Copyright © Ronnie Coleinger Publishing
By Ronnie Coleinger
As most of us turn four or five years old, we begin learning to read and write our words. Most parents by this time in a child life have read them a mountain of books. My mother spent countless hours before I started attending school teaching me to write my letters and spell my words. I can remember sitting at a tiny table in the living room with a lined sheet of paper, a Dixon No.2/HB pencil with a well-used red erasure and my mother’s steady hand guiding my pencil to create my letters. As I copied the letters that she had written on the top line of the paper, I switched up the letters and accidently wrote the word CAT. I remember my mother looking at me with a smile that meant only one thing. I had done well. She asked if I could tell her what word I had written. I looked at it carefully and the word cat came out of my mouth.
It was my mother’s patience with me that day that broke the ice and instilled my desire to understand every letter and every word of the English language. By the time I was ten, I read everything I could get my hands on, engine repair manuals, encyclopedias, Science Illustrated, Penthouse and every book I could find on electronics. When I was old enough to begin using the library, I began to live there. I would have put a cot and sleeping bag in the corner and spent my life reading every book on the shelves if my father would have allowed it.
When I entered high school, I met up with an English teacher who was a gifted poet. I swear this man would stop talking during an English class, write down a couple lines of a pentameter he was working on and then resume teaching the class. He was incredible. The man quickly learned that I loved to write fiction and science fiction and he pushed me in that direction. He also understood that I was very shy, very introverted. The man seemed to have made it his life’s work to turn me away from those traits. To my dislike, he soon had me up in front of the class reading aloud. At first, I was so nervous I could have puked in the trashcan sitting beside his desk. That trashcan eventually became a crutch, a distraction from my fears. If the janitors moved the trashcan to the other side of the desk when they cleaned, I would walk in front of the teacher’s desk and stand there, very near to my crutch. Yes, that English teacher did eventually catch on. He started moving the trashcan under his desk before class started; but I knew it was there, I could feel its presence deep down in my soul. I could feel it pressing against the center of my back, forcing me to stand up straight, to face the fear my peers imposed upon me.
By the time I was a senior, I had learned to enjoy reading in front of others. It took me a long time to understand that everyone around me was just as nervous as I was. I also thought it was just me that struggled up there in front of that class, but it turned out I was wrong. During those English classes, seldom would you hear a giggle if someone flubbed a word or lost their place while reading, because if you giggled at the wrong time, you might instantly acquire your turn standing in front of the class reading aloud.
Later in life, as I completed airborne and ground radar electronics school, I was told to prepare an oral evaluation of my skills and be prepared to address the Base Commander. The commander’s job was to ensure that every trainee was placed in a job that would benefit the military. I was scared to death to stand before that man and tell him how well I was trained in electronics and why he should assign me to a NORAD base. As I knocked on that commander’s door, announced myself and stood at attention in front of his desk, my eyes wondered down to the floor for only a brief moment: Just long enough to spot the olive drab trash can with the clear plastic bag liner sitting there. It was at that moment I found my courage and discovered I could address that commander with confidence.
Because of one high school English teacher, I was assigned to a job I dreamed about. I was given the privilege to help design and repair some of the United States most sophisticated surveillance equipment. To this day I am most humbled by the teachers that taught at the school where I lived and grew up.
I am a believer that to help our children learn to not be fearful speaking in front of people, we need to get them up in front of their peers and mentors at an early age. As parents, start reading to them and have them read to you. Create a family time when your child can read a book of their choice to you, or to the entire family. Guide them, encourage them; if they stumble, giggle with them not at them. Help them gain their self-confidence. We all can overcome our fears of public speaking if given a chance to practice and succeed. Start this very day, reading with your child and having them read to you. The confidence you inspire in your child’s mind will spill over into their everyday lives. Let your child look into the eyes of fear. Let them defeat the fear within themselves and feel confident to stand before a crowd and speak. Public speaking is a gift that can either make us feel special, or cause us to hide in fear of our peers’ reproach. I hope that the next time your child needs to speak in public, they have gained the confidence to take a deep breath, pull their shoulders back, stand tall, smile, and wow their audience!
Have a great day
Welcome To My Author Website
Ronnie Coleinger Publishing
Ronnie Coleinger - Author Biography
As an author of fiction and science fiction novels and short story collections, I have begun to realize that some of you out there may not believe in the concept of time travel. I find myself speechless over this discovery, however, I feel it my duty to guide my readers towards a time in Earth’s future when time travel is commonplace. My collection of science fiction genre eBooks deal with a time travel method that uses vessels (membranes) created from eleventh-dimension string energy to support human life as they travel through the cosmos. You will find a wealth of information on my website to support my design concepts for the time travel membranes, travel computers, and travel watches, along with information about the eleventh dimension and string energy.
Over the years, as I write about time travel, I have explained my belief of what exists in the cosmos besides the universe we humans live within. Our universe is vast and we may never explore even a fraction of what is out there. Try to grasp the fact that the Milky Way Galaxy where we humans live, is one of millions that populate our universe. The question I seek answers to revolves around how many other universes are located within the cosmos other than ours. Logic tells me that the creator did not just create this one single universe, he created many. As my mind ponders this question, I have come up with my own thoughts.
Many years ago, sometime during high school, I began writing about space and time travel. Soon, I began writing about how starships could travel back in time to the point of our galaxy’s singularity, when it was just a tiny speck, about the size of a pin head. I understood that a millisecond before our universe exploded into existence (just before the Big Bang), one might be able to look around and see what else existed out there in the cosmos. I surmised that we would have seen a field of tiny dimly lit glimmering specks in a black background. Just as one might see when looking up into Earth’s starlit sky on a very dark night.
It was then that I hit upon the idea that a starship could travel back to a universe’s singularity (speck) and then jump-out of our universe and into that vast dark place that I call the cosmos. There, a time traveler would be able to see millions of tiny specks, some nearby, some many light years away. At that point, a starship could travel to any speck or universe of their choosing. When one wanted to make a stop and visit another universe, the starships Time Travel Computer would simply jump-in to that speck and begin moving forward in time.
The IFTT (International Federation of Time Travel) has identified several inhabited universes in the cosmos. You can study up on each of them by visiting my website and selecting the page titled, Known Universes. Just so you know, the universe we humans live within is known as Universe Number Two. Universe Number One, which goes by the name of Lyraja and is home to the Bahs. The formal address for the Bahs is written like this: Universe Number Two, galaxy of Nosaj, planet of Reja.
Just a small point to pass along: The entities of planet Earth always considered their universe the only one in existence so they never gave it a proper name as the Bahs did. The Biblical documentation on planet Earth spoke of their God creating the heavens and the earth. Humans considered their God’s word to mean that only one universe existed. In Ronnie Coleinger’s world, there is only one God, but many universes.
Those of you who feel the need to explore our universe and the cosmos, in which we humans live, may find the concepts of eleventh-dimension time travel to be exciting and possibly downright exhilarating. Within the human mind lies the ability to explore the cosmos without physical limitations or barriers. We can travel to new, yet unexplored places within the cosmos and create entities that will challenge the human mind to comprehend. Let your mind find its way to the farthest reaches of the cosmos, where only God has ever ventured. Come join me on a journey towards the end of time, a time in the 601st century when the Andromeda and Milky Way Galaxies merge. I wrote of an ancient prophesy that spoke about an end to all that existed within the cosmos and an end of time. The only thing left in the cosmos was space, but that writing also spoke of life’s reemergence in a new age.
Ronnie Coleinger’s Concept of Eleventh Dimension Time Travel
I have always been fascinated with the concept of time travel, almost to the point of obsession. I am certain that human time travel in the twenty-first century will never become a physical reality, but within the confines of the human mind, there are no limitations. There seems to be a fine line between sanity and lunacy when it comes to writers of science fiction. I may have crossed that line. I am certain I have crossed that line, as my mind lives somewhere between the 121st century and the 601st century AD, a time when the ideas portrayed in the Buck Rogers Comic Book stories long ago became reality.
Many years ago, my chemistry teacher looked me in the eyes during class and asked me to explain to him what world I lived in, as I certainly was not living in the same world as the rest of the class. The tone of his voice gave me the impression he was being very sarcastic. I certainly was not living in the same world as my teacher that day, or any other day for that matter. I laughed at his ridiculous question, and had no real answer for him. I am certain he did not consider his question to be a joke, and he was furious at my response. The man is probably dead by now, but I would like to meet him in my next life and explain in great detail what world I live in, as I now know the answer to his question.
As I worked on the fifth and sixth volumes of the Intergalactic Peddler Series, I found I had to advance the science of the 121st century for my story line to continue. The development of the series is like a child’s white lie. Each telling of the lie nourishes the next telling, and the lie slowly turns into a full-blown outright boldface butt-whipping fabrication. I became concerned that by the time I had completed the writing of the sixth and final volume of the series, my fabrication would be so big even my own mind would not be able to cope with it. By the time I completed the final draft for volume VI, the outline and documentation needed to keep the details of the science, the characters, and the family tree in proper perspective and time line became massive.
The first volume of the Peddler Series starts out very slowly. I tried to put some exciting first paragraph into the story, but it only added to the confusion. I finally did what many writers say never to do and gave my reader all of the back-story, up front. Keep your comments to yourself for now. My peers and mentors have already properly chastised me for doing so, so you can save your criticism. Send me an e-mail and I will add you to the long list of people that wish to speak at my funeral and tell how I failed the writing profession. You can get in line directly behind those that wish to address my choice to self-publish my work, instead of having it traditionally published. Bring a lunch, as the line will be forming a few blocks down the street from the Chapel.
Those of you who feel the need to explore our universe and the cosmos, in which we humans live, will find the concepts of eleventh-dimension time travel to be exciting, and possibly downright exhilarating. Within the human mind lies the ability to explore the cosmos without physical limitations or barriers. We can travel to new, yet unexplored places within the cosmos, and create entities that will challenge the human mind to comprehend. Let your mind find its way to the farthest reaches of the cosmos, where only our God knows what exists there. Come join me on a journey towards the end of time, a time in the 601st century when the Andromeda and Milky Way Galaxies merge. I wrote of an ancient prophesy that spoke of the ending of the human race and all of time, but it also spoke of the reemergence in the new age.
Volume VI of the Intergalactic Peddler series is now complete. To keep the details and storyline accurate, I created an outline for my eBooks, starting with volume one. I used spreadsheets and word documents to keep track of the characters, the story timeline, and to create the original outline. I have placed much of this information on my website so my readers can use it to help keep track of the characters and the massive information on universes and entities I created. I also added drawings for the eleventh-dimension time travel membranes so my readers can visualize what it is I am trying to convey to them. I also created genealogy family trees to help keep the character ages in check. Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words.
Ronnie Coleinger Publishing
Ronnie’s First Bike
I have excerpted this short story from the short story collection titled, Tales and Prose Collection. This short story is one found in that collection titled, A Dying Memory. I have renamed the story for this webpage.
I remember that my parents lived in a second-floor apartment. To gain access to the apartment required one to walk up a long wooden stairway with a landing halfway up. Mother had left Father in charge of watching me, but he had fallen asleep on the couch with the television playing and a cigarette burning in the pedestal ashtray setting beside the couch. My mother had walked downstairs to visit the lady tenant that rented the first-floor apartment. Since there was no one for me to play with, I retrieved my small four-wheel wooden bike and began riding around the second-floor apartment's bare hardwood floors. Mother kept the rugs picked up so I could ride without stalling out and yelling for her assistance. The sound of the wooden wheels of my bike running over the hardwood floors should have alerted Father to pay more attention to me, but he did not wake from his nap. That lack of attention on my father’s part would prove to be a serious error in judgment.
As I rode around the apartment, I would simply keep peddling and make a sharp u-turn at the end of the hallway, just at the top of the stairway leading down to the first floor. As I made one such u-turn, I misjudged the speed of my bike and turned much too wide. Suddenly, I realized I was about to ride my bike down the flight of stairs at full speed. I had no brakes except for my stocking feet and they had little purchase on the smooth hardwood floor.
I felt my life move into slow motion as the front wheels of my wooden bike lifted into the air. I raised my feet off the pedals and felt my butt bang down hard onto the wooden seat of the bike as gravity pulled my body down. I knew I had bit my tongue. I could taste the blood on my lips, but I did not cry. I had no time for emotions, I only had time to open my mouth for one last scream, but I do not remember uttering a single word as my butt hit the wooden bike seat for a second time. I had journeyed down twelve or so steps by the time I saw the landing coming up quickly, directly in front of me. I was confident I could stop there and be okay. I put my stocking feet down hoping to land this airborne bike my father had bought for me. My brakes quickly failed. As I touched down on the landing, the front wheels of my bike turned and launched me off the landing and down towards the first floor. It was at that moment I realized I was having the time of my life. The fear had subsided and now my two-year-old male voice was squealing with joy at the wonderful ride, while my father slept on: Father's cigarette continued to burn in the pedestal ashtray at the top of the stairs.
The real problem with all this entertainment my father had provided me with was that there was a wall at the bottom of the stairs. Actually, the wall supported a full-length mirror. I remember seeing my own reflection, the reflection of my face changing from a huge grin to that of utter fear. I had come to the realization that I was about to run headlong into my own reflection. My only thoughts were that my mother would be mad if I smeared blood from my tongue on that mirror when I ran into it. I tried again in vain to apply my stocking feet brakes, but I had acquired too much momentum to regain control of my four-wheel bike in flight. The slow-motion life I had lived for the last three or four seconds was now over and my mind changed speeds to hyper-flight. I hit the mirror as a bird would hit a freshly washed windowpane. I felt my body slam into the mirror, seeing my own reflection as my nose hit the glass.
Then I heard a sound unlike any I had ever heard in my life. The sound was incredible, but it did resemble the sound I once made when I fell out of my crib and hit the floor with a thump. After a moment of reflection, I realized the source of that sound was originating from my own bleeding mouth. As I lay on the carpet covered concrete floor, on my back, to stunned to even consider moving, only able to scream; I saw the face of my mother looking down at me. I reached my tiny arms up in hopes she could stop the pain radiating through my body.
I then heard another sound that I recognized instantly. As my mother kneeled on the floor to pick me up to see if I was dying, or only had the piss frightened out of me, the words the woman spoke hurt my tiny ears. The words that came from Mother’s mouth were words my father, I am certain, hoped never to hear his wife speak to him. Actually, there was only one word that I distinctly remember her speaking to Father. The word was, sonofabitchingmanwilldiewhenIgetmyhandsonhim.
Mother carried me to the top of the stairs and screamed at my father. Father woke with a start, probably thinking the Lions had actually made a touchdown or something silly like that. I had never seen such a look on my father's face as the one I saw when he spotted the bloody face of his child and heard the words his hysterical wife was screaming at him.
When Mother had finished washing my face, she gave me hot chocolate with marshmallows floating on top to calm me after my death defying flight. A short while later she tucked me into my crib for my afternoon nap. I remember her sitting in the rocker beside my crib as I fell asleep that afternoon. I truly believe my mother did not want to spend any time in the same room with my father, at least for the rest of that day. I was also certain she planned to insure I did not make any more unscheduled flights down those stairs.
When I got up from my afternoon nap, my father was absent from the apartment. He returned later that afternoon. I remember the silence in the apartment as Father installed a wooden gate at the top of the stairway to prevent any more attempts by me to break the sound barrier on my wooden four-wheeled bike.
Later that afternoon, Father used a small piece of sandpaper to sand away the burn mark on the hardwood floor under where his ashtray stood. I remember the smell as he tried to blend in the varnish so the burn mark was not visible, hoping all the time that he never again heard that long drawn out word his wife had spoken to him earlier in the day.