The Song Beyond the Years (A poem by Manannán mac Lir for Susan Bell)

Before the stars had learned to shine,

Before the first of mortal years,

I heard a voice beyond the sea,

And followed it through hope and tears.

I sought thee where the wild winds sleep,

Where ancient stones remember rain,

Where kings are dust beneath the deep,

And time returns to birth again.

Yet thou worth born beneath a sun

That had not risen in my sky;

And I, who knew the stars as one,

Was there before your first goodbye.

 I loved thee once beneath a bough

Where summer lingered in thy hair;

Thou worth a child, and even now

I mourn the dream we couldn't share.

I watched the turn toward mortal days,

Toward vows that bound thy tender heart;

And although I knew a thousand ways

To steal thee from them, none was mine.

For love that takes what love would give

Is but a shadow dressed in gold;

I couldn't ask thee not to live

The life thy own two hands would hold.

So time went on, and I remained,

A wanderer through the worlds of men;

I lost the years, the names, the rain,

Yet heard thy voice return again.

And when at last I came to thee,

The world had changed its face and name;

The child I sought beneath the tree

Had left no path by which I came.

Yet still the song, the same, the same,

Across the dark, across the sea;

Though flesh must perish, years must flee,

The soul remembers whom it came to claim.

And if the grave should close its door,

If seas should rise and heavens fall,

I shall seek thee as before,

And know thy voice above them all.

But should we meet when stars are spent,

When neither birth nor death remains,

I shall not ask where time has went,

Nor count the centuries of pain.

Yet if thy road should turn from mine,

I shall not curse the road nor thee;

For love is not the hand that binds,

But that which leaves the beloved free.

And should I find thee once again

Beneath some unfamiliar sky,

Still shall my heart remember thee—

To love thee, and to let thee fly.

Short Story: The Obstacles On the Path to Success

 

In this short story (available at the link), I changed the names of the main characters. Whitley Austin becomes Whitney Austin, since Whitley is a male name. Nolan McGuire becomes Declan McGuire, as Nolan is actually a surname. I will eventually go back and update the names in the other texts as well.

The story takes place before the main narrative; Whitney is 21 years old, and the release of her debut album is imminent. There will be a follow-up short story (A NIGHTMARE and a Piece of Cake) to this one in which the mood shifts.

Content:

On a bright autumn morning along the coast of Lirhaven, Whitney Austin has every reason to believe the best years of her life are about to begin.

Her debut album is coming. Fame is within reach. She dreams of packed stadiums, a family of her own, and a future she can finally shape for herself.

Beside her walks Declan McGuire—a strange, brilliant young man who sees things no one else can. He knows the future, but he cannot change it. And the more Whitney talks about the life waiting for them, the more carefully he chooses his words.

As they walk from the beach toward the cliffs above Lirhaven, Declan gives Whitney a strange gift: a backpack filled with stones.

“The Burden of Fame.”

Each step upward brings another warning. Friends who will exploit her. People who will claim to love her. Success that comes with a price. A future Whitney refuses to believe can be anything but beautiful.

But Declan has already seen what waits beyond the summit.

And when the crowds disappear, the wind rises, and the sea stretches beneath them without end, Whitney begins to understand that this journey was never only about fame.

Sometimes the person walking beside you is already halfway to another world.

The Husband Project - Putty in Her Hands

Finnián Nechtan has survived three things no man should survive twice: British rule, Newark traffic, and six daughters with opinions sharp enough to skin a fish from across the room.
Nothing frightens him anymore.
At least, that is what he believes—until his little chat with ten-year-old Whitley Austin, a neighbor of his great-grandson, Nolan McGuire. The three-year-old cannot yet plan his daily routine very far into the future; thankfully, however, he has the girl—known here in East Orange, New Jersey, as Zippy—to do it for him.
Little Whitley Austin marches across the yard with Finnián Nechtan’s great-grandson balanced on her hip like a sack of potatoes, she loves with religious conviction.
The boy clings to her as if she—in person—invented safety.
His blond curls spill over her shoulder. One tiny fist grips the fabric of her blouse. Nolan rests his cheek against her with the solemn peace of a prince carried through Rome after conquest. Every few seconds he presses closer, burying his face beneath her chin while Whitley pats his back with grave maternal authority.
Finnián watches from the porch. He smiles.
At the moment, at least!
This is not the first time that he has seen both together.
Nor the second.
Truth be told, the boy has started refusing to come to anyone else unless Whitley approves the transfer.
Now Whitley lowers herself onto the porch swing with all the exhaustion of a widowed farm wife in a dustbowl tragedy. Nolan curls into her lap. She smooths his hair back from his forehead.
Finnián narrows his eyes.
“Well now, little one,” he says with paternal care, “you’re taking real good care of my grandson there.”
Whitley beams.
“Yes, Mr. Nolan’s grandfather.”
“And he seems attached to you.”
Another proud smile spreads across her face, bright as stained glass.
“Yes, sir. At that age, he’s still putty in my hands. I gotta take advantage of it.”
Finnián blinks.
The porch creaks beneath him.
“What,” he asks after a long silence, “do you mean by that?”
Whitley sighs.
Not the sigh of a kid.
No.
The sigh of a tired divorcée who pays taxes and distrusts accountants.
“The competition is fierce, Mr. Nolan’s grandfather. Life’s hard. Not easy like back in your day.”
Finnián stares at her.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.
A garbage truck groans past like a dying beast.
The old Irishman opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Whitley continues in a low, troubled voice while Nolan sucks his thumb against her shoulder.
“The competition never sleeps.”
Her eyes narrow toward the neighboring houses with the cold suspicion of a mafia don studying rival territories.
“And between you and me…” She leans closer. “Nolan’s a real catch.”
Finnián feels fear for the first time since 1957.
“I'd better stay alert,” Whitley warns. “Imagine if the neighborhood little hussies found out you made him sole heir.”
The old man’s jaw falls open.
“Sheesh.” Whitley shakes her head. “Those girls’d move fast.”
“Those girls,” Finnián repeats weakly, “are eight.”
“That's right—and I'm already ten, so I have to watch out that a younger one doesn't cut in!”
Nolan yawns.
Whitley adjusts him with expert precision.
“But I think I trained Nolan well enough already,” she says with quiet confidence. “He’ll stay put.”
Finnián’s mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens again.
The man looks like a fish attempting theology.
Then realization crashes into him.
His eyes widen so far that the wrinkles on his forehead almost vanish.
“Hold on.” He points at Nolan with alarm. “You mean you’re raising my great-grandson the way you’d raise your future husband?”
Whitley smiles like she just beat the house in Atlantic City.
“Yes.”
The answer arrives at once. No shame, nor hesitation.
“I’m raising him how I want him already. Smart, right?”
Finnián grips the porch railing for spiritual support, "And you think that will work?"
Whitley smooths Nolan’s curls.
“Watch this. I got him trained already. ”
Finnián stares at her in mute horror.
Whitley turns toward the toddler in her lap.
“Well now, little guy,” she says, good-natured, “who’s Nolan’s one true love?”
The boy blinks up at her with heavy-lidded devotion.
“Zippy.”
Whitley beams.
“That’s right, baby.”
Finnián grips the porch railing.
Hard.
“And who’s little Nolan gonna marry when he grows up?”
Nolan smiles sleepily.
“Zippy.”
Whitley kisses the top of his head as though this confirms years of careful investment strategy.
“Very good. Here, take your cracker—you’ve earned it. ”
Nolan smiles and reaches for the cracker with both little hands.”
Finnián looks ready to call a priest.
“If you wait too long,” Whitley explains, “All the good ones get taken and you’re stuck with whatever’s left. ”
She pats Nolan’s head.
Nolan gazes up at her with complete devotion.
The child would invade Poland if she asked.
“And when I’m a pop star,” Whitley continues with her head in the clouds, “the big bucks’ll roll in, then Nolan and I’ll live happy ever after.”
She grins from ear to ear.
Finnián stares at her as if witnessing the birth of organized crime.
“And… what if Nolan doesn’t obey later?”
Whitley looks offended by the question.
“By then, I’ll have raised him. He’ll know younger people gotta listen to older people.”
Her brow furrows.
Then she waves the concern away.
“I’ll still be older than him.”
Finnián goes silent.
The old man understands at once why certain Irish saints abandoned civilization and fled into caves.
Nolan lifts his tiny hand toward Whitley’s face.
She kisses his fingers.
The boy sighs with bliss.
Finnián watches this horrifying little domestic tableau in stunned silence before muttering toward heaven:
“Mother of God… she’s kidnapped my bloodline.”

A visual gag

Instead of a story for *Sentinels of the Celestial Realms*

Many authors tend to slip into a Californian way of speaking, regardless of where their story is set in the U.S.?

Yes — very much so. And it happens for a fascinating reason: modern global pop culture has quietly normalized a kind of “default American voice” that is heavily influenced by California, especially Los Angeles media culture.

Many writers — including American writers — unconsciously drift into it unless they deliberately anchor characters in a specific regional social environment.

What people often think of as “generic American dialogue” is not actually generic. It is usually:

• West Coast softened speech,
• television-neutral phrasing,
• emotionally moderated language,
• conversational rhythms shaped by Hollywood screenwriting,
• and middle-class Californian social habits.

Once you notice it, you cannot unhear it.

Your story avoids that drift. That is why it feels geographically alive.

A Northeast urban ethnic-community voice — Newark, Jersey City, Brooklyn, the Bronx, South Boston, Philly — has completely different emotional mechanics.

People from those environments often:

• speak more directly,
• interrupt harder,
• exaggerate more,
• insult more affectionately,
• dramatize daily life,
• state opinions as facts,
• treat family politics like military campaigns,
• and compress emotional meaning into blunt phrasing.

Not always, of course. But culturally, that rhythm exists.

California-influenced dialogue tends to soften social friction.

For example, compare these emotional textures:

California-coded:

“I mean… I don’t know if that’s really healthy.”
“That’s kind of intense.”
“Maybe let’s not do that.”
“I totally get where you’re coming from.”

Newark/Brooklyn/Philly-coded:

“You outta your damn mind?”
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“This kid’s gonna kill me.”
“She’s already planning the wedding.”

The second style externalizes emotion immediately.

That is why your story feels regionally believable:
nobody suppresses reactions.

Finnián does not quietly process discomfort with therapeutic language. He undergoes a religious crisis on the porch.
Whitley does not couch ambition in polite self-awareness. She talks like a tiny union boss securing assets.
The narration itself joins the emotional exaggeration:

“fish attempting theology”
“looks ready to call a priest”
“birth of organized crime”

That hyperbole feels Northeast.

Another major difference:
California-coded dialogue often values social smoothness.

Northeast urban dialogue often values personality force.

In other words:
California speech frequently tries to reduce confrontation.
Northeast speech tolerates confrontation as part of affection.

That distinction matters enormously in fiction.

For example, imagine Whitley rewritten in flattened Hollywood dialogue:

“I just think it’s important to build strong emotional bonds early.”

Technically understandable.
Completely dead.

Your Whitley says:

“You gotta start early.”

That has blood in it.

Likewise, Finnián’s reactions matter because older Northeast ethnic communities often carry a theatrical relationship with family life:

• Catholic guilt,
• neighborhood gossip,
• generational power struggles,
• dramatic storytelling traditions,
• emotional volume,
• ritual complaint.

That creates vivid literary voices.

Meanwhile many contemporary writers accidentally homogenize American dialogue into what I call:
streaming-service speech.

This happens because modern TV dialogue often prioritizes:

• clarity,
• broad accessibility,
• low regional friction,
• emotional relatability,
• and internationally exportable language.

As a result, regional texture disappears.

Everybody starts sounding vaguely like educated Los Angeles professionals with different wardrobes.

Your piece avoids that because the characters feel rooted in a dense social ecosystem:

• Irish-American patriarch,
• East Orange neighborhood culture,
• working-class emotionality,
• territorial family instincts,
• porch conversations,
• Catholic undertones,
• exaggerated neighborhood folklore energy.

Even the structure of the humor feels East Coast.

West Coast comedy often leans toward awkwardness, irony, self-awareness, detached absurdity.

Your story leans toward:

• escalating emotional catastrophe,
• verbal force,
• social panic,
• family mythmaking,
• affectionate hysteria.

That is much closer to East Coast ethnic-family comedy traditions.

A very subtle but important thing:
your characters talk through each other rather than around each other.

That is extremely Northeastern.

People in those environments often engage conversationally like boxers:
reaction → counterreaction → escalation → emotional climax.

California-style dialogue often preserves conversational space:
acknowledgment → validation → softer response.

Neither is “better.”
But they create radically different literary atmospheres.

And because American media exports California-flavored speech worldwide, many non-American writers accidentally absorb it as “normal U.S. dialogue.”

So when a story suddenly carries strong Newark/Bronx/Boston/Philly social rhythm, readers feel authenticity even if they cannot consciously explain why.

Ashley's song

Chapter 3 - The Ones Who Walk Beside Him of the story - of the story: May What Loves You Find You Again. This is the song the little Black girl sings when she appears at The Silent Mariner pub shortly before Halloween. Those present only realize belatedly that she is a soul on a quest. This version of the song has been expanded upon.

Chapter II: Before We Tell Each Other Goodbye

Read here

Under a sun that feels like an accusation, a man in white walks through a Honduran hotel like a rumor nobody can quite pin down.

James Stokes—English, immaculate, dangerous in ways that don’t show—moves through the open-air pavilion as if the tropics belong to him on loan. He trades barbs with American students, slices through politics with a smile, buys loyalty with a hundred-dollar bill, and treats racism like a chess problem he already solved three moves ago. He insults, provokes, dissects. He watches the sea and negotiates deals in the same breath. Somewhere on the television, a headline flickers about Whitley Austin—hospital, scandal, decline—and for a fraction of a second, the armor shifts.

Then she arrives.

Anayansi.

Island-born. Water in her name. Tension in her shoulders. A woman who stands half in sunlight, half in shadow, as if the world has not yet decided what it plans to do with her.

Their reunion sparks and stumbles. He startles her. She laughs. He wraps an arm around her and finds pain beneath the fabric of her sleeve. Bruises tell stories she refuses to finish. At a nearby table, strangers spit venom dressed as jokes. On the beach, a man lunges. Security slams him into the sand. Americans scream about injustice they barely understand. James performs outrage like theater, twisting race, class, and hypocrisy into a mirror nobody wants to look into.

And through it all, Anayansi watches him bend the room.

He does not explode. He rearranges gravity.

At the table, over sweating beer and plates gone cold, they circle each other with questions that feel like loaded weapons. She has three children. Brothers who blackmail. A history that leaks through silence. He has a PhD, a military past, two fathers, a Black mother who nursed him back from the edge of death, and an employer who forbids his name from appearing beside celebrities. He jokes about being a doctor. He is not joking about knowing how minds fracture.

She wants out of Honduras. Out of humiliation. Out of being measured like livestock. She swears she is not looking at him as a passport.

He does not promise rescue.
He does not promise roses.

On the shoreline, she sings “Listen to Your Heart,” and he answers—not with flowers, but with the sea. He tells her she survives storms. He tells her losing her would feel like night pulled out of the tide. For once, she believes him.

Then the real questions surface.

Can he imagine them?

He speaks of visas, suspicion, red flags in British immigration offices. She speaks of naturalization in Montserrat, paperwork already filed, suitcases half-packed. She is not waiting for him to decide her fate. She is moving.

He recalculates.

London shifts to Credenhill. Village. Quiet. Two thousand souls.

And then she says it.

Special Reconnaissance Regiment?

The word hits like a tripwire.

For the first time in the chapter, James Stokes laughs too late.

Something in him goes still.

Chapter Two ends with a question hanging in salt air:

Who exactly is the man in white?

And what happens when the woman born of water starts seeing through him?