Greetings from D Louis Jones, near-side technologist and imaginer. Welcome to Ocean of Stars. Ocean is a Story Stack, a chronological thread whose end I picked up in high school.

Not that I knew it then. I just liked to write. A lot. High drama to me, bemusing to most of my family and teachers. Prone to oblivion, as most kids are, I kept cranking them out; short stories, novellas and even poems.

All that gorgeous paper. The back of homework handouts, wire bound notebooks, piles of end-of-the-school-year sheets of lined hole punch (college ruled only please). Those odd-dimensioned marbled covered, thread-bound folios in any color you want as long as it’s black, blue or red.

Sketches of characters and line drawings of devices were for the over-folded backs of mimeographed (too technical?) “Letters to your Parents”. Why purple mimeo prose formed the perfect backdrop for graphics in my mind, I have not a clue. As I hinted, back then having a clue was the worry of lesser mortals. I was writing. Boy at Work here!

When 8 ½ x 11 crimped my style, sliced up pallets of cardboard boxes were just the thing. Multi-colored marker pens were naturals for this exciting new medium. Hard to fold and stuff under your arm but that didn’t stop me from taking them into school to work on. It was the teachers that stopped that. A 2 by 3 foot hunk of cardboard sticking out in the classroom aisle was a bit over the top, even for me. Art stymied by architecture, how ironic.

End of road? Never. No such thing as too big a canvass. Full speed ahead. Next stop, the great outdoors. Autumn leaves racked together into the floor plan of a giant starship with luxurious enough dimensions to allow your bicycle shuttle craft to race along the corridors in search of alien intruders. Now that’s performance art.

I went off to college and the paper went in to boxes with the cap guns, toy soldiers and geodes. I was on my way, launched into the golden haze of undefined manly doings. The guns and soldiers are gone and I’m not too sure about the paper but the stories stayed in my head.

And those stories? To paraphrase the Bible, tribulations breed experience and experience patience and patience will sometimes, breed an inner eye. That inner eye flipped through all the paper and saw something unexpected. There's commonality here. Threads running through the same literary universe, a chronological Stack of doings. The realization enchanted and befuddled me in pretty much equal parts.

My English teachers could relate.

So, first out of the chute:

The Whisperers