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The Light of Creation -- First Half

The Light of Creation -- First Half

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Published by Jeffery Lee Vale
Jesse Alexander has a debilitating affliction. For years now he has been compelled to collect photos of every kind. Pictures from books, magazines and the web. Pictures have always drawn him in with a maddening promise never fulfilled; that they might be real portals to an infinite array of realities. A force he can't even begin to describe has made him collect them, as if they would come to serve a vital service. It has been a compulsion that has cost him his career and his wife. And just when he's about to put an end to the insanity, fate moves to show him how little regard the infinite has of impossibility. From that point on comes an adventure that will challenge his every notion of what is or isn't impossible. And before he's through, he will stand defiant against pan dimensional, Elemental Beings and become the Guardian of the Light of Creation. Only with the Light can balance be restored to the Entirety, and only a Warrior of the Heart can wield it.
Jesse Alexander has a debilitating affliction. For years now he has been compelled to collect photos of every kind. Pictures from books, magazines and the web. Pictures have always drawn him in with a maddening promise never fulfilled; that they might be real portals to an infinite array of realities. A force he can't even begin to describe has made him collect them, as if they would come to serve a vital service. It has been a compulsion that has cost him his career and his wife. And just when he's about to put an end to the insanity, fate moves to show him how little regard the infinite has of impossibility. From that point on comes an adventure that will challenge his every notion of what is or isn't impossible. And before he's through, he will stand defiant against pan dimensional, Elemental Beings and become the Guardian of the Light of Creation. Only with the Light can balance be restored to the Entirety, and only a Warrior of the Heart can wield it.

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Published by: Jeffery Lee Vale on Aug 17, 2010
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The Light Of Creation
Prologue:
In 1965 Jesse Alexander was 15 years old. He lived with his folks in a suburb Just a fewmiles south of Seattle called Burien. It was actually not that bad a house, even though therental on it was low. The fact that it was only a few hundred meters West of the Northernapproach path to Seattle-Tacoma International air port accounted for that. In those days the727's and the DC-8's and DC-9's that made their final approach to the runway were trulynoisy. Conversations had to stop if you were outside. Living inside was only slightly better.His dad, John, was a consummate restless spirit when it came to work. Even though hehad an FAA certification to do airframe and engine construction, as well as maintenance, hecould never stay at Boeing or a commercial air line company for very long. He liked selling,however, and he liked being his own boss even better. Because he was already deeplyinvolved with aviation it was only natural that he would gravitate to selling the bits and piecesthat made the machines stay in the air. If you didn't have any capital, though, the only way towork your way into any inventory was to haunt Boeing Surplus.Boeing Surplus used to be an institution for a lot of people from the mid fifties on. Iteventually became a commercial operation open to the public, and a new kind of institution,but in the early heydays, it was an auction affair that took place in a nondescript little buildingnear the big cafeteria across from Boeing Field. Every kind of thing imaginable to not onlyaviation, but to industry in general, was sold there in small, medium and large lots. The oldman could look at lot, see the one thing that would more than pay for a given bid price, andbid on it. That one item would be sold, a few bucks would be made, and the rest had topacked away somewhere. Initially that was the garage, and liberal areas of any basement,but scores of arguments with mom had put an end to that.So, for as long as Jesse can remember, they had to live on the cheap, not only becauseselling used aviation and industrial hardware can be a long and difficult process, but becausethe old man had to pay rent on an ever increasing accumulation of things that might never sell. For the last several years it's been a quite large basement beneath a transmission repair shop. It was big because the shop was built on a side of hill and required a substantialsupport structure to hold it up level with the road it fronted.As a result Jesse grew up with his hands on every kind of nut, bolt, wire, fitting, pipe,switch, control panel, pump, electronics, wing piece, fuselage piece, engine piece, or motor American industry ever had reason to make. Because it was all odd bits of this and that,finding someone who could make use of it was a real chore. For Jesse and his friends it wassimply a matter imagining a coaster car, and then finding the axle rods and wheel bearings tomake it real. Or his brother and him dreaming up their own rockets and finding the chemicalsfor the gun powder, as well as something tubular to affix a roughly pointed nose cone too. Or him and his brother suddenly fixating on a spook house, with buzzers, weird lights, and acouch vibrating, industrial shaking piston, which they would find eventually as well. Even if anodd book on Boolean Logic put a wild hair up his butt for a digital adder, he would find theparts to create to create it out of electrical relays and control panel lights.
 
His folks, of course, should have never got married. Talk about opposites. His dad wasMr. make the best of things. Born and raised in the harsh practicalities of the GreatDepression. As far as he was concerned, the only good thing you could ever really expect outof life was a cold indifference. There were causes and effects that were always going to bebigger than you. The only thing for it was to find a grind stone you could keep your nose too.Maybe, if you were lucky, you could keep your head above water. Mom, on the other hand,was a resonant chamber of everything that sparkled in the emerging American DreamMachine. Barely educated, but brilliant in her own way. Passionate and yearning, but leftwith little to fill her save for what passed as the magical in Hollywood. The gleam of the better life. The thrill of wild romance. It didn't help that they were both very good looking when theymet during WW II. Not to mention the fact that back then, if you were both really good lookingand you had the hots for each other, you usually got married to avoid feeling guilty aboutfucking your brains out. The funny part (as in the universe having a big laugh at your expense) was that they both completed each other in one respect, but drove each other upthe wall in another. It turned into a war dance of love and hate that neither one couldunderstand, much less rise above. And so there was hardly ever any peace, despite the fewobjects of a normal life dad did manage to grind out. Even the odd empty luxury he stumbledupon once and a while only served to maker her angrier, and more mad (as in institutionalizedeventually).Jesse, of course, had to escape them both. It wasn't just because they were bothalways fighting, mind you. Cruel and toxic though these could be. It was also because theywere so far out there in their extremes. The old man's spiritless acceptance of the harsh factsof life, and the the old lady's ever loosening grip of anything solid. As such there was aconstant need to get away from what passed as their ordinary reality. And as this was alsothe age still echoing “Duck and Cover,” where fiction could barely keep up with science, or theparanoia of so many things to be afraid of in the world; the national imagination becoming likehis mother, Jesse Alexander had to get away. In a very real sense he has had an imaginationgrown into and built upon him from a very early age indeed. By this time It was easily bigger than Seattle, or the Puget Sound Region. And whether he had been touched by simplenecessity, or by something a great deal larger, he could play with virtually anything and becompletely enveloped and lost in it. A carton of cigarettes became square battle tanks to slidealong the carpet. Bakelite plastic electrical insulator blocks became his Legos. An old B-29Bomber inner tube would be a raft for voyages through the insides of Giants, and worlds bigenough to to throw them into. Christmas trees, and their ornaments, were magical livingspaces in a tree world. His plastic ship models were play areas that he put himself on, andabout which he could walk within his mind. And pictures. Pictures were the openings towhole scenarios played out within his head.Jesse is outside now, bundled tightly in the Sears catalog coat that was getting small lastChristmas. The jets going over every few minutes helps drown out the bitter voices inside.Mom is drunk and cursing the old man for being a failure. He yells back that he's doing thebest he can.On the picnic table before him are several magazines. There's a Look showing placesthat were never just what was depicted to him. They were just the entry way to adventures tobe had. And then there was a Popular Science that had fantastic gadgets and vistas to takein. They would open up stories all his own. An Aviation Week & Space technology magazine
 
is there as well. This was a very specialized periodical that was a showcase for high tech allthrough the cold war days. Every kind of new jet or rocket or futuristic weapon the Pentagonever dreamed of was featured in that magazine. He always imagined being able to live on thefighter bases or in the big NASA control centers; thinking with a kids logic that the peoplethere would know he could take care of himself, and wouldn't fool with anything important.And that he would get to fly the cool hardware and talk to the cool people who worked aroundthem.He sighs after a while of this and looks up at the sky. It was clear and cold. Despite thesurrounding urban light pollution, he can see quite a few stars. Never being one to voicemuch out loud, he is surprised at the sudden need to voice a frustration to the cosmos ingeneral.
How come I can't go into pictures? There's so much that's in them. So many better places than here. I would go into them and never stop jumping from one to the next. If youhad any sense at all you'd let people do that you know. I bet there's lots of people who'd wantto even more than me. Sure would be good to see more than just what you can see here.There's gotta be a whole lot more to it than just working, wishing you had more money andstuff. Always fighting no matter what you have...”People send thoughts and concerns out all the time of course. Utter words out loud as aprayer or even a simple observation. A lot of folks think there is an actual being who might belistening. Maybe they're right. But does anybody ever stop to consider that the cosmos itself might be stirred by their words? Maybe it doesn't hear as a being might, but that doesn'tmean that words can't still resonate with it some how. And who's to say that, even for auniverse of cold cause and effect like ours, that a little magic might leak in from time to time,even if it is very unlikely. And if magic were to leak in, and it found just the right place tocollect in, what might happen next? It's all so unimaginably improbable of course, nobodygives it much mind. Still. You have to wonder if perhaps the really imaginative ones, the oneswho were touched somehow, shouldn't be a great deal more cautious.
Scene 1.
Jesse is in bed asleep. He lives in a very old, two bedroom rental house that has seenbetter days. It is a house in a poor neighborhood. Though Jesse is here there is another partof him that is some place else. It is seen as dream, but everything the other part of him is inis real.This other self is walking up from a rocky beach, just coming to an expanse of deepgreen wild grass, clumpy and variant of height. A short distance away is a rustic house like noother.The air here is cleaner than anything any human has ever breathed in nearly as long asthere have been humans. All of the sights, the smells, the slight sting of salt air blowing

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