any words I might say.

Mars and Venus are so different.

Male quietude usually equals contentment. Venting is resolved, not with words, but physical expression. The boy in Home Alone faced fear with a baseball bat. John Wayne confronted anger with fisticuffs. College boys bump chests to show happiness. And if a boy wants your attention, well, depending on the age—there’s hair-pulling, tickle-prodding, or bear hugs. It makes sense. Traditional roles dictate that Venus nurtures and Mars protects. It’s a condition of how we are made.

“Are you upset with me?” he asks.

How can I be? Even I, in my garden, pull weeds.

“No,” I reply. “It was just a bug.”

What issues have caused Mars and Venus to become unaligned in your home?  What would you have done with the queen?

Share

{ 22 comments }

“WHAT IF” FAIRY TALE MADNESS BLOGFEST

by D. D. Falvo on July 21, 2012 | @ddfalvo

“WHAT IF’ FAIRY TALE MADNESS BLOGFEST– PART II, THE ENTRY: CINDERELLA

The prince was unexpectedly hideous.

Visiting princesses fled the ball, unswayed by his wealth. Cinderella accepted his proposal, turning a blind eye in exchange for a royal life.

The challenge exceeded her ambition.

“He’s so ugly, I cannot bear to kiss him,” Cinderella bemoaned while brushing her hair. She paused mid-stroke, and eyed her fairy godmother. “Can’t you do something?”

“Stupid girl,” the fairy said, and waved her bony hand before the princess’s mirror.

Cinderella followed the movement, then startled at her reflection. A plain-faced girl imitated every frantic gesture of her distress.

“What have you done?” she cried.

“Undone.”

“Excuse me?”

The fairy sighed. “Your beauty was a spell, seen only by you—a confidence booster you no longer need.”

“No!” Cinderella protested. “My beauty is renowned, I am much admired by all.”

“Your kindness was renowned, your loving spirit much admired. Now vanity consumes both. Handmaids flee your foul moods, the cook cries because she cannot please you—your prince avoids your ill-concealed contempt. You are what you see,” the fairy replied.

“Old witch, get out of my sight!” Cinderella said.

The fairy gave her a sharp rap between the eyes. Cinderella screamed as the chamber went dark. She stumbled about, blind, before falling into a desolate heap.

Fearing her temper, her maids left her alone. Cinderella curled on the floor, weeping, until a warm hand touched her face and a kind voice lifted her from her despair.

Why did I never notice how rich the prince’s baritone is? she wondered, and cried harder when he hand-fed her dinner.

“My love, why do you weep?” he asked.

“Because you are so beautiful,” she sobbed, then kissed him, willingly. At that moment her sight returned, and the prince saw the truth shining in her eyes.

***

A special thank you to Morgan Shamy, Leigh Covington, Cassie Mae, and Mark Koopmans for producing such a creative and fun blog hop. All four hosts are amazing writers– you can visit their page by clicking on their names. Each of their blogs provide a full list of participants and links to the entries. There are so many great stories, you’ll want to enjoy them all. :) 

It’s really hard to write a complete story in 300 words, but I did my best and hope you enjoyed it. :) What fairy tale is your favorite– and if you could change one thing, what would you choose?

 

 

“WHAT IF” FAIRY TALE MADNESS BLOGNESS– PART I, THE RULES:

WHAT IF?
Fairytale Madness BlogFest!
AUGUST 13th – 17th  

 

Outwitting the dry heat this summer has been a challenge, and it seems even this blog could use a little rain. :) I’ve been working on LUMEN during the Nanowrimo summer camps, and trying my hand at flash fiction – the latest being my submission for the Fairytale Madness Blogfest, hosted by  Leigh CovingtonMark KoopmansCassie Mae, and Morgan Shamy . Come join the blog hop August 13th through the 17th, even if you don’t write you are sure to enjoy the collection of short stories based on the following categories: Plot Twist, Love Story, Tragedy, and Comic Relief.  If you’d like to try your hand at sketching out a scene of 300 words or less, click on any of the links above to learn more about it and sign up!

I chose the story of Cinderella and the category, PLOT TWIST. There’s so much more I wanted to write– it’s very, very hard to limit a scene to 300 words! My entry can be found in the blog above.

Share

{ 60 comments }

QUERY CORRAL BLOG HOP

by D. D. Falvo on June 25, 2012 | @ddfalvo

Hello fellow blog-hoppers! Welcome to my website. :)

I have two queries for your consideration. One for my series, StarDust, and one for the first book, Lumen. Your feedback is much appreciated, so thanks for coming by. I’m really looking forward to returning the favor, and learning more about what you’ve been up to as well. Thank you to Heather Webb for creating yet another fun contest! For those of you not participating in the hop, be sure to check out Heather’s writer blog, Between The Sheets There’s lots of good stuff inside.

Query for Lumen (first novel)   FINAL CONTEST UPDATE  SUBMITTED: 06-29-12

Copper Erikson is a national pariah, subjected to a court-ordered procedure that leaves her barren. Dan Keller is the heir who turned his back on the Noble community, for the love of  her. Desperate for a child of their own, the couple accepts a baby from a mysterious stranger, but the child, Arianne, is no ordinary little girl. That’s a problem in a country like Edo, where the wrong birthright is a capitol offense—and now her hair is glowing.

The mercenary, Rhys Anders, is framed for murder and saddled with a toddler. The rugged tracker wants to foist his unwanted charge, Michael, on anyone else, but that changes when the wolf packs bow obeisance to the boy. Realizing that Michael is the true target of the danger following them, Rhys has a decision to make—give up everything he loves to keep Michael safe, or hand him over to an uncertain fate.

Neither the Kellers, or Rhys Anders, have any idea their world is on the brink of a supernatural war, or that the best hope for survival is in their guiding hands.

The two orphaned children, Michael and Arianne, are Lumens—celestial beings reborn in human form, and all that stands between dark reaper and his conquest of life on Earth. From the moment of their birth, they are hunted for the power they hold inside. Too young for their destiny, fate has placed them with the guardians best suited to protect them. It’s a quick learning curve for the Kellers, and Rhys. Their troubled lives are further upturned as they dodge daemons, outwit lemmings, and defy national rule all for the love of a child, not their own. And it nearly falls apart as each has to face their deepest fears to keep the children alive, because sometimes the daemon within is more deadly than the one without.

 

Query for StarDust (epic) (Not certain, but since this my over-arching premise, I believe this would be presented in a follow-up to the query– right?)

They are star-born soul mates from another realm. She came to save us. He came for her, pulled by a love that defies space and time.

Since the beginning of time, Lumens have battled Daemons in the celestial realm—the light and the dark wrestling for territory and the future of mankind. In a final bid for victory, the ancient warmonger and Master of Death, Zed, has brought the eternal battle to Earth, and with that, power so great it changes natural order. The rules of engagement are clear: to preserve the balance, each challenger must bind himself to the earthly realm. The winner-take-all fight is high stakes for the contending Lumens, for if Zed triumphs, Earth and all that it holds will become his, and the only thing he wants more than human annihilation is the power gained by devouring a living star.

To walk among us, the immortal couple must live as one of us—enduring a rebirth that subdues their unchecked power, locking all memory, purpose, and ability deep within, leaving them vulnerable. They must rely on their Earthly guardians for survival, a difficult feat for the humans raising them, who have no idea what evil stalks their every move. To defeat the dark conqueror, the Lumens must survive long enough to mine the waking power within, remember who and what they are, and then find each other—all before Zed finds them first—and in the epic battle between salvation and eternal death . . . Death cheats.

If they fail, prepare for hell on Earth.

Share

{ 24 comments }

CAMP NANOWRIMO

by D. D. Falvo on June 10, 2012 | @ddfalvo

On hiatus for June and working on Lumen while participating in Camp Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month.)  See you soon! :)

Share

{ 0 comments }

KILLIAN

by D. D. Falvo on May 18, 2012 | @ddfalvo

She was warm and wiggly, and wore a chewed, purple ribbon around her neck. That first night, she shivered in my arms and cried all the way home. Over the next fifteen years, she never did learn to like the car . . . unless it was parked with an open door or window, then it was great fun to hop in and make herself at home— digging for gum or stowed candies. A workman’s lunch if she was lucky. But she never wanted the car to move with her inside of it. Trips to the vet were tortuous, for us. Her non-stop yelp was a pitch just below the glass-breaking decibel. She would paw at anything within reach, including me, and send enough fur flying to make blankets for all the homeless in Manhattan. Oh. Did I forget to mention the drool? That flew too.

“What should we name her?” Mike asked. This is my husband’s first dog; if left up to him, he would choose “Buzz” or “Scooter.” I panic and search my mind for something . . . less “Dick and Jane Name their Mutt.”

Our youngest daughter, Lauren, remembers a similar conversation. “Are we going to name her Bonnie?” she asks.

Bonnie is the name we gave the cute collie pup in the local pet shop—the one that was already in someone else’s arms the day we went back to buy her.

“This little girl deserves a fresh name,” I said. “I like Killian, like her mom.” There are cheers from the backseat as our two daughters agree.

“Like the beer?” Mike said, warming up to the suggestion. That’s not a surprise, he likes beer and it turns out that Killian will, too. He tries the name out. “Killian’s Irish Red. Well, she’s Irish and she’s red— it makes sense.”

“Erm. We can do better,” I said. “How about Lady Killian?”

“Of Morningstar,” Mike said, adding the name of our street. “Lady Killian of Morningstar.”

It looked great on her pedigree certificate— but we rarely used it. Instead, we called her Poofy, or Fuff, or Foofie, or Killie-Willian, or assorted combinations of the aforementioned. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it was the way the hair on her knobby head stuck up after a good run. Or the fact that we love dumb monikers— we call our cat ‘Pie.’ Either way, the endearments suited her. She was a silly dog who confounded us with her human-like sensitivity and crazy-stubborn attitude.

It’s been nearly two years since we lost her, and I miss her still— her big, stupid grin with the tongue lolling down to her knees, the way the fur on her ears felt like silk, or the solid weight of her muscled body leaning in for a hug. Sweet and dopey, lovable and obnoxious, she never failed to make an impression. She embraced the world on her terms and seized the day, wringing pleasure out of each opportunity available to her:

“Uh . . . Mrs. Falvo? Can I get a PBJ from you? Your dog just ate my lunch.”  ~ Carpenter

“OMG. Your dog climbed through the window on my truck and stole my sandwich.” ~ Mohawk Nursery Landscapers

“Uh . . . Mrs. Falvo? Your dog is eating my soda cup. Is that okay? It won’t hurt her, will it?” ~ Lawn Service Company

“Nope, she definitely ate it. Look at her. She put herself in the crate— and see how distended her belly is?” ~ Michael, on solving the mystery of the missing 2 #’s of beef stew.

“She is so skinny. Don’t you ever feed this dog?” ~ Acquaintances upon meeting her for the 1st time.

“No problem . . . your mail’s right here and we’ll get that forwarded to you right away . . . btw your carrier said to tell you he really misses your dog.” ~ Sparta Post Office after our move to Hinsdale.

“Hi Denise! Is Killian there with you? I just saw a red blur go streaking past my window.” Connie MacIntyre-Reed, over the phone.

“I had to carry her back. The snow kept clumping up in her paws.” ~ Michael, on Killian’s first winter walk at 4 months old.

“Go potty. Go potty . . . go potty go potty gopotty gopottygopottygopottygopotty GO POTTY NOW!” ~ Pre-electric fence, in the rain, in the dark, around midnight and at about 30 degrees.

“It’s okay . . . just keep driving, she always gets out of the way . . . you won’t hit her.” ~ On welcoming every visiting car head-on in the circle driveway, and then parading ahead and leading them all the way in.

“Mike? Honey? We need to get more grass seed . . . she’s worn a rut at the top of the hill again.”

“Noooo! Mom! She won’t get her face out of the popcorn bowl!” ~ Lauren

“Mom! Make her stop. She keeps stealing our side walk chalk and eating it.“ ~ Kali

“Mom! The goose is naked again. I don’t know where she left the clothes this time . . . all I could find was the hat.”

“Nah, I only give her the brown ones. She spits the other colors out.” ~ The “Treat Lady” jogger, as she fished in her pocket for the correct color treat.

“Why does your dog always sit backwards on top of the hill?”
“Did you know that your dog sits with her back to road?”
“Why does Killian watch for cars from over her shoulders?”
“Oh my gosh. I just figured it out. It’s the incline. She falls backwards if she faces front, doesn’t she?” ~ Sparta Neighbors

“I gotta go, hun. You caught me unloading groceries when you called. I think the dog slipped out when I answered the phone. Yep . . . she just jumped into the back of the SUV and found the bags . . . oh, crap, she’s devouring the roast beef I bought for dinner.” ~ Denise

“She could’ve had it but she just stopped short. I think she realized she wouldn’t know what to do if she caught it.” ~ Michael, on chasing squirrels.

“Don’t worry about Killian. She’s doing great. She loves running around in the outdoor play area but she won’t go near the pond . . . we think she’s afraid of the fish.” ~ The Pet Spa

“She’s in the basement again. She’s still afraid of the cat.”

“She won’t stop barking at the pool . . . she thinks the automatic cleaner is a monster.”

“Seriously? Now she’s afraid of her water bowl? So what is she drinking then?”

“Is it alright if she drinks the pool water?”

“She likes beer.”

“She’s drinking out of the bird fountain again. Do you think that’s why the birds won’t use it?”

“Mom? She’s drinking the rain water from the bucket outside with the weeds in it.”

“No. You cannot have my coffee.”

“Yeah, once she got it open he decided to let her keep it . . . she likes chewing on the bottle.” ~ Service guy commenting on the loss of his partner’s water bottle.

“Huh! Guess she likes flavored water.” ~ Michael, on Killian’s persistence in drinking out of anything but her own bowl.

“She had to go through the fence. How the hell did she squeeze through that four inch gap?” ~ Michael

“Do NOT pet her . . . it will become your permanent job for as long as you’re here.”

“I love driving past your house just to see her go nuts.” ~ Mike Reed, on taking out his motorcycle.

“Of course, she opens her own Christmas presents. We taught her the first year and she’s done it ever since.”
“Mom! She’s opening everybody’s Christmas presents!”

“Shake, shake, shake; shake, shake, shake. Ok. Wait. Wait. Ready? Run!” On getting out of the shower, towel dried, and then joyfully running loose.

“She’s in the basement again. I think she’s afraid of Watson.” On Killian’s whereabouts while the family watched the Bonventre’s new puppy for a week.

“Aw, look at her. She’s so sweet. She always does that when we visit . . . I think she misses him.“ ~ Kelly Bonventre on Killian’s submissive posture when confronting Watson.

“She’s so sweet. Look at her. She’s always so happy every time I see her. Killian! Would you like another homemade peanut butter treat?” ~ Karen Carter, next-door neighbor in Hinsdale.

“Ugh! Killian! Get off my homework.”
“Get off the couch!”
“Get out of that car . . . that’s not ours.”
“Ouch! Get off the bed.”
“What are you doing? Get out from under there.”
“Oomph. Get off my lap.”

“C’mere.”
“Killian? Come.”
“COME HERE.”
“Kil-eee-aaaan. Come here. Please come here. Please don’t do this. C’mon. Please-please-please.”
“Ugh. Dammit. Get over here… NOW. RIGHT NOW.”
“Fine. You can stay out all night for all I care.”

“Stop that. That’s gross.”
“Stop licking me, fish-breath.”
“Ouch! Stop stepping on my feet, you clod.”

“When that dog finally stops running, she’s gonna sit for a l-o-o-o-n-g time.” ~ Christine Zadrozny, next-door neighbor in Sparta.

“Killian? Where are you?” :(

TOP THIEVING SCORES CONSUMED AT ONE SITTING
5 Chocolate Cupcakes
2# Beef Stew
1.5# Deli Sliced Roast Beef
2# Salmon Filet
I Loaf Homemade Banana Bread

MOST IMPRESSIVE: Stealing chicken stir fry right out of the hot pan while it was cooking on the stove.

THINGS THAT SCARED HER:
Thunderstorms
Monsters in the Sewers
Fish in the Lake
The Automatic Pool Cleaner
Riding in a Car
Her waterbowl

FAVORITE FOODS:
Eggies
Pizza
Steak
Bananas
Milk Bones

FAVORITE THINGS TO DO:
Walking with Michael.
Anything else with Michael.
Eating anything, but her own food.
Running.
Running after sports cars, motorcycles, and large trucks.
Running around the lake.
Laying on anything soft.

A good “outside” day.

Biggest water bowl.

Share

{ 4 comments }