Perfect

The plateau, blanketed in the thick soft warm glow, beckoned to the benefactor and watcher, promising sights heretofore unseen in a mystical dance never beheld before and in dreams never to be viewed again.

As I watched, the benefactor sat briefly on the edge of the plateau, legs dangling, then slid over and slowly climbed down.
The oppressive stillness of the area surrounding the plateau was washed away in the clean cool breeze spinning its way down from somewhere vastly higher, up where the light shone down in illuminating rays.

Across the soft wavy plains out into the vast corridors lined with great walls, shear vertical cliffs decorated with ancient motifs of symbols and faces.

The corridor steepens, winding down to the valley below where the path widens and splits into the open expanse or through the arch and into the mystical confines where fire and ice meet and mix… ledges of fire occasionally roaring, roasting anything caught unawares. The cavernous frigged caves, filled and littered with scraps and scrapes, also of those who fell and were left. The crisp clean aroma wafts through this mystically dangerous place.

The benefactor waves a hand, and water pours from silvery branches.
In basins, the water is caught, enough for the day, perhaps two or three.

Reaching up, the smooth bark is ripped aside revealing intricate wave upon wave of manna. My excitement grows as the benefactor produces a small smooth container which rattle like rocks or gems.

My stomach growls of its own accord. I look up once more, grateful for my benefactor and the kibbles that fill my bowl. I purr my fleeting gratitude.

HH – Style and Intent

Project Overview

Series Structure

  • I am currently engaged in the development of the first book of an intricate trilogy, which itself serves as the foundation of a broader set of three interconnected trilogies. This ambitious narrative arc incorporates both prequel and sequel series within the same expansive universe, providing a comprehensive temporal and thematic exploration.

World-Building Expansion and Linguistic Elements

  • In addition to the trilogies, the world-building will be further enriched by supplementary works focusing on the Tubatonona language—a constructed language (conlang) specifically developed for this setting. This linguistic project may extend to include other language primers, framed as fictional non-fiction studies, potentially under titles like “The Tubata Tablet and Its Impact on the Dragon Cliff.” Such works will offer profound insights into the cultures, histories, and philosophies that underpin this world, striving for a level of precision and complexity akin to real-world linguistic scholarship, thereby grounding the fictional context in scholarly rigor.

Writing Style and Narrative Philosophy

1. Point of View and Narrative Voice

  • The narrative employs a third-person limited perspective, primarily filtered through Emanresu’s viewpoint. This narrative choice facilitates an intimate exploration of the complexities, emotional undertones, and philosophical reflections inherent in the story, offering readers both a personal connection to the protagonist and the requisite distance characteristic of epic fantasy. Forced perspective is a crucial tool used to limit reader knowledge, which plays a central role in creating twists that re-contextualize the story.

2. Complex, Layered Sentence Structures with Rhythmic Flow

  • The prose is marked by intricate, multi-layered sentences that reflect the psychological, reflective, and philosophical depth associated with writers such as Stephen R. Donaldson and Ursula K. Le Guin. The use of long, flowing sentences is essential for capturing the introspective quality of Emanresu’s internal landscape. Editorial attention should be directed at enhancing clarity without compromising the intended rhythmic cadence, as the complex syntax often mirrors the reflective nature of the narrative, promoting a nuanced reader engagement.

3. Dense Descriptive Passages Balancing Detail with Readability

  • Descriptive passages are richly detailed and meticulously constructed to immerse the reader fully in the setting and atmosphere. Through Emanresu’s lens, the narration wrestles with intricate details while seeking lucidity, embodying a stylistic tension that is crucial to the descriptive approach. These passages, while detailed, also strive for readability, avoiding reductive simplifications that might undermine the immersive experience.

4. Philosophical Themes Woven into Natural Dialogue

  • Dialogue within the narrative serves as a conduit for philosophical discourse, engaging with themes of identity, agency, power, and equilibrium, in a manner reminiscent of Le Guin’s method. Such thematic explorations are seamlessly embedded in character interactions, contributing to both world-building and character development without succumbing to overt didacticism. From Emanresu’s perspective, dialogues are suffused with subtext and cultural resonance, offering multiple layers of interpretation that become increasingly evident upon subsequent readings. It is imperative that editorial adjustments preserve these complex layers of emotional subtext and cultural nuance.

5. Dialogue with Emotional Subtext and Cultural Nuance

  • The dialogues are imbued with understated emotional subtext, often expressed through subtle exchanges that suggest deeper emotional currents. Discussions on themes of loyalty, power, destiny, and mortality are interlaced with philosophical undertones reminiscent of Donaldson’s narrative style. The inherent complexity of these dialogues necessitates an editorial approach that preserves the depth of interpersonal dynamics and respects the implicit, multifaceted meanings throughout.

6. Subtle Foreshadowing and Layered Narrative Techniques

  • The narrative utilizes a sophisticated method of slow-burn foreshadowing, embedding clues throughout the text that reward attentive and engaged readers. These narrative techniques cultivate a layered reading experience, wherein ostensibly minor details accrue significant meaning upon further scrutiny or rereading. The integration of forced perspective ensures that critical information about secondary characters remains obscured until a significant reveal, allowing twists to re-contextualize their roles and importance in surprising ways. Maintaining the gradual unfolding and narrative depth intended by these elements requires an editor’s careful, nuanced handling.

7. World-Building with Symbolic and Mythological Underpinnings

  • The world-building within the narrative extends far beyond mere surface embellishments, incorporating key symbols, nomenclature, and cultural elements (such as “the Dance” and crafted pendants) into the mythological and philosophical fabric of the story. Through Emanresu’s lens, these symbols resonate with recurring thematic significance that grounds the narrative in its broader cultural and philosophical ethos. Editors must approach these elements with judicious care, as they are integral to maintaining the narrative’s cultural coherence, paralleling the depth seen in works by Guy Gavriel Kay or Tolkien.

8. Punctuation and Syntax as Tools for Thought and Rhythm

  • The deliberate use of punctuation—including dashes, ellipses, and semicolons—serves to guide the reader’s pacing and accentuate reflective pauses, particularly during Emanresu’s introspective moments. Such punctuation is fundamental to cultivating the contemplative tone that pervades the narrative. Editorial interventions should aim to preserve these punctuation choices, which are integral to the psychological and philosophical nuance of the text.

9. Use of Vocabulary to Expand Depth and Subtlety

  • The lexicon employed throughout the narrative is purposefully elevated, intended to challenge readers and expand their linguistic and intellectual engagement. Vocabulary choices serve multiple functions, including enriching thematic depth, foreshadowing future developments, and introducing ambiguity that unfolds gradually. This deliberate use of language must be preserved to ensure the retention of its intended complexity and thematic resonance.

Key Technical Requirements for Editing

Experience with Epic Fantasy and Speculative Fiction

  • The ideal editor should possess substantive experience with works of similar epic scope, philosophical depth, and intricate world-building, as seen in the works of Stephen R. Donaldson, Ursula K. Le Guin, and Guy Gavriel Kay. Familiarity with reflective narrative structures and complex character arcs within speculative fiction is crucial.

Comfort with Complex Sentence Structures

  • Proficiency in handling complex, rhythmic sentence structures is essential. The editor should be adept at preserving the integrity of elaborately constructed sentences while enhancing clarity where necessary.

Skill in Preserving Dialogue with Subtext

  • The editor must demonstrate expertise in editing dialogue layered with subtext, cultural nuance, and philosophical undertones. Preserving these layers is critical to maintaining the depth and resonance of character interactions.

Attention to Forced Perspective and Limited Knowledge

  • Editors must be vigilant in preserving the forced perspective throughout the narrative. This limited perspective is crucial for ensuring that the twists—which often re-contextualize secondary characters or plot elements—retain their intended impact. Editors should avoid adding clarity to elements that are meant to remain vague or misleading until the reveal.

Familiarity with Foreshadowing and Narrative Layering Techniques

  • Expertise in managing narrative layering and foreshadowing is vital, as these techniques contribute to the story’s nuanced, gradual unfolding. The editor should ensure that foreshadowing and subtle narrative cues remain effective and enhance deeper reader engagement.

An Understanding of Symbolic and Mythological World-Building

  • The editor must have an understanding of the mythological and symbolic dimensions of the world-building and recognize these as fundamental to the narrative’s cultural and philosophical fabric, ensuring their integrity is preserved throughout.

Comparable Authors

  • Stephen R. Donaldson: Renowned for his complex syntactic structures, psychological depth, and exploration of flawed characters contending with profound moral dilemmas.
  • Ursula K. Le Guin: Distinguished by her thematic intricacy, her integration of philosophical discourse, and her nuanced portrayal of interpersonal dynamics and world-building.
  • Guy Gavriel Kay: Comparable for his evocative descriptive style, emotional resonance, and the mythological symbolism intricately woven into his narrative landscapes. Similar to Kay, forced perspective and the elevation of secondary characters are used to add hidden depth that is only revealed as the plot progresses.

Overall Vision and Purpose

  • This project aspires to construct an expansive world-building experience encompassing a series of trilogies and ancillary works that probe deeply into the cultural, linguistic, and socio-philosophical structures of the fictional universe.
  • Beyond the core narratives, the development of constructed languages such as Tubatonona, alongside fictional non-fiction texts that mirror scholarly linguistic studies, seeks to infuse the series with cultural authenticity and intellectual depth.
  • The storytelling is designed to intellectually challenge and engage readers through its exploration of philosophical themes, moral complexities, and linguistic richness.
  • A core element of the narrative strategy is the use of forced perspective to craft twists that re-contextualize any element of the story, including the hidden significance of secondary characters. This approach reinforces the idea that limited understanding shapes the reader’s perception, ultimately revealing substantial subtext only upon a pivotal twist and subsequent re-read.
  • The work is intended to foster an immersive and introspective reading experience, prompting readers to engage with fundamental existential and ethical inquiries, weaving culture, language, and personal evolution into a multi-layered narrative that emphasizes profound introspection.

Sarah’s Butterfly

A yellow butterfly flutters and lands on the dedication sign for the forest green bench.

Mother sits on the bench, handkerchief in hand, wiping the tears from her eyes.

For weeks, Mother has been angry at me, ignoring me almost completely.

Mother looks over and mutters my name, “Sarah.”

I look up grinning, maybe she isn’t mad anymore, I return to playing in the sand.

A distant woman calls mother’s name, “Mrs. Dennis.”

I notice the butterfly. Standing up and tip-toeing, with ghostly quiet I sneak up on it.

The woman approaches mother, stops nearby, holding out a bouquet of flowers. My heart hurts, but mother prefers adults since she has been mad… or sad.  Tears flow from mother’s eyes as she accepts the flowers and bunches them together with the ones she is already holding.

I look away and focus on the butterfly as it crawls along the brass sign.

“I am so sorry,” the woman looks around. “At least they have cleaned the place up and made it safer.

“I must go, but I will try to come by later.”

The woman turns without needing an answer and walks away, her head hanging.

Mother stands and turns toward the dedication sign, noticing the butterfly for the first time. She sighs and lays the flowers gently near the sign.

Sarah reaches out to catch the butterfly, her hands passing right through it.

As mother and I walk away, I reach out to catch the butterfly, but my hands pass through it, as if it were a ghostly projection. The butterfly flutters away from the dedication sign, “In Honor of Sarah Dennis, may her soul rest.”

It’s About Time

“This damn clock, why are they always so difficult when he is around.”

The old haggard clock-maker hunches over a bench.

The man in the dark cloak sits in the corner waiting.

The clock-maker struggles with this piece. He must get it working, it is no longer a matter of payment, but one of pride. He never found a clock that he could not keep running, and he’ll be damned if this one is going to beat him.

The man in the cloak stands and strides over, and just as the last gear drops into place, the clock-maker flips the release and the clock begins ticking again. The cloaked man smiles genuinely at the clock-maker.

“One day, you will not be able to fix it… the parts, maybe… or your skill perhaps,” he said.

The clock-maker smiles as his eyes follow the still grinning man as he walks back to the corner, flips up his hood, retrieves his scythe, and steps through the wall.

Unique Little Egg

The intricacies… independent and unique.

He sent the order in this morning.

The letter next to her only specified: “Something intellectual and creative.” He often let her have the reins with the eggs, long ago realizing she was more than capable.

She sighs, but a smile spreads across her face.

She loves this… sort of artwork. She has never met another who does it the same as she does. She is meticulous, careful, measured.

But also, she enjoys flaws… though she isn’t sure she can really call them flaws if they are intentional.
She places the finished egg in the basket lined with soft linens.

A soft chime comes from outside her window. She stands and opens the window. She walks back to the table and retrieves the basket.

The basket is filled with intricately designed eggs, each the same, but uniquely different.

She looks out the window, then, as the winds of time blow past, she places the basket in the beak of the stork.

The Park

The damn birds… the incessant cooing, if Patty could think of a better punishment… she would.

She could not forget her little Katie’s laughter from the back seat. Her daughter, so bright and joyful.

They had been laughing about something, try though she did, she could never recall what.

The pigeons filled the road ahead and she slowed through the intersection as the flock took flight… filling the air and blocking her view ahead.

The car had slowed to almost a stop, but the maintenance truck, it had traveled in the fastest slow motion she had ever known.

She only saw it briefly as her daughter screamed then went quiet.

They had been on their way to the park… this park… and now.

Now she comes here every day. She sits on this bench, the very bench she and Katie would sit on.

This is the only way she can remember.

The buttery aroma of the popcorn drifts about the park as she sits immobile and heartbroken.

Her hand deep in the bag, now empty. The constant ring of the popcorn vendors popper, comforting and absurdly invasive at the same time.

The child’s laughter from the playground behind her, always grated on her.

She wanted to go over and tell them to go home, or go somewhere else, she didn’t care where. She just needed them gone.

Ugh… her back still feels stiff. She rotated her head about her neck, but with no real relief.

The jogger, what was her name… Sarah? Sarah… she knows the story and she tries to comfort Patty each day.

Today was no exception, the pigeons pecking at her feet, shooed away by Sarah.

Sarah sat next to Patty, holding her hand in one of hers, the other around her wrist, as if to reinforce that she would steady her if needed.

Sarah came and went, but today she went to the popcorn stand. A bit unusual for the health nut Sarah was but not unprecedented.

Laughter.

“Ugh…”

Children laughing no longer seemed a blessing.

Just go… away…

She looked toward the playground, the laughter continued.

She could not see the child, and an adult was no where to be seen.

She sounds to much like Katie… she needs to go…

Patty struggled, almost didn’t but finally decided to do something… anything…

She crossed the green grass toward the park.

The laughter of the little girl seemed to come from somewhere behind the slide.

The hard cold metal of the slide turned her stomach a little.

She can’t get the twisted metal of the car in the aftermath of the wreck.

She stepped into the playground, the slide directly in front of her.

Some toy, reaching up out of the sand punctured her foot.

“Her bare foot?” she thought as she twisted through the fall, unable to stop the rushing corner of the hard metal slide.

Her head… she could feel it bounce off the corner and her body went limp moments before the world faded to black.

Her eyes slowly opened. Her angel, her lovely little angel Katie met her with a bright smile. Katie giggled with joy. A nurse, her name tag… Sarah… held her wrist.

Sarah looked down at Patty.

“Katie has been here every day with popcorn. Every day for six weeks since the accident. We are so glad you pulled through. Welcome back, Patty.”

The Real Power

Detective Morris glared across the interrogation table.

“You said you were where, Friday night?” He said, for the umpteenth time.

The smug grin on the perp’s face… matched only by the eerie silence. That face, highlighted in red from the light in the hall, occasionally flickered with someone’s passing.

Ugh. Hours. He didn’t recall right off, how many, but it was a lot.

The suspect was guilty, his grin and silence were all he needed to know that.

“…Friday night, where were you?” His voice gruff and growling.

Grabbing the chair, Morris flipped it around, dropping it loudly onto the concrete floor.

As the cavernous echo reverberated and died, the suspect finally shifted in his seat.

He leaned forward, the grin gone from his face. Morris leaned in, listening intently.

Morris felt his head spin… “Your daughter… pretty little… Sarah. Sarah.. Right?”

The grin returned in full force. “She goes to Ethan Elementary… Walks down sixth street to your house… third one on the right… yeah? Yeah.”

The putrid feeling of evil exuded from this man.

His last thought as he reached for the cuff key, was of his darling Sarah.

Grabbing the wrist of the perp he reached out with the key, twisting it and freeing the suspect. He could feel the heat building in his hand, his fingers numbing. He dropped the key onto the floor next to the evil little man.

Retrieving the key the perp unlocked the other wrist, then tossed the key onto the table grinning, he turned to Morris.

The suspects eyes grew wide and the color drained from his face.

The deep growl from Morris cut through the boy as urine flowed to the floor, “And that… is exactly why you’re here!” Morris’s dagger toothed grin spread, splitting the dark red leathery skin of the Detective’s face. The ivory horns practically glowing…

Outside the Lighthouse

Out across the sea, the beam of light sweeps, searching… guiding… waiting for someone to see.

The rain pelts the windows, hammering in sheets and droves.

The storm rages.

His coffee… different… a slight hint of salt and iron.

He had emptied the last of his bottled water yesterday, so he was using water from the tap.

His chair, comfortable, in fact… more comfortable than he could remember.

The rain rolled across the glass in waves, like people at a ball game, or a concert perhaps.

It slid across, methodical then pelted the glass unevenly for a while, only to once again roll across.

The tea kettle started squealing, loud, but with varying pitch as the ancient stove elements heated, then cooled in slow succession.

Struggling, he worked his way out of the overstuffed chair, and stood.

A sip of coffee. Good… real good… warm and slightly metallic.

Another quick sip, ill timed with his breath, caused him to cough… the warm coffee spewed across the room.

He looked around in mild disgust as he headed for the stairs in search of a towel.

A towel… and to turn that incessant squeal off.

He followed the spiral staircase, feeling a bit unsteady, he grasped the handrail and longed for the comfort of the chair.

In the kitchen, he felt his way through the darkness to the stove.

The window outlined in flashes of light through and around the shutters and curtains occasionally lighting the scene.

He turned off the stove, and reached for a towel.

The rain murmured outside, the light outside the window, somehow was steady and bright.

He looked down at the coffee cup in his hand as he brought it up for a sip.

As he shifted the curtain and flung the shutters wide, he coughed again, spewing coffee.

Something slammed into his chest and he coughed again, then filled his lungs with air as he looked out…

…into the face of the paramedic, now dripping with blood as his cough sprayed him again.

“Welcome back,” the paramedic grinned in satisfaction.

Just In Time

The fog-laden evening chilled him to the bone as he stood beneath the street lamp.

“I am getting to old for this,” he mutters.

The juxtaposing hard soft glow of the lamps created an eerie duality of light on the street. The long

shadows dancing in the wind blown lamplight. The headlights shine on him briefly as the vehicle passes.

He checked his watch and pulled his cloak tighter against the cold.

The ache in his back. He leaned over and touches his toes to stretch the muscles, then placed his hands in the small of his back and leaned back, as far as he could.

The pop was almost audible as his spine realigned.

He sighed in relief.

Looking at his watch, he finally heard the approach in the distance.

He never knew when this she might tire of this.

Her incessant need to keep tabs on him was annoying, but he had long ago resigned himself.

She had little sense of humor, but she was pleasant to look at. They had played this game for as long as he could remember, and he was pushing… uh… well lets just say he was much older than the young lady.

He reached down and picked up the glass that he had set on the walk beside him.

She approached her hands flying, knitting, crocheting…or something else, he was never quite sure, and truthfully not that interested.

“Evening!” He said cheerfully. “Fancy meeting a girl like you in a place like this.”

Hand slowly demonstrating the magnificent surroundings, well… at least to him.

She winked. Reached out a hand containing a small piece of thread.

“Father,” she said as he took the thread.

Beautiful as ever he thought. He dearly enjoyed the moments, brief though they were.

“Fate, same time next year?” he smiled as he and his hourglass slowly disappeared.

Special Delivery

The cracked sidewalk lead up to the creaky steps of the old Victorian house.

He took a deep breath… and began walking up to the porch just above the stairs.

With each step it felt like he was walking in molasses, slowly his legs felt heavier the closer he got.

At the steps he struggled to lift his leg. Placing it on the step, he struggled to lift the other as the step creaked and groaned under him.

Twice more he struggled, twice more he climbed. Now, on the porch, he could see the note on the door. “Ring for delivery.”

The postman reached behind his back, fondling the bloody knife. The last victim had struggled and screamed. His crooked smile spread as he pushed the button and heard the ding dong of the bell.

He could see the little girl approach the door.

His hand closed on the knife as he stood holding the package. The door opened and the little girl stepped out. She smiled at the man.

She reached for the package and his hand swung the knife as the girl brushed his hand with hers.

The scene explodes in white bright, the man feels at peace, at last, his anger swept away.

The eerie soft words faded in the air. “Special delivery…” The young girl said.