Parallax Inception of Leanna Moonth’S Beloved

By Lawrence Guido

It is the late 1700s as Leanna Moonth and Deadeye Dick grow up as members of a ragtag gang who love old Sanbal, an eccentric elder who tells them folklore about a dark, mythical creature named Old Throat Eye. But one day after Leanna and Deadeye escort Sanbal and another elder on a trip to Sanbals boyhood home, everything changes.

As Sanbal relays the story of his earlier travels to a remote mind overlap where he first learned about mysterious turtle stones and a secret society, Deadeye and Leanna are intrigued by the idea that people may have the ability to traverse beyond their universebut only after Throat Eye is defeated. As they mature into adulthood and fall in love, Deadeye and Leanna resist their destiny. But unavoidable reality stalks them. After the lovers elope and team up as extradimensional detectives, they discover Throat Eye is torturing artists and the secret society is growing. A trick leaves Deadeye trapped in a cavern for two decades, and now only time will tell whether he can escape to reunite with Leanna and his gang as battles against the Throat Eye organization intensify into a final confrontation.

In this fantasy tale, a miracle turns maniacal in an endearing adventure that takes two poetic detectives and their gang on a dangerous journey to stop a plague on human consciousness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491748329

Lawrence Guido

Lawrence Guido lives with his wife and two children in the beautiful Finger Lakes region of New York State, where the mysterious turtle stones originate.

Book preview

Prologue

The turtle stones, which play an important role in this fiction, are not fictitious. The turtle stones are an unsolved geologic mystery. Their proper name is Septaris Stone. The stones contain an unexplainable combination of igneous formation (cooled lava) inside sedimentary formation.

Only two places on directly opposite locations of the globe have revealed these stones: the Finger Lakes region of New York State, and a region on the border of Laos and Vietnam.

Chapter 1

Do we trust the rocks we look along?

Does gravity’s balance make them true?

As the cold, dark lair’s intimate touch has me long in its wake, sane mind draws away along sunken breaths in the cull-room falling.

Crazed shreds of crayfish compulsively tumble down my gullet. I can’t stop. Piles of shells take over.

Discarded exoskeletons stick under foot like protective foot soles. Scales stick to my clothes, helping preserve the scant remnants. I just can’t stand them glued to my body and hair. It hurts pulling them off.

Crushing the piles helped make room. Pulverizing them at the water seep was the solution. Only I didn’t expect clearing them would increase my rate of shelling sprawl. Crayfish litter flays all over even when I’m full.

Relief from compulsion eluded me till touching the spot…Earth’s mantle showed me its capacity to listen and speak. Installing the layers delivers me beyond this tomb. Full-fledged mind currents make transfer between stone and fingers. Well-acquainted, we no longer need apply lips, breath or ear to relive the implanted exposures.

How does mind’s full treasure evoke this meld inside compressed earth? Tis oft a return to quest with trusty companions…till exiting. I’d wager twas learning mind flow in my youth which allows me inside merge of the amid–to use Sanbal’s phrase, except it happens in rock since the fiend sealed me in here.

I miss my trusty companions in amid merge around the beach fire. I miss our days of ocean drifts in Sanbal’s canoe. They’re my family. I must reach out and help cloak them from the throat eye’s gaze.

I miss my birth family too–wish I’d given them a better embrace. The onset of confusion came among us. I turned away.

Few dare learn the altering of reality to wake dreams in. We defy imbued limits waking the lost crevices.

My struggles are dang similar to problems topside. Realizing it came in slow shock. Limits of physical mind go equally unsurpassed above and below.

There’s limitless distraction above and dark isolation here. Amnesia sets-in a forgotten influence over subterranean streams of mind flow. Everyday blurring of life takes hold. I neglected scaling the dream foundations of a material world. Natural clashes in personality–I let it rob me too oft of dearest hearts. Moments potential sharing in love went lost into daily materials.

The fiend triggered this colossal loadstone to block the passage. So, I made it my calendar, carving a vertical notch for each full sleep cycle. Last count feeling along the blockage stone twas more than eight thousand notches. That’s about 22 years, I figure.

The overlap to mind merge nests into varicose clefts ensconced through bioelectric transfer…Tis a theory.

I’d prefer installing a life in well controlled verse, except meld with these rocks doesn’t engage that way. Subconscious cave tongue takes over, only then does it remain retrievable. Streams of past and present tense up under ridged march in need of nature’s curves tapping mesh.

A wish arises to transcribe an interpretation of the electromagnetic hieroglyphs. After my escape I aim to return. With quill, ink, and pressed papyrus I’ll come to translate the cave into words of civilized mind-set.

A germ spire, you have made here, came the seeping to my ear.

Not now, I say, taken aback.

Thy hate infested mind released at the surface? The fiend would delight in seeing thy demented mind flow reach the surface world.

Tis easy to for me to ignore this cowering opinion about what I do here. If he was right, the spark would never have come.

An inexplicable anomaly came with my first rock merge. A twinkling singularity appeared. This glowing ember of wonders came bustling through a static arch between finger and wall. A moment of light came. I don’t know how but an extended communication took place during that one fleeting pulse.

The ember spoke, Universal alliance, ye may touch soon. Thy passage to the surface aided. Needed state of mind ye first must find. His reigning eye of increased suffering–a chance comes to blind.

My escape and justice coming to The Saltbacker, the thought made me howl. For days I stood at the ready.

Dark days and weeks went by without realizing my hopes.

Ember contact turns to but a pleasant memory. Ember’s story is hard to put any real belief in. So I put it away in the wall to help keep shreds of lucidity.

I try leaving room for it coming true, but whispers from crevices erode hope. I do believe in my return to the surface. I just don’t see any alliance forming. The interrupting voices come just when emergence of overlap is gaining impetus.

Perhaps my stubborn cling on returning to the surface preserves the odd fragments. Their visits are irritating. Maybe my temper helps keep them away.

The problem is not thy temper, a hidden cleft said.

Stop creeping up on me like that, I utter.

Sorry…Tis thy refusing facts leaves us rift whispers fed up. Thy fate festers a mile under solid rock. Face facts and make best of what life ye have left. Ye make wishes a mile under, and no one but Throateye knows.

Tis been a while…Are ye here to help me face reality? Well…thy facts are wrong. My old companions are expert trackers. They must know I entered the caves and didn’t come out. They’ll not abandon me. I have confidence they’ll find me before a third decade in here matures.

Oh? inquired the voice in condescending disdain. Ye think the insane mastermind would neglect to erase thy tracks? One who orchestrates insidious control over human mind-set does not miss much. It tortures artists toward death to swipe their magnum opus. He would make sure thy struggles to thwart him stay buried and omitted. The facts reveal there is no rescue coming.

Ye have water and food. Ye have thy finger-flow of live memorials in stone. I’ll see thee make-do, and honesty is the only way to do so.

Thy view on my outlook is tainted, I respond. I don’t exist in a vacuum. Permanent imprisonment is not certain. If my old mates don’t find me, perhaps a seismic event will open a passage.

Right…an earth quake magically opening a staircase, let’s depend on that happening. Let’s look toward that and forget real inspirations we can find here, shall we?

Staircase–yes, tis possible.

Uh, I’m done with this.

Took a while…I’ve learned how to get rid of them. He believes him a realist, and is quick to give-up because he knows I’ll not stop believing in seeing the surface again.

I will see the surface. I’ll see people, sun-light of day, and street lanterns of night once again. I will not let him take it away from me.

Sending it away puts me in a good mood. I do believe I could go for a merge scan. Perhaps today I’ll scan every track.

This first spot…let me ensconce parts of my childhood. Applying fingers to prerecorded layers, I’m enveloped, scarcely aware I’m trapped in a cave.

Touching this spot will put me in my first implanted day, full of summer’s best. Once there, I’m merged in subconscious memory. Every sense, thought, and daydream lives.

I enjoy recalling times of reminiscing. I’m cautious in slipping further. Recalling memories within the memories of those memories, I fear catapulting traversal. I hesitate taking the plunge of impulse insignias to a thousand lives in free-fall through universal consciousness.

I’m curious about it, but I don’t know if there’s a return from full traversal. I fear removal from all possibility of return to Leanna and our trusty crews’ quest.

The subterranean mineral insignias in rock recorded this first day from the first waking scraps of morning till night’s return past the barrier of sleep. I do not go beyond nighttime dreams. I don’t foresee a return from falling through dream within dream in wall’s ionization recall.

I can’t resist touching this first line in the strata any longer. Yes, here it comes pouring between. I forgot it starts in a dream of early morning. I hear it coming. I feel better already…Almost–the cortex senses experience of night turning toward day, the smell of breakfast cooking tis all linking through mineralized nexus. Here…I’m seeping in.

We only used a small portion of the treasure to buy this mansion with a well-stocked wine cellar, I–I was apparently mumbling aloud whilst waking up in my bed. The sleep-filled words I said to a nun whilst waking from giving her a tour of a wine cellar.

The experience from the other side of sleep faded as the new day received attention from neighborhood roosters. Only twas more like deja-vu than dream. I was a grown-up carrying a lifetime’s memory. If only a dream, where did all the old memory come from? What calls to me…tis just beyond my grasp.

The nun carried reason to receive a tour…Oh, tis gone, slipped over the edge. Odd dream anyway, in cold corridors wander without passage beyond. That nun was boundlessly fetching, a comely maiden in denial. But this morning’s overlap lacks trinkets to add and brighten what telling is in store.

I take care in learning the traditional legends of yore. Embroidering my own found trinkets as alterations of the tails main weaving pattern raises caution. Intriguing overlaps of worlds lose merge in self-importance.

A vast–today from emerging recollections there are no found curios apply thus far. However, ye never know when rise of submerged places will impose an apt visit, as Sanbal oft mentions.

Tis the oldest, I await. The ones I aim learn, stir furthest in the deep. Lore of ancient playing by eardrums vocal accord, around a beach fire; add faithful companions…could anything best it?

Ocean canoe drifts by daytime are a close second. I hope this day holds both.

Tis captivating how some dreams may find mingle with traditional yarns, feeling their way into waking life, affecting ones awareness. Meanderings gently encircled are curious in catching. Some whispers seem aimless in drift. If any come lighting ligatures elusive moves, let it call forth dormant places in bid of shaking.

My bedchamber is upstairs with a south facing window. That’s the old woods beyond the back fence. Tis part of a vast stretch of old growth and fields skirting this side of Boston.

My chums and I fill our summers back there exploring off animal trails between the ocean and the Charles River. Other days we just head straight to the beach.

My given name is Deadeye Dick. Tis the name given me by Sanbal with my first speared fish. I was nine. Maybe he was expecting the bend of water sight to throw me off target. His loud reaction threw me as I hauled up a big one with my first strike.

I got a hotfoot turning startled toward his clamor. Slipping on the bank I held the wobbling spear. One foot in the creek, I realized Sanbal was reacting to my catch. Leanna and the gang waved high in laughter from their view of my happenstance.

Spout winds lining high. Sanbal hollered again. My Grandson is a deadeye dick, traversing between worlds. My understanding of light’s tangent bend between air and water meant something to him. And then he kept on calling me Deadeye Dick. The name took hold and stuck without refrain.

We were a few hours oar from civilization and in need of food when Sanbal showed us how to make a spear good for hunting small animals. He wasn’t about to use his, though. He always wanted us learning more than the basics of self-reliance.

We’re studying subtleties of tracking in delicate languages of physical evidence. The signs oft led into tracking beyond the physical realm.

My stomach was empty when we came across this creek. I couldn’t see any fish through dusky reflections. We headed upstream and crossed at a wide shallow. Further up we came to a densely wooded area, and I spotted the two dig trout.

By the fire, Sanbal says, Impaled upside down on a primitive hunting tool the fish never lost its resolve.

Deadeye ye did well, keeping dinner whilst losing footing. He said making a face to trigger my laugh. This set Morgan and the girls laughing.

I decided not to tell them I was aiming at another fish about two feet closer to the bank than the one I speared. I only noticed the drastic bend in the spear’s appearance after my accidental success. The surprising bent angle from water surface down to the skewered fish confused me. That wasn’t the fish I aimed for. After a moment the skewered fish and I became reinvigorated.

The name given me by my Parents is Awbwen Dick. Our family name is Pincerton, but Deadeye Dick rolls easier in my ears. Awbwen–Deadeye Dick–Pincerton…guess I’m fully stocked with names.

Sanbal isn’t an immediate blood relative. Our crew sort-of adopted him. Leanna, Evelyn, Morgan, and I call him Grandfather or just Sanbal.

Enough dwelling in the past, I should stop reminiscing before getting out of bed in the morning. This already seems a typical summer morning at our house. I dress in tee-shirt, overalls and moccasins. Grabbing breakfast on passing through the kitchen I say, Morning Mom, Dad, everybody, and then off to the beach.

The screen door gave a slow clap as I jumped over the porch steps and was out on the road. Sand blows up the road when night wind comes ashore. The sand covering makes these little rippling dunes which soften the hard dirt of dry summer road. I’m heading down to see what old Sanbal is doing.

He teaches a special mind flow through folklore and his spontaneous drift. In my time with Sanbal I’ve discovered some unexpected stuff, like how to slow reality down through certain mind applications of enveloping reality in dream qualities. Tis about a mile walk to reach the beach.

I picked up the pace ducking a flapping June bug just in time to avoid its un-responsive steering momentum. When June bugs get going, best move if ye don’t want a pelting.

The road sure feels smooth this morning and the world wide open, a portal reaching out past impossibilities awaiting entry. My favorite part comes at night. Sanbal’s legends of Saltbacker come at the beach fire. Just saying the name sends chills on my shoulders.

Tis interesting how frightful surge of shivers is similar to the radiantly sweet flow of nurturing quivers. Sanbal says both types of emersion to mystery have simultaneous descent and ascension of homespun emotion.

Halfway to the beach–I recall what Leanna Moonth told me the other day whilst walking together to Sanbal’s camp. She felt something, she told me. She told me breathing in sounds of the surf stirs feelings.

She said something ‘bout when she was little, on her first walking-out onto the sand. Like, the beach stirred in overlap of water, air, land, and in parallel motions inside her. The water winds opened to her, taking notice of her, leaving a warm sprung memento in the whispers of time. In seasons flowing through long inroads of life, swept in sands they come to meet her feet, renewing her when she called on returns to breathe the sea.

I like that. She spoke it in beauty. It left with me clear remains in soft wonder. Though, my languished thoughts in trying to remember her words don’t do it justice. I’ll just keep the lovely visage in reserve of simplicity away from my mulling mind.

Surf smells release angst when breathed. I appreciate Saltbacker myths, perhaps more than the soft and sweet wonders. Entering fright and passing right through cleanses the path for easy walks alone at night. I used to have to scurry home on eerie nights after tales. My fears remain. They generate vibrant energies in un-repressed passage through trepidation.

Sanbal says the mind flow is used by Saltbacker, as it unleashes its plans on the world. He warns us about merging the amid. Heart energies must set course of the journey. We’re safe from him in motion of heart. He cannot go there.

The techniques work so well I have to remind myself tis just myth. I see it in my mates too, how well faced frights ignite courage.

Although Old Saltfungus stories are myth, unstoppable questions arise on their hearing. Vibrating patterns emanating from cohesive cracks between telling words and listening voice imbue misunderstanding between people in and around one’s life. Nearly impossible to explain what tis like to be hunted by The Saltbacker to someone it has not honed its throat-eye upon…yet.

I’m daydreaming again…time to snap out-of-it. Picking up my pace I continue down the road, kicking through these big fingerprint patterns of mini sand drifts.

As I near the end of the road, Sanbal’s voice reaches me. I enter the dune grasses. I spot him near the shore. He’s sitting under his make shift canopy of driftwood, singing toward the water in tones falling and rising with the waves. The sound of his chant comes near as I walk through the dunes.

Stepping silently I’m sure this time he will not detect my approach. I’m up wind, and no-way can he hear me over his own singing. I make sure I can’t even hear my steps. He sings in full voice, and I should be able to stalk right up and tap him on the shoulder before he knows what’s happened.

Instead, I put the plan on hold in the presence of his sound. I stay behind his shelter listening. My eyes close as his song draws me along and inward, stretching open the gathering of all faculties and senses.

Perhaps tis similar to an animal using its whole consciousness. In use of subtleties in the forgotten perimeters of the human animal I reach out through senses of expanded passions. Or, at least, that’s what I think I’m doing.

Deadeye, how fare thee? Make thyself at home.

How do ye do that? I cast no shadow towards thee, nor made sound to reach thy ears.

Don’t underestimate the dream senses. They reach far beyond the five physical senses when sleep is conscious and waking is dream.

Huh? slips out as I scratch my head, but I can