Today for “Feature Friday” let us welcome the wonderful Ditrie Marie Bowie and her book Fillius Glint.

We will have info about the book and author, agreat excerpt of the book and a interview with Ditrie Marie.

Make sure to check everything out and go and show her some love and add the book to your TBR ;) 

Happy Reading :) 

When you are an adult, living with your parents can be awkward. All Nigel Iffik wants is one quiet night alone with his hand. Instead, he unwittingly unleashes a malicious virus which infects his entire family's network of electronics and Universe Growers. Trillions of sentient beings succumb to destruction as his sister, Nancy, scrambles to undo the damage to her mostly unprotected Universe Grower. Will the anti-viral protocols stop the digital onslaught in time?

Follow four residents of one such endangered universe as they chomp tacos, battle the absurd, and uncover a secret that will change their lives forever.

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This dream was boring. Instead of battling fire-breathing dragons or taming ninja rats, I was standing around waiting for something to happen. I mean, come on. Elder Boya was here, too, even though he’d died five years ago. And Dream Boya wasn’t a paragon of action-adventure, either.

Just. Standing.

We were stuck in the center of my village— a patch of dust ringed by straw-thatched huts. I ran past the taco trees that bordered the village, but the dream plopped me right back in the center whenever I closed in on freedom.

Screw this, I was sick of standing. I sat down on the ground in a huff.

Dream Boya wore blue ceremonial robes that fluttered in a wind I couldn’t feel. His white beard had been combed and threaded into intricate braids. I wondered what the special occasion was.

Other elders were behind him, but they weren’t real people— more like formless shadows. A crowd thrummed behind me, but I couldn’t turn my head to watch them.

Dreams were weird.

Bored, I reached into my pouch for a bauble. But there was nothing there. Frantic, I patted the ground all around me. The satchel was nowhere to be found. Irritated, I scratched my nose. That bag wasn’t only my livelihood— it was the sign of my office. A smetoriya wasn’t complete without one.

I glared at the others in the dreamscape. Had one of the shadows stolen my pouch? I saw the marking staff in Dream Boya’s hand, the knots and whorls of its wood as ancient as my people. That’s when everything clicked into place. In this dream, I hadn’t been made a smetoriya yet. Not officially.

Without warning, the dream world hushed. It was a silence that rattled my bones.

Boya spoke. “It is your eighteenth spring, Calliya Tregoriya. The time has come. You must stand before the people and be marked. Guardian watch over us as we celebrate, the elements witness this day. Did you complete the poros wreath?”

Glancing down, I saw a wreath resting in my palms. It looked like the one I had woven for the real ceremony: tiny leaves and delicate white petals intertwined in an elaborate braid. The main difference was this one glowed like something out of the Spiritwait. Shuddering, I stood up and passed it to Dream Boya. He accepted the gift with a slight bow of his head. A ghostly wind tousled his robes, but the breeze didn’t touch me.

A creeping unease rushed down my shoulders. Air was one of my elements to call; I should at least be able to sense it moving.

The errant wind blew over the poros wreath, crumbling it to dust in Dream Boya’s hand. “It’s gone.” He whispered, his rheumy eyes brimming with confusion. “Gone.” He threaded knobby fingers through the braids of his beard, tugging in frustration. “Ill omen. Ill portent. Oh, woe be unto all who stand witness here this day.” The marking staff drooped and darkened, writhing in his grasp; Elder Boya’s face twisted in tormented anger.

At least the dream was getting interesting.

“Two cycles did I train you, Calliya Tregoriya. Three more cycles did I guide you through the wilderness. Why did you abandon me to the dust?”

Whoa, now. Abandon was a harsh word. Thanks to old age, Elder Boya had met his dust without any input from me. After he passed, I had bound his body to the elements and freed his soul to the Spiritwait. I had done my part. Dream Boya needed to chill the snarks down.

The marking staff leaped out of his hand and slithered to the ground. The weird wind strengthened and inflated Boya to twice his size. “You have forsaken me! You have been marked! You shall be marked!” The staff snaked its way toward me, but I couldn’t move my legs to dodge out of the way. It wrapped itself around my ankles, cramming them together. I lost my balance and crumpled to the soil.

This was seriously uncool. But wait, it got better.

The snarking staff bit me, sending a sharp pain up my legs followed by an indescribable chill. A thick liquid clotted my veins and tightened my jaw.

Poisoned. Paralyzed. This was the worst dream ever.

Dream Boya leaned over me, his features subtly shifting. Tan and weathered skin became smooth and waxy white. Dark, heavy-lidded eyes brightened and changed into large yellow spheres with nictating membranes. The Crenosiyo sage transformed into the Guardian-cursed demon, Qorxu.

Even though I knew this was a dream, a surge of fear shook my soul as the devil leered over me, came close and closer. My spirit screamed, but no sound came out; my mouth was petrified into silence.

Gasping, I awoke to the sounds of the forest. My heart beat a wild rhythm against its bony cage.

Worst. Dream. Ever.

Hello Ditrie Marie. Thank you for taking the time to stop in and chat with us, it is great to have you.

What was the best money you ever spent as a writer?

That's a great question. I hate spending money on anything; it makes me terribly anxious. But I'm really glad I invested in copies of Vellum and Scrivener. 

What author, dead or alive would you love to co-write with and why?

Terry Pratchett, hands down. His writing was deliciously punny, and I find myself leaning heavily on that comedic fantasy style.

What is your writing Kryptonite? 

Anxiety and self-doubt. Nothing will kill a story faster.

Do you try more to be original or to deliver to readers what they want?

I don't know how original it is, but I am myself. I write the stories that I enjoy reading. And I'm a weird, quirky little person. So, if nothing else, I write for all the weirdos out there like me.

What was an early experience where you learned that language had power?

Words have had incredible power in my life for as long as I can remember. I grew up in a bilingual household. My mother would often tell us stories or play story-making games with my brother and me when we were little. And no matter which language she's speaking at the time, my mother has an admirable ability to spin stories in an engaging and captivating way. She can tell me about someone walking down the street and make it feel like I'm reading a mystery thriller or a comedy depending on how she spins it. It's pretty amazing.

This was fun, again thank you so much for taking the time to chat. You rock!

Ditrie Marie Bowie (née Sanchez) is a Puerto Rican in British Columbia, Canada who writes fiction. She is a member of the Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi)and co-editor of Strange Stories to Tell in the Park. Bowie is also the creator of the webcomic, This Writer Can’t Draw. A classically trained pianist and former educator, she has lived in three different countries spanning two continents. And she met her spouse in a video game.

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