Monthly Archives: May 2012

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Bohemian’s at Large: Eli IS Metal.

Literally – He’s a cyborg ;)

 My brother recently contacted me about his Jewelry making venture. He is in the habit of collecting “Meddly bits” (screws, washers, small machine parts, scraps of rusted or twisted metal, he finds lying around on side-walks and in parking lots.)

Rust! It’s a woman’s best friend – apparently.

He assembles these fragments into pendants. Often he is forced to age store-bought parts with corrosive chemicals that come with “rusting kits” but I’m told this is no substitute for the natural patina of found parts, which conspires to make each of his pieces unique.

Left to right; Timekeeper’s Key – Pendulum of Risk – Conflux Cog – Iscariot’s Cog

He started with the metal and plastic string picks guitar player’s often ware around their necks. These picks have become a fad among anyone who loves music, and are more often than not merely decorative. He used these guitar picks as a base plate for his earlier work, things I feel, really define the wearer as a true fan of metal.

A great way to say – “I Don’t really use these to play the guitar but – arn’t they cool!”

Recently he started to make more complex, labor-intensive pieces that have attracted the attention of his friends and co-workers. He has already sold several, and is optimistic about where this can go.

Eastwest! says the Fool’s Compass. I want it but he is keeping it.

A friend of his owns a café with an adjoining gift shop, and has been after him to display his pieces there.

Wyrd Inc.

Recently he has asked me if I would mind writing a steam punk mythology to accompany his pieces. Larger pieces may be given their own unique stories but here is the one that describes every piece -

He hopes to sell them online using Etsy – though Wyrd Works is still in the works.　

　

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Oscura.

Chapter One

Quincy’s Notes – Day one.

The ferryman has reluctantly agreed to take me out to Oscura.

They call it the island of ghosts.

I asked him if Oscura meant “dark” or “obscure”.

Instead of an answer I was shot with a cold stare – and warned – not to say the island’s name too often.

Both in my hand and back at the cabin are copies of a contract promising more money then I’ve ever seen.

The task is simple, spend a week on the island and live to tell the tale.

This sounds crazy but actually makes a lot of sense. A company called the Salmon Bird Group is licking it’s chops at the thought of developing the island, but wants to quell rumors of a curse before the big purchase, least the investors pull out.

Sand, palm trees, thicker growth further in, nothing unexpected. I’ll set up camp and spend the night.

Day two.

It is a beautiful morning. The wind off the sea drives the jungle bugs away. I can go pretty far in before the flies become a problem.

Some animal seems to have made off with my food supplies. I hung them from a tree but returned to see the bag tangled high in the branches. I pulled it down and found it empty. Perhaps it was the work of an unusually large monkey. No matter, I still have my water and there are signs of wild pigs. I’ve never been one to eat fish when pork is available. I figure there will be one less to shoot when the island is cleared of vermin.

I found a small bore just in time for lunch. It showed little fear of people. A sign, I hoped, that this island was truly uninhabited.

A rock struck me as I took aim.

When I turned there was a basket of fruit and sliced tubers.

I accepted the gift, though I will taste it with caution.

The Salmon Bird Group will not be pleased if some elusive native tribe is discovered squatting on their prospects. The tribe’s claim would trump all others, and I would be the one to deliver the news.

Day three.

I caught a young girl as she was attempting to leave me some breakfast. Thankfully, she appears to be a castaway from the mainland. Save for the remains of a swim suit she is mostly naked. I have given her some of my clothes.

The girl doesn’t seem to be able to speak. She has made no attempt to communicate in any language. I feel she may be mentally challenged. Perhaps she has run – or more appropriately swam – away from home.

Her survival here is a good sign. If Oscura can support one lone human so easily, then it is definitely not the death trap the locals think it is.

Day four.

My new friend has many skills. When we are forced to part, I will certainly miss her cooking. I plan to take the girl, if possible, to a specialist on the mainland, to help her learn to speak and perhaps find her family.

I requested a tour of the island and she seemed to have understood me. We went for a long walk down an almost invisible trail in the bush.

There are sines of habitation here, several ancient ruins of the type usually encountered on the mainland. There is some kind of military installation too but it is long abandoned.

Day five.

Almost bagged a goose today. It seems the girl is overly fond of the island’s animals and will not permit me to hunt them.

The girl lead me to a new location after the incident with the goose.

One of those small stone temples belonging to the islands ancient inhabitants was filled to the brim with bleached bones.

I noticed the skulls of wolves, falcons and small jungle cats.

The girl clearly treats it as some sort of animal grave yard, but it is unlikely she could have gathered all these bones herself. It seems that until recently, someone was making ritual sacrifices here.

The location of the temple suggests people may have come from the main land to leave offerings. Understandable. If the island was feared, people would want to appease the spirits.

Day six.

All in all I can’t seem to find signs of anyone else. A more throughough search will be needed before going ahead with any plans, or at least that is what I think. The ruins should be left intact to avoid controversy. It’s possible many may worship this place as well as fear it.

Since I was asked to confirm the island’s relitive safety and not advise on legal or moral concerns, please consider these to be merely suggestions.

A stock of the native wildlife should be taken into account – both for reasons of conservation and as a possible draw for visitors.

Several feral species have moved in but can be eliminated easily.

The ruins can be a blessing or a curse depending on how you handle them, see that they are preserved and studied if better press is necessary.

Day seven -

The girl has joined me as I await the ferry. She seems eager to be on her way. This is a beautiful place shrouded in the myth and mystery of its mountains and waterfalls. Many will flock to these misty shores if the island can be made habitable. It is practically habitable now.

It has been left vacant out of respect I believe.

People will resent the group for claiming to posess it.

I would recommend making a large portion of it public, and being lienent on any tresspassers. “We are just making a good thing better.” Is the message I wound send to the locals.

　

　

* * *

The small, leather-bound book was slapped shut and handed back to it’s owner,

Mr. Quincy McClain.

He stood in the office of Edward Fallows, chief legal advisor to the Salmon Bird Group.

In the corner sat Kirin, Quincy’s silent souvenir from an otherwise routine adventure.

Quincy had chosen a name for the girl after all attempts to find her family had failed. His friends told him to dump the liability in one institution or another. Yet save for her apparent inability to speak, Kirin was no trouble at all.

Edward poured himself another drink and swallowed it.

No cigars, just liquor, lots of harsh brown whiskey. The good stuff was for celebrating, the cheep stuff was a painkiller.

“Quincy.” He said. “We were lead to believe the island was uninhabited.”

Quincy crushed the journal between his fingers. “There is no way one person could have confirmed that in the span of a week. I told you to search the place.”

“We did.” said Edward. “It was all clear but . . . ”

Quincy never cared for dramatic pauses.

“Well, go on.”

Edward sighed.

“Sir, something is killing people!”

　

　

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Legends Wait.

 Secrets come and secrets go.

Secrets pass fore all who know,

till all is lost and thus forgotten.

 

All is gone, gone, far away.

 

Yet past the veil, the unremembered,

the outer realm of truth unknown,

there where fact is undetermined

yawns the pit where lies are thrown.

 

Above them, winds of speculation,

stir and beckon to the soul,

yet onward runs the endless journey

toward some shining, distant goal.

 

Still there always is that boundary

beyond the limits of clear sight,

that sacred, hidden country

where shadows bend the light.

 

Beyond this screen of mystery,

an ever-changing history

turns the wheels of fate.

 

Beyond these doors

these ancient pathways

beyond the lone,

secluded gate,

the oaken doors roar open.

 

It is here,

that legends wait.

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Small Wonders.

I wish I had taken this. Thanks Wikipedia.

Blue Brick posted a beautiful series of bird photographs.

http://thebluebrick.ca/2012/04/27/photo-take-outter-friday-11-feathered-friends/

She described them as elusive. I recalled a chance encounter with a least bittern and was reminded just how elusive our fine, feathered friends can be.

　

The Least Bittern is native to large marches in the Americas. They are not uncommon in the swamps that define much of the gulf coast, yet I was seventeen before I saw my first one. Now I am nearly thirty and have yet to see another of these small wonders. I am starting to doubt that any known species is more elusive.

The story began when my nine year old neighbor came to my door claiming to have seen a flat bird. I had gained a reputation among the local children for being the closest thing to an animal expert on the block, often being called in to identify road kills and assist in impromptu dissections. (Kids in my neighborhood were weird.)

Not wanting to play “Poke the Maggot Infested Carcass With a Stick” (I was about to eat lunch.) I declined the invitation, only to be assured that the creature was still alive. Thinking it might be injured, I followed her to the back yard of one of her friends.

A folded lawn chair rested against the brick wall of the house. Perched atop this lawn chair was something that must have come from outer space.

Take me to your leader.

Viewed from the side it was a tiny stork, some seven inches tall. Viewed from the front it was a straight line. None of the pictures I have found of this bird seem to properly illustrate  its vanishing act.

As I circled the little bird, its eyes never left mine. Though its beak was pointed skyward. This gave it the appearance of a thin little man with a pointed hat. It would reposition itself so I was always looking at its less visible front, perhaps, a survival strategy. We all had a staring contest with it until we were forced to blink and, just like that, it was gone.

I later found the name of the bird but no picture has ever done it justice.

Descriptions of its behavior though, make me certain that it was a least bittern. Many color morphs exist, much like humans I suppose, and not all of these morphs are known.

This bittern spends most of its life standing perfectly still, snapping up any flying bug that wanders too close. It hides in tall masses of reeds, pretending to be a grass leaf. It hunts and breeds in these reeds, likely never emerging unless the reeds are disturbed.

Despite all I have learned, it’s still hard to believe these birds are not magic. I feel like I have seen a yeti.