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Introduction to This Excerpt
It’s rare that a story that begins with a prologue actually needs one. It has been my observation that we often write them primarily because they seem impressive, and because we’re so excited to share our worlds with our readers that we become impatient. I’ve read many a drafted prologue that turned out to have nothing to do with the immediate story at hand, but instead was meant to share some later or even fully irrelevant other aspect of a writer’s universe (when asked, the writers told me they’d done it for no other reason than because it looked cool). I’ve read quite a few with no justifiable reason to exist as anything other than an actual first chapter, as was partially the case with one of mine. I like to think it’s because we’ve seen such openings in movies and graphic novels, and we are driven to recapture that excitement, but perhaps we’re not stopping to think about why those scenes are so effective—or ineffective, as the case may sometimes be.
With the Ryozae Alliance Series, I originally chose to forgo this route, but I’ve found great benefit in having a prologue, though I had to backtrack several times to be sure what I had written was serving the story, and not simply my own glee. The trouble with writing prologues, I have found, is knowing not only whether to use one in the first place, but where and when it should take place.
My Original Draft opens very simply, in a mundane world—not stereotypically mundane, in the way you might think, so much as an expression of my complicated love affair with the setting, prior to upending its norms. I have a lifelong obsession with the surreal juxtaposition of things both familiar and strange, and the setting evolves heavily over time as it turns the other way around, and the strange becomes interspersed with the mundane. So, for a while I was concerned that readers might feel cheated, or otherwise mislead when my apparent beach-themed teen adventure-drama turns into something so much darker and more adult.
An early attempt to address the issue was also written because I was eager to show the other side of my universe. At the time, I was still handwriting the Original Draft while working on typing the first arc/book. As a writer, I was seeing the entire saga as one story, and I was becoming impatient with the opening acts. In the midst of a later arc, I had referenced a scene from the backstory, and while I loved the imagery and the idea, I had nowhere to put it. It was set shortly after the events below, and while at first I thought it would be a great prologue, it unfortunately included far too many characters and ideas packed into three pages. I’d never meant for readers to try and remember all of it, but it turns out that’s what readers do (I could probably do a whole other post just on the weird ways my brain does things and why!), so it had to go. (I may yet borrow from it when the time is right.)
Another attempt was set shortly before the beginning of the book, and not only is still referenced several times in the current draft, but I’ve kept the brief poem that was originally intended for it, and left its cryptic meaning up to the reader’s imagination.
Still another was moved into the opening chapter, where it better serves its purpose. Its reasons for existing are complicated, and its fate has long been uncertain, but the reason I’ve ultimately kept it is fairly simple: it makes sense and helps introduce several elements of the hero’s world at once. Removing it over-complicates the chapters before and after it and results in too much of a headache and a lot of exposition down the road.
For a long time, I kept all three openings, in part because I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, and still had trouble letting go of written material.
My fifth attempt opens the night before the events of the tale are set into motion. It was something I’d really wanted to write, but had no place for. I’ve found a better approach to telling how that scene played out within the story itself.
My final (sixth) prologue attempts to place the reader right where the story really begins, with a character whose role is critical, but whose perspective is rarely seen.
It makes sense, of course, to start “at the beginning” until you consider that the story has many such possible beginnings within its backstory. After all, how exactly should a story begin? Lord of the Rings (Tolkien, 1954-55) opens with events leading up to a critical transfer of ownership (Bilbo leaving Bag End and the Ring to Frodo)—and an understanding with the reader that under no uncertain terms will this be another children’s fairytale like The Hobbit (1937). The Wheel of Time (Jordan, 1990) begins with the death of the hero’s previous incarnation. Harry Potter (Rowling, 1997) begins just after the death of the hero’s parents, as the defining moment events are set in motion. There are perhaps a dozen ways Rowling could have opened that chapter, given how much happened even before Harry was delivered to his nearest relatives, but her ultimate choice leaves the reader with just the barest glimpse, and so many questions to be answered as the series progresses.
To depart from the fantasy theme, The Expanse (Corey, 2011-2021) also manages to kick off both Leviathan Wakes (2011) and the series in one brief, explosive shot, unveiling a tantalizing glimpse of a mysterious substance that will shape events to come, and leaving readers with the unknown fate of the sole survivor, whose story is slowly revealed through the course of the book.
These are also all examples of planned epics, and only two of them are presented as prologues.
On a smaller scale, a prologue can still be effective, just as it isn’t necessarily requisite for a large epic. Perhaps all we need is the key moment the enemy’s plans are set in motion. I’m partial to using Joanne Bertin’s Dragonlord (1998) books as an example of this (I might be a huge fan). Her first book opens with a scene that is short and to-the-point, but nonetheless captivated me as a teenager.
Whatever it is, if you choose to use a prologue, I believe it must be something you couldn’t otherwise and more interestingly have told the reader within the main narrative. The prologue is perhaps most useful if the story’s call to action occurs outside the main narrative. As readers, we expect to catch a glimpse of the Who, What, When, Where, and Why of the story which will tell us How.
The excerpt below is the fourth version I wrote, and was the final for a long time. I was still writing a multiverse story, and my goal had been to introduce its complex backstory. I knew I was going to be asking a lot from my readers, given how much worldbuilding I would need to present on top of it.
Ultimately, however, the multiverse concept would become irrelevant to later events. It fades out, as the real issues of the series came to light in the early phases of its construction. The question, at that point, was how in the hell I was going to get rid of something so heavily woven into the first half of my series—something I was deeply reluctant to rewrite, after having put so much work into it, further spurred by an urgent desire to prove I could still make it work. I admit I have been obstinately combative over the matter. I may have been wrong (there, you have it, I admitted it!). . . . Once I had some solid answers to my problem, other issues began sorting themselves out, and the end result is proving better for it.
I do still like this scene, but it does more to introduce my backstory than what’s to come. With some modification, it would function better as an opening for the entire series than the first book alone, which does make it a prime candidate for a sample piece, though I was never comfortable with the amount of exposition. In addition, the scene introduces Silver.
2022 marks 30 years since his earliest iteration came about, and for 30 years I’ve been hearing proverbial records scratch to a halt whenever I’ve attempted to explain to him to anyone. At this point in his evolution as a character, not only am I tired of dancing around the subject of his identity, but doing so does him no justice (I apply the pronoun loosely, chiefly for lack of an available alternative in the English language of the 1990s, and also because for 30 years I’ve never called him anything else, although the term has been tenuously ambiguous for longer than I can remember). If you want to know more about him (/them), I’ve also briefly mentioned this on Twitter.
Aside from a few tweaks made to improve clarity, I’ve largely left this as it was when I deleted it, errors and all. Fine-tuning at that level, after all, is a task best reserved for the current manuscript.
Thanks so much for reading!
CONTENT ADVISORY
A reminder that this work of fiction may contain direct or indirect depictions of or references to any of the following:
Crude or Abusive Language, Acts of Violence, Fear, Acts of Abuse, Abduction, Racism, Bigotry, Trauma, PTSD, Depression, Alcohol Use, Torture, Bodily Mutilation, and controversial topics such as race and gender identity. Reference to these topics does not necessarily indicate the author’s endorsement. They have occurred naturally throughout the course of the story’s development.
This list has been redacted from a more complete list for the series. Neither have been reviewed by a third party and may not be all-inclusive. The total work is still in progress, and has not yet been reviewed by a sensitivity reader. The author apologizes in advance for any unintended offence.
This series may also contain such wholesome topics as Love, Community, Fellowship, Coming of Age, Tolerance, Disability Awareness, and topics of Healing, including but not limited to Self-Acceptance, Self-Love, and Personal Strength.
4th Prologue
Thursday, March 1st, 1990
For the first time in a month, the blinds were open.
It had been almost a year since the last time Rhonna Sparker had needed a gun. Nevertheless, she carried it by her side while fixing dinner. Her ten-year-old son, Max, stood at the living room window, most likely still bearing a concealed 9mm while he peeked out at the strange new neighborhood around them. The crisp coastal wind whistled low through twisting live oaks and drummed the heavy fan-shaped fronds of stately cabbage palms.
“Do you think I’ll make new friends?” he asked aloud.
There was no emotion in his words, but it was still a good sign to hear him say something normal. She could tell he wasn’t talking to her, so she continued cutting vegetables for dinner.
“I won’t be allowed to carry my gun anymore; but I guess since you’re here, I’ll be alright. You are watching, right?”
Silence answered him, but she was used to it by now. She knew who he was speaking to—and it wasn’t himself. She had put her trust in yet another being from still another planet. Her son was safe. From the sound of it, he was starting to figure that out.
“I believe you. But you’re not infallible. I’d still rather have a weapon.”
Sighing softly, Rhonna pictured him, the son of her Asian American ex-husband, resting his scarred wrists on the windowsill, brown eyes staring hauntingly from his disfigured face as the occasional car rolled by; injuries from alien abductions that had carried him to places as far away as a forest in Colorado, the Arizona desert, and an orbital station over Refvrenzo. It had been less than a year since they’d had to travel to a whole other planet to find him.
Those days were over, now, thank God. She’d hoped that the move to Mount Pleasant, South Carolina from Lincoln, Nebraska would take away some of the reminders of the past five years and help him heal. Maybe by the time he started high school, he’d even be smiling again. She had nightmares about those eyes.
“Mom,” he called, “Silver’s gonna be here in about ten minutes. He’s alone.”
That being he was talking to had served them well as an early warning system . . . if only it had been with him five years ago—and every year of Hell since.
He, she reminded herself, his name is Toby.
Max walked up to the kitchen door and leaned against the frame, watching her for a moment. Then he pointed at her beer, “Can I have some?”
Very few things surprised her anymore, but she did a double-take at that, “No!”
He grimaced, “Can I when I’m thirteen?”
“No!” she said again, “When you’re twenty-one, Maxwell. That’s the law, and I’d rather if you never did.” That had been the Federal Minimum Age since 1984, and she didn’t see it falling anytime soon, though she still thought it was ridiculous that a college freshmen or a young military recruit couldn’t have a glass of wine.
His lips twisted in disgust and he turned to leave, grumbling, “I’m not a child.”
She grabbed his shoulder, knowing better than to grab his wrists, “I don’t want you to hurt yourself, Max. Once you start drinking it could open a whole new set of problems you’re going to regret. People die from this stuff, you know.”
He pulled away, glaring at her, “You’re doing it.”
“I’m not the one seeing a therapist every week.”
His dark, haunted eyes met her dispassionately, “Maybe you should.”
She felt her fingers tense as her blood pressure rose sharply, “I’m paying our bills, Max. I’m your mother. The only thing that matters to me is your well-being. Besides,” she grabbed the bottle, “I have to work tomorrow. I can’t afford to get wasted, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a couple of drinks, because I’m old enough to know how to drink responsibly. And your body is still developing, because you’re ten. I shudder to think what drinking could do to you at your age. Probably stunt your brain and shrivel your liver.”
“It can’t do me any worse than I’ve already had, Mom.”
Visions of alcohol poisoning on top of all those alien experiments threatened to overcome her. “And that’s another thing—“
He recoiled angrily, snapping, “If it brings me peace, at least I’ll die fucking happy.”
She sucked in a breath as he walked away. At least I’ll die happy. Were those words were meant to reassure her? Did he think his life was already over?
Tears welled up in her eyes as she took another drink and set the bottle down. She brushed them away. She’d have to speak with Silver when he arrived. If this relocation idea didn’t work, and her son was talking about drinking himself to death at ten years old, surely a shapeshifting alien as old and powerful as Silver would have an answer for her. If he didn’t, and the alien company he worked with didn’t, she was out of ideas.
Rhonna pushed back a few errant strands of her dark red hair, finished cutting the vegetables, and set them aside. If she was going to have this talk, she wasn’t going to have time to put dinner on the stove.
An old motorcycle puttered into the driveway—the same well-tended ’29 Indian Scout 101 that Silver had been driving for years. From the living room, their aging Rottweiler’s tags jingled as he waited in anticipation. The door opened, and she heard a familiar light male voice in the living room.
“Hey, Bern, how’re you feeling?” Silver addressed her son by his middle name. Everyone did, but she’d never gotten out of the habit of calling him Max. “Bernard” had been her ex-husband Terry’s idea, so the name sometimes caused her more internal conflict than she’d ever cared to deal with, though truthfully it was a trivial matter, compared to what she’d been dealing with.
The door closed, and Max answered in an alien tongue, “Eh, Ahn’i entrii.” I’m alright.
He’s lying, she thought.
“Sserr’a-rna di’adi?” How’re you?
Rhonna closed her eyes, took a breath, and listened while they talked, her son lightly slurring his syllables together like a native speaker. Then she finished her beer, took a breath, and walked into the living room.
Silver had been born in Mongolia, long before it had ever existed as a country, and he’d claimed that heritage proudly in his human appearance. Before she’d met him, the only other people Rhonna had ever met of Asian descent were Terry and her former in-laws. That Silver even vaguely resembled her ex had once given her pause. Deep down, she hadn’t liked being reminded of her failed marriage, even though it wasn’t Silver’s fault. After that, it was the fact that it had taken over a year to figure out whether he was male or female (he was “both and neither”—something she had never encountered before), and she didn’t know what kind of influence that would have on Max’s life.
Once she’d gotten through that, and accepted that Silver was his friend, and that was all that really mattered, it was the time she found out he wasn’t even human at all. Silver had been born a dinosaur—a real dinosaur! A dromaeosaur of some kind, with flesh-ripping talons like a giant eagle or lizard. Saurian, he’d called himself; or in his own tongue: Ryozae. She’d really worried what kind of influence a creature like that might have on her child.
And after that . . . it had been the utterly weird ideas Silver had about the universe and his unconventional approach to being human. He had challenged her worldview in ways she hadn’t been ready for. What was more: he knew he was doing it, and had even approached her about it directly, because that was his nature.
Looking back on the past five years, she could only laugh bitterly at her naivety. Silver had protected Max with his life more than once from real galactic terrors. And truthfully? Silver respected her son, and never once spoke down to him. He was a rare breed—even among his own kind, according to his family—and the only reason she’d never trusted him in the first place had been because of the prejudices and limited views she’d learned from her own upbringing.
“Silver, could I speak to you?”
“Sure, Rhone,” he quipped cheerfully.
Only slightly taller than her son, Silver studied the boy’s eyes carefully before he patted Max on the shoulder and followed her out of the living room. The smile melted away the moment he turned his back on the boy.
They walked into her bedroom and he shut the door. A bright blue light flashed along the walls, his eyes shimmering in gold for just a second before he faded back into a normal-looking thirty-something human. As normal as one could expect him to be, anyway. She’d noticed he wasn’t dressed in his usual pizzaz, but instead wore standard leather and denim riding gear.
He’d sealed the room, using what she still called “magic” and he simply called “ability”, to prevent Toby from listening—or anyone else. A reminder of the possibility of alien eavesdroppers; that, for years now, she’d barely trusted the air she breathed—let alone the shadows of her own home.
Something was up.
He looked worried, but said, “What did you want to talk about?”
“It’s Max.” Her throat began to tighten. She cleared it, and pushed through the emotions, “After all the therapy—all the help from you, your family, and the Agency . . . I know we’ve got the best doctors and the best antidepressants, but I don’t think it’s doing any good. He’s just repressing his symptoms and putting on a face for the rest of us.”
She related the exchange in her kitchen over the beer, and watched Silver’s face. If he looked worried before, now he just looked sad . . . and more tired than she’d seen him in a long time.
“What if . . . , ” he started. Then he swallowed, and said again, “What if I told you . . . we might be able to undo this?”
“Un-do?” she echoed, confused, “How so?”
“I mean . . . , ” he nodded at the ceiling, “I secured the room for a reason, Rhonna. We don’t need anyone listening in, you know? And this is . . . this opportunity . . . I’ve never even heard of this before, but we might stand a chance at re-writing history.”
She stared. He’d lost his mind. Silver was older than dirt and had a lot of weird ideas about the multiple universes and higher powers, but this? She wasn’t even sure she’d heard him right.
Each word he spoke carried the gravity of careful deliberation, “I had a conversation the other day with my nephews. An intriguing possibility stands available, and I’ve taken some time to really think it over. We’ve been given a chance to fix this. All of it. We could go back, get rid of Nightmare and Dark before they ever reach this planet, and it’d be like nothing ever happened. You’ll never see or hear from us. The kids can just be kids like they were meant to be. All we’d need is everyone’s consent—especially Bernard’s, since it’d really be mostly for him.”
“He’s a child,” she stated, even as she was trying to process what he was saying, “We’ve been through this: you can’t go treating human children like your own.”
Silver spread his hands, palms up in a vaguely wing-like gesture. “Obviously. Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. What was done should never have happened. No child of any species should go through what he has. We’ve been counting on him to adapt, but we still don’t understand everything that happened. I don’t know if he ever will recover. This option is experimental, of course . . . but I don’t suppose that’s different from any other day.”
Five years of torment. Aliens in the shadows of her home, waiting to snatch her child in the middle of the day. Constant fear. Fear of being watched. Of their struggle being found out by other aliens. Her own son carrying a firearm everywhere he went. The other children in her family doing likewise—her best friend’s daughter among them. The endless testing of alien compounds in his blood, and testing to see what those were and what effects they might be having on him.
My child is not a test subject! she thought fervently.
But he was. They had no concrete options. Only theories, and more tests.
“We can’t guarantee any results,” Silver went on, “Only that we can’t go with you if we do it. You’ll live normal, human lives.”
Normal, he’d said. A chance to be normal again.
“And Terry?” she asked of her ex-husband.
“He made his choices long before this began. I’m afraid I can’t help you, there.”
No more Nightmare, she thought, no more Dark. Gone would be the terrors that had plagued her world for five years. There would also be no more Ryozae, Drorgs, Refrvish, Ilaysians, or other extraterrestrials. They’d be like any other family.
Silver, his niece Samantha, and her husband Daniel would be gone.
She couldn’t see how they’d have gotten through all of this without them or the Drorgs.
My son would be dead.
Then the words he’d said in the kitchen rang back through her head, At least I’ll die fucking happy.
As accustomed as she was to her son, she knew better: no ten-year-old should talk like that.
He could be normal.
She could find a new husband, and Max could have a father—a real, human father that talked to him about normal, human things like how to fish for trout or how to drive a tractor. A nice man, like her sister’s husband, who would help pay the bills and take her out to the movies on Saturday nights, and let her cry on his shoulder after a bad day at work.
But she’d known Silver’s family almost since she’d first met Terry—she’d met them through Terry. The way Silver was talking, she’d have to give them up, as well. He was right: bringing her husband back would be too complicated.
“Have you talked to Sam?” she asked.
Silver leaned against the door. “I have. She doesn’t feel she has any say in it. Nor does Danny, even though it was his suggestion. We have two months to make a choice. Even with busy schedules, that’s enough time to fully consider any obvious repercussions, to say nothing of those we can’t predict. Bernard has to make the final choice.”
“I’m his mother, Sylvester Rizek,” she reiterated, emphasizing her earlier point with his full name and his native surname.
“It’s him we’re doing it for,” Silver said again, “After what he’s been through, most higher beings don’t see him as an innocent. He’s been changed, and he has the maturity and presence of mind to make this choice for himself.”
“I’m still his mother!” Dammit to hell, if she couldn’t have control over his safety before, why couldn’t she have this? “He’s a minor!”
“After all he’s been through, his age hardly matters. Have you been listening to him? Minor or not—we’re speaking beyond the boundaries of national legislation. He might as well be fifteen.”
“He’s ten!”
“I don’t write the rules, Rhonna.”
“I know that,” she snapped, frustrated. Then she sighed. Being angry with Silver would get her nowhere.
Then a thought occurred to her: “What about you? I mean . . . if we could do a thing like this . . . you’re sure you won’t be able to go with us?”
His fingers tightened on his wrist, in one of the habits that many of his kind had picked up when they needed to remember that human bodies don’t have wings to gesture with.
“No,” he said uncomfortably, “I wouldn’t. We wouldn’t be able to risk the chance that any of you would find out what we are. Alternatively, we can arrange another trip to Shonthera and see if we can achieve faster or at least more concrete results. Toby’s been with him for less than a year, so it’s too early to say how much he helps, but the fact that Bern hasn’t shut down since we came back from Refvrenzo says a lot.”
“He’d probably prefer that option,” Rhonna said, half to herself, “I think they’ve grown close.”
“But going back could mean none of this ever happened to him at all.”
“ ‘Could’?”
The light caught an alien amber hue in Silver’s eyes, as he looked dead into hers and said, “Time is complicated, and life is unpredictable. We’d be doing something that has never been attempted before, and will have unforseeable consequences. Something else may come along, but who’s to say it won’t, either way? But this, what happened to your son over the past five years, will never happen ever again. We know exactly when and how Nightmare and Dark left for Earth, and now we know how to kill them. More than likely, Sam and Danny would be responsible for going back to do the job.”
“I’ll have to go home to the rest of my family.” His voice tightened, “I can’t run from my past forever, anyway.”
By now, Rhonna understood too well the things that kept him up at night. That he’d be willing to give them an option like this, knowing what it would mean for his own future, gave her pause for thought. Could she do this to him—and to her own son? If they rewrote history, she’d never know the difference, but she was cognizant of her choices here and now. That mattered, didn’t it?
“You’ll have two months,” he reminded her, his tone lightening with effort, “After that, Osa’Majha Gai’en will require an answer. So do you want to tell Bern, or should I?”
At first, the name surprised her. Why would someone like that care about a single small boy? Then it struck her: They had piqued the interest of a quasi-omniscient being of immense power. One willing to move the universe for them. The implications were dizzying.
“Let me finish cooking dinner,” she said, “Then I’ll let you know what I think.”
They walked back into the hall, and she went to grab another beer out of the refrigerator, taking a moment to reflect on where she was in the cooking process, and whether she could get away with a third drink over dinner at her age. These weren’t exactly light brews.
In the living room, she heard Silver’s voice speaking in soft undertones, at once gentle and firm, comforting and commanding. From the sound of it, Max was having a panic episode and had withdrawn onto the couch. As much as she wanted to stop everything for him, the best thing she could do was let Silver handle it. For some reason, that voice could reach her son in ways she’d never been able to. Frustrated, she counted her blessings while she finished putting food on the table.
In two months, she could have her son back.
Taladay Arts 
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