Flights of Fantasy

Prompt Openings: Dragon Shifters!

Posted on August 13, 2016 by Debbie

I mentioned a few weeks back that I’m a sucker for dragons. That may have been an understatement *lol* I LOVE dragons! So much so that I have an on-going series based on that love.

This week I’m giving you the opening of DRAGONS’ CHOICE, the first of a planned trilogy following the lives of Sorcha’s Children. This trilogy (DRAGONS’ CHOICE, DRAGONS’ FLIGHT, and the still-in-progress DRAGONS’ DESTINY) follows the continued adventures of Sorcha and Caedyrn’s family, as introduced in my novella SORCHA’S HEART.

Enjoy!

AISLINN PACED THE EDGE of the heights, unable to focus on the majesty of the surrounding mountain range. Conflicting desires warred in her soul. Behind her, the community of dragons stirred to life, and her dragon-soul longed to fuse itself to her kin, never to be parted. But the suppressed humanity at her core dared her to leap into the clear, cold sky and soar to a destiny no dragon could attain. The desire, no, the need to metamorphose sang in her blood and sizzled in her bones. Her time had come.

She glanced down her long, supple body and admired the sparkle of reflected sunlight on her midnight blue scales. Long years had passed since she, or any of her sibs, had worn human form. She and her brothers and sisters had transformed often in their youth, both here in the ice aerie that housed the flight of dragons and in the castle down in the land of humans where their parents lived. The ability to shapeshift flowed through their essence, and they delighted in startling those around them, whether human or dragon, with unexpected switches.

But this was different. Aislinn had never attempted to put on her human form and remain in it. She ruffled her wings in anticipation.

“Are you certain, little one?”

Keeva’s question echoed through Aislinn’s mind and startled her back to awareness of her surroundings. Her human thoughts had so subjugated her dragon sense, she’d missed the sounds of her surrogate mother’s approach.

“No,” she answered truthfully. “I’m not certain of anything … except the pull within my soul.”

She faltered and gazed out over the jagged peaks of her beloved mountains, seeking solace in their familiar solidity. Humans might consider the mountains cruel and merciless, but to Aislinn, they represented security and peace. The range protected her home, the dragons’ ice aerie. She’d never lived anywhere else.

With a twitch of her barbed tail, she twisted her head to meet Keeva’s level stare.

The mauve dragon had been the first sight to greet Aislinn’s eyes when she’d hatched, twenty long years ago. Keeva and the rex had raised all six of Sorcha and Caedyrn’s children, and the unusual hatchlings had required all the ingenuity the mature dragons could muster. The impossible mixture of dragon and human blood had mutated the entire clutch into shapeshifters.

Aislinn and her siblings had hatched with the in-born ability — one they’d been unable to control until they reached fledgling status. Fledging dragons learned to fly; shape control became a necessary prerequisite.

“We can’t have you popping over to human form a thousand feet in the air,” the rex had warned them.

The desire — no, the need to fly had forced Sorcha’s children to gain mastery of their fluid bodies. But always, without exception, their true form, the one in which they spent ninety percent of their time, had been dragon. Now, Aislinn intended to reverse her natural inclination.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Keeva, but I must try.” She lowered her head, stretched her neck toward the mauve female and nuzzled her dragon-mother’s jaw affectionately with her forehead. “Will you give me your blessing, honored one?”

“Of course, Aislinn. My blessing and my love go with you wherever you fly.”

An intense spike of alien emotion stabbed Aislinn’s heart. She longed to throw herself into someone’s arms and weep. Definitely time to fly. Dragon’s didn’t cry — but humans did.

She spread her wings and hurled herself into the bright morning sky.

“Give my love to Sorcha and Caedyrn!”

Keeva’s final thought rang in Aislinn’s mind. Her wings caught the wind, and she arrowed toward the land of men.

“I will,” she answered, “and I will return!”

Posted in Excerpts, Promotion, Writing | Tagged dragons, e-books, fun with words, novel, prompt openings, Sorcha's Children, writing | Comments Off

Prompt Openings: Demons!

Posted on August 6, 2016 by Debbie

This week, I’m introducing you to Dani Erickson, a perfectly normal teenage girl who just happens to have inherited some interesting talents…

The following is the opening to Demon Daze, my first published story about Dani!

A shiver of anticipation raced along my spine as Allie and I ducked inside the fortune-teller’s tent. My parents didn’t approve of psychic nonsense, but they’d allowed me to come to the carnival with Allie’s family as a pre-birthday treat. The even bigger treat? Not a single one of my older brothers was tailing me. If the Erickson boys were at the carnival, they were enjoying their own night out, not watching over their baby sister.

Turning fourteen had its advantages.

The inside of the tent lived up to all my expectations. A thick Turkish rug covered the brittle, brown August grass and swags of colorful silk festooned the sidewalls and ceiling, ropes of twinkling LED lights camouflaged within the folds. A small table draped in blood-red velvet sat in the center of the small enclosure. A single intricately carved high-backed chair occupied the far side, while two folding chairs waited for us.

Allie glanced at me as if seeking reassurance. The corners of her lips curved in a timid smile and her eyes widened. “Are you sure we want to do this?”

I grabbed her hand and pulled her to the folding chairs. “This was your idea, remember? We’re here. We’re not backing out.” I plopped onto a chair and waited. Allie lit on the very edge of hers, muscles tensed for flight.

A figure disengaged from the draping silk and approached the carved chair.

“I am Madame Simone. Welcome to my den of enlightenment. This place is hallowed, serving as a threshold to the great beyond.”

The olive-skinned woman was swathed from head to toe in a rainbow of silk. Small golden discs dangled from her headdress, gracing her forehead and calling attention to dark, liquid eyes. She studied my best friend for a moment and then turned her attention to me.

“You have come at an auspicious moment,” she said, and lowered herself gracefully into the high-backed chair. Leaning forward, she placed long-fingered hands upon the velvet tablecloth. “Tell me what you seek.”

Allie uttered a nervous squeak and huddled back in her chair, moving as far from the fortune-teller as possible without jumping and running.

I glanced at Allie and then faced the psychic. “Aren’t you supposed to tell us what we need to know?” I don’t like people intimidating my friends.

“What you need to know,” the woman murmured, holding my gaze and refusing to allow my escape. “Are you sure you’re ready for that? Wouldn’t you rather I told you silly tidbits about boys and kisses and who to dance with at the prom?”

I straightened my shoulders, but didn’t look away. Her sarcastic tone bugged me. Allie and I might be young, but we were paying for this woman’s time.

“Look, just do your thing, okay? We paid for a reading, so read.”

Madame Simone’s smile could’ve frozen Boulder Reservoir. “As you wish.” She inclined her head, breaking our eye-lock, and turned to Allie, “Your hand, my dear.”

Allie placed her right hand in Madame Simone’s left and shuddered slightly when the woman traced the lines in Allie’s palm with a perfectly manicured nail.

“I see a long life if you sever your relationship with dangerous friends,” the psychic said, spearing me with a pointed glance. “You will dance on the stage to the acclaim of millions. Beware the company of demons.”

Allie snatched her hand back the moment Madame Simone released it and cradled it to her chest.

The fortune-teller cocked an eyebrow at me and held out her hand.

Posted in Deb Logan, Excerpts | Tagged Dani, Deb Logan, prompt openings | Comments Off

Prompt Openings: Alchemy

Posted on July 30, 2016 by Debbie

Alchemy…Alchemy…what should I write about alchemy?

I know! Let’s take something associated with the middle ages and fling it out into space. Yeah. That’ll be fun!

The resulting tale was Astromancer!

Here’s how the story starts…

WYOT WANDERED, AWE-STRUCK, through the serpentine halls of the Emerald Conclave. He’d dreamed of being invited into this building, into the prestigious gathering of Alchemists it housed, but he’d never expected his dreams to become reality. He was an astrologer of the third rank, possessed of nowhere near the innate magical talent required to join this august body.

He knew the way — when the Thrice Great called, he provided the knowledge — but Wyot took his time, absorbing every marvel as he walked. Who knew when he’d have such an opportunity again. The corridor sparkled, bathed in red-toned shafts of sunlight from the dwarf star of Rigil II. No matter where he looked, Wyot was dazzled. The walls were robed in gold, undoubtedly transmuted by members of the Conclave, while windows boasted crystalline panes from Luyten. Even the floor beneath his feet shone, consisting of highly polished marble from Barnard Prime. Priceless artwork lined the walls, showing scenes from every planet that was home to a Guild oracle…and since any planet without an oracle was isolated from the rest of the starfaring worlds, all were represented. And the statuary! He didn’t have words for the creative genius that graced the carefully crafted niches along his route.

“Astrologer Wyot!”

The whip-crack voice calling his name pulled Wyot from a reverential inspection of an exquisite rendition of his homeworld, Eridani. He snapped to attention before touching fingertips to brow in deference to an older member of the guild.

“How may I serve, elder brother?”

“You may follow me swiftly,” replied the older man. Silver-haired and stern-faced, he wore his dignity like a cape over impressive robes of scarlet and midnight blue sashed with gold. “Your tardiness is delaying the business of the Emerald Conclave.”

Wyot’s heart hammered, unease zipped along his spine. The entire Emerald Conclave? What had he done? A meeting with the Thrice Great had been intimidating enough. “Apologies, elder brother,” he said, striding to position himself a respectful pace behind the older man.

In silence, they moved through the remaining corridors, coming to a halt before a pair of ornately carved doors. Soaring sixteen feet from floor to lintel, the doors were covered in gold leaf, their carvings depicted Alchemical symbols, formulas, and stylized representations of the Guild’s most famous accomplishments. Wyot stared open-mouthed at the gleaming surfaces, until his guide’s voice snapped him back to attention.

“When I announce you, walk to the center of the room and salute,” the man instructed. “Don’t fidget and don’t gawk. Whatever happens, don’t speak unless spoken to, and even then use as few words as possible. Do you understand?”

Wyot nodded. “I do. Thank you.”

His guide gave a gentle push, and the right-hand door swung silently open. He stepped through and called, “Astrologer Wyot, excellencies.” He bowed, motioned Wyot inside, and then left, closing the door behind him.

As instructed, Wyot strode to the center of the room — easily identified by a sun surrounded by cleverly depicted orbiting planets, all inlaid in the marble floor. Once in position, he faced the conclave and raised fingertips to brow. Lowering his hands to his sides, he stilled mind and body and observed the leaders of the Alchemical Guild.

The conclave sat on a raised platform, behind a table spread with a snowy cloth; six men and five women. The Thrice Great sat in the center, a handsome man of indeterminate age — as befitted one who held complete control of the aging process. Dark hair, deep blue eyes, dressed in robes of saffron yellow trimmed with ocean blue. His fellows ranged on either side, men and women who appeared to be in the prime of their lives, dressed in rich fabrics, their eyes heavy with knowledge.

Silence reigned, became a palpable thing.

Posted in Excerpts, Promotion, Writing | Tagged alchemy, fun with words, prompt openings, short stories, space flight, writing | Comments Off

Prompt Openings: Dragons!

Posted on July 23, 2016 by Debbie

I’m a sucker for a dragon tale! When I first discovered Anne McCaffrey’s Pern series, my heart sang. I wanted to immigrate to Pern just so I could impress a dragon…or if not a dragon, then surely I could manage a fire lizard.

Since I couldn’t board a space ship to Pern, I did the next best thing: I created my own aerie of dragons! Sorcha’s Heart is the foundational tale for my own fictional love affair with dragons.

Here’s the opening to the first volume of my still-in-progress epic…

SORCHA KNOTTED HER FISTS SO tightly her knuckles whitened. She glared at her mother across the rough oak worktable. “When are you going to acknowledge me as a fully capable wizard? I’m not an apprentice anymore. I don’t need your permission to seek the Heart of Fire.”

“Fine,” Elspeth shot back, “but I’m warning you this is a mistake. The Heart of Fire is dangerous.” The small, compact woman stretched to reach the braid of garlic hanging from the beam above her head, yanked a bulb loose and tossed it to her daughter.

“So is this war!” Sorcha caught the bulb by reflex, slammed it on the table and separated out three cloves for the strengthening potion. Her gaze never left her mother. “Don’t you realize how powerful dragons are? If Leofric continues on his present course, he’ll push them too far. They’ll wipe us off the face of the earth.”

Fear flashed across Elspeth’s face, and Sorcha knew that her mother agreed; the King’s recent aggressive actions could have serious repercussions.

Sorcha’s mood softened. She picked up her paring knife and began to chop the cloves, pondering the enigma of the woman who had given her not only life, but a heritage of magic. Because of that heritage, strangers often assumed they were sisters rather than mother and child. Elspeth’s long, dark hair sported only an occasional strand of gray. Trim, active, healthy. These words described both her and her mother. Neither of them possessed the lush curves so desired by other women at court, but neither really noted the lack, being too concerned with the practice of magic to worry about attracting the opposite sex.

Elspeth’s bright green eyes glowed with fervent belief and wily intelligence. Sorcha shared her mother’s fervency and intelligence, but not her eyes. She had inherited her unknown father’s eyes; deep blue, with an exotic slant that engendered frequent comparisons to cats’ eyes.

“Yes. I do understand,” Elspeth said with calm assurance, “and I’m trying to convince Leofric how dangerous his present policy is.”

Sorcha opened her mouth to push home her advantage, but Elspeth held up a slim hand to stem the flow of words.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m willing to sacrifice my only child.” She leaned forward, eyes wide, pleading and vulnerable. “Leave the Heart of Fire alone. It might end this war, but at what cost? Sorcha, you have no idea what that amulet will require as payment for its power.”

A shiver ran down Sorcha’s spine and she made a reflexive warding sign as she wiped her hands on the tattered hem of her potion-making apron.

*~*~*

The quiet waters of the isolated lagoon unnerved Sorcha. She knew a distant barrier reef protected the soft sand from the harsh pounding of the tide’s ebb and flow, but she longed for the accustomed roar of surf—and home. The skirt of her simple shift and tunic tugged damply at her ankles as she prowled the water’s edge. Her eyes darted warily from the aspen thickets that climbed the hill to the north, to the open path winding southward among the dunes covered in beach grass. She might have been the only living creature on the earth.

As much to reassure herself of her own existence as for something to do, she bent to stare into the unnaturally still water. A cool breeze tickled her nose with the scent of seaweed, and tugged a few wayward hairs from her tightly woven braid as she gazed at her reflection in the sparse predawn light.

Tension mounted as she waited for the perfect moment. Unable to remain still, she straightened, searching the sky’s melting darkness. Only fading stars and dawn’s awakening color met her restless gaze.

She must complete her quest, must recover the Heart of Fire. Humanity’s existence depended on her success.

The warning, when it came, took the form of tingling skin as all the tiny hairs from neck to wrists rose in unison. The dragon soared into sight above the aspen covered hill, and Sorcha fought the instinct to run. Instead, she stood her ground and watched him land at the edge of the lagoon. Gods and goddesses, he was longer than the house she shared with her mother! He had to measure thirty feet from his deadly looking teeth to the triangular tail-tip that splashed the lagoon’s still water. He folded leathery wings flat against glistening black scales, and turned his massive head, piercing her with a fiery gaze.

“Greetings, little wizard,” he said, his rough voice conjuring wind-swept crags and the barren isolation of frozen wastes. “It seems the Heart of Fire requires more than one witness to its rebirth.”

Posted in Excerpts, Promotion, Writing | Tagged dragons, fun with words, novella, prompt openings, Sorcha's Children, writing | Comments Off

Prompt Openings: Feyland

Posted on July 16, 2016 by Debbie

I’m a huge fan of Anthea Sharp’s Feyland novels, and was thrilled when Samuel Peralta’s Chronicle Worlds anthology series gave me the opportunity to play in her world! Having read every single Feyland story, I’m very familiar with the world’s delights … and its dangers.

In celebration of the release of the print version of Chronicle Worlds: Feyland, here is the opening to my alter-ego Deb Logan’s story, “On Guard”…

Wallace padded softly across the wooden floor, following his boy. He faltered slightly as they passed a puddle of golden sunlight streaming through a low window onto the flagstone entryway. His old bones creaked and he longed to rest in that sunny patch, allowing the warmth to soak into stiff muscles. But he followed the boy, mindful of his duty.

In his prime, Wallace had been a mighty hunter. The terror of small rodents. Field mice and rabbits still avoided his domain, though he was far from his kitten days. Old age stalked him as once he had stalked prey in the greenbelt behind his humans’ dwelling.

But despite his advancing age and loss of fluid grace, he held to his duty. The female of his pair of bonded humans had given Wallace charge of the boy when he had been nothing more than a squirming bundle wrapped in blankets.

“Watch over him, Wallace,” his female had said. “Guard him, always.”

And Wallace had. No harm had ever befallen the boy while Wallace was on guard. He would not shirk his duty now for the physical relief of sun-warmed stone.

The boy continued downstairs, as Wallace had known he would, to the windowless cave the humans referred to as The Game Room. Wallace glanced toward the ceiling, thinking of that glorious pool of sunlight. Perhaps later, when the boy tired of sitting in that chair. Perhaps there would still be warm sun to bask in then.

He glanced around the room looking for the most comfortable spot to maintain his guard. In the center of the room two tiered rows of dark blue cushioned chairs faced a blank white screen. Off to one side sat a low stool surrounded by sparkly red metallic cylinders. The male of Wallace’s bonded pair liked to sit on that stool and beat on those cylinders. Wallace could appreciate his human’s need to express aggression, but just the thought of that noise made his head ache.

On the other side of the room was the object of the boy’s attention. A massive black leather chair surrounded by boxes full of mechanical whirrs and whistles. The boy sat on the edge of the chair pulling on skin-tight gloves that sparkled in the room’s low light. He touched one of the boxes and high frequency noise assaulted Wallace’s sensitive ears. The boy pulled a sleek black helmet over his head, covering his eyes with a darkened visor and completely occluding his ears.

Wallace closed his eyes in a slow blink. Why would any intelligent creature choose to blind himself in the middle of the day? The boy spent hours in that chair, completely oblivious to the world around him. He saw nothing, heard nothing. Wallace knew. He’d tested the boy, cavorting around the room leaping lightly onto surfaces where he had no right to be, even sitting at the boy’s feet and yowling until the female had raced down the stairs to see what was wrong. All for nothing. The boy had not emerged from his helmeted stupor.

With resignation, Wallace leapt onto the padded chair closest to his boy, circled three times and sat, tail curled around his paws. He watched the boy’s hands twitch on the arms of the big black chair. Sometimes he spoke, nonsense words and phrases that had no bearing on reality. Quest and Feyland and Thank you, kind sir were uttered with some regularity, but Wallace had long since learned to ignore anything his boy said while wearing the helmet and gloves.