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Burlap Cat Part 3

Yes, I know that Christmas is still a-ways off. I started this serial last year, and mayhaps should have waited for a more appropriate time to post it. It is I feel, not a  Christmas story so much as a supernatural mystery that is currently occurring over the holiday season. I reference past installments so the reader need not start at the beginning . . . None the less – I hope you enjoy this very early present from me to you . . .  (Note – those who do want to start at the beginning will find the other 2 parts under “Short Stories” Just scroll through to find them -

Joanne relaxed in the quiet comfort of the crowded restaurant. Sylvan’s always managed to be noisy and yet somehow serene. There was nothing to do except make conversation and stare at the odd, vintage knick- knacks lined up on shelves nearly hidden by the shadows on the ceiling.

The menu offered every kind of food imaginable, from local favorites, to the exotic and trendy. Joanne always ordered vegan, not that she was a vegan. Saying the word just made her feel hip and sophisticated.

Her parents laughed and joked with each other. This was supposed to be family time but Joanne made no attempt to join the conversation.

Mere hours ago something had stepped – uninvited – into her life.

That something preoccupied her constantly.

Joanne feared her secret might slip if she answered too many of her father’s questions. He was just trying to seem interested in the affairs of an average teenage girl. Joanne could use some advice but hers wasn’t a problem an adult could understand. Heck, hers wasn’t a problem anyone could understand.

Right now she wanted to lose herself in the drone of happy people and the promise of great food, but the jingle bells ring of her mother’s phone brought it all back.

“Joanne?” Mother’s voice was full of concern. “Mr. Bellows says he found your bike smashed to pieces near his drive way. Honey, what happened?”

Joanne told her parents what they wanted to hear. The rain had caught her as she checked the mail. She had run home and forgotten her bike. A car must have struck it. She was given the usual lecture about not going out in rainstorms no matter how much you wanted those Christmas cards (and the cash they contained). Neither one of them seemed to care about the expensive bike she had ruined and were just glad their daughter wasn’t road kill.

Joanne’s problems would rest for the time being, allowing her to enjoy a truly spectacular plate of rice pilaf and the complementary bowl of fried bananas.

They were on their way home when Joanne’s good friend David decided to call. “What the hell Jo! We thought some pervert had gotten you. What were you thinking just leaving that bike in the road and not telling anyone?” Joanne sighed. “My parents already beat me over the head with that, it won’t happen again.” David snorted. “Understood. By the way I wrote to that website.”

Joanne kept a death grip on the phone.

Three days ago David had shown Joanne a website that sold Items reputed to be cursed.

An ancient stuffed cat made of burlap had caught Joanne’s attention. Joanne had made no attempt to buy the thing, yet four hours ago it arrived in a battered, unmarked box.

At first it seemed David was playing a prank. Joanne had forced him to take the creepy thing back, though he claimed the site had just made a mistake. David named it Marvin and had teased her with it until she left his house, hoping to never see the thing again.

Joanne had stopped at her neighbor hood mail box on the way home from David’s.

Joanne had been startled to see the cat resting on a post as if waiting for her.

She ran, just as a truck struck the mail box and smashed her bike.

Joanne had then tucked the cat under her coat and raced home, Not sure of what else to do with a thing that had apparently saved her life.

It was still resting on her bed as far as she knew, having thankfully not followed her to Sylvan’s.

David had promised to contact the site where Joanne had first seen the Burlap cat, if only to prove she was just being paranoid.

What David had to say now, however, did nothing to dismiss her fears.

“The site answered me almost right away. They swear they had nothing like that for sale. I told them what happened and they loved the story. They want the cat Joanne. They said they would give you fifty bucks for it.”

David sounded excited but Joanne was confused. Many thoughts raced through her mind. Would selling the cat really be the end of it? Would the thing be angered somehow? Was it right to simply get rid of a thing after it had seemingly prevented her death?”

Joanne still feared the cat greatly. She would do without hit and runs and burlap cats if she could.

David shouted. “Hello!” “Augh!” barked Joanne. He whispered. “Sorry, but you weren’t answering. So how about it? All the money can be yours. I’m reaping a small fortune this Christmas.” Joanne couldn’t answer. It had all come at her so fast. What she needed was time to think. She ended the call. There was a text but she ignored it. Joanne eventually had to turn off her phone.

David rang the doorbell later that night. Joanne was in her bedroom staring into the cats one black, button eye. Her mother answered the door saying, “Jo it’s David!” Joanne still contemplated the cat. There came a soft knock on her bedroom door. “JO!” said David. “We need to talk.”

Joanne reluctantly emerged from her place of safety. Like it or not, David was the only person who at least partly understood her situation. He turned on the television when she entered the living room, perhaps to mask the sounds of what would be a very odd conversation.

“Jo this thing was sent to your house not six hours ago and already your like a different person. First, you tell me you don’t want it – that your scared of it. You say your going to leave it at my house, but then you take it with you at the last-minute.”

“Dave” said Joanne. “First off, I’m pretty sure I did leave it at your house. Last I remember, It was sitting there on the coffee table. Since I was already out in the rain I stopped at the mail box. You know that yellow post that protects it from the road? Well, the cat was on top of it. Just like someone took it from you and left it there for me to find.”

David smiled at Joanne the way he smiled at old ladies who swore they had seen ghosts. He was preparing his “are you sure it wasn’t your dog” routine.

“Jo, suppose you did take the cat without realizing it. Suppose you took it out of your pack when you checked the mail. I once searched for hours for a pencil I was holding in my hand. It’s the holidays! Your not thinking about dumb things like reality. Your thinking about that twenty-four hour Skyrim binge you’ve been meaning to run for the past two and half months of school.” He winked. “I know I am.”

Joanne turned away from him. “It was a that.” David crossed his arms behind his head. “You were already keyed up over the way it got here, which I’ll admit, was a little weird, but there’s probably a logical explain – ” Joanne interrupted him. “I ran when I first saw it, that’s when a truck smashed my bike, had it not been for the cat I – I – I ”

There was a very long wait before either of them found words. David went first. “Had it not been for the cat you would not have been out there in the first place. Look Jo, regardless of what I believe, according to you it saved your life, which makes it good? Think Jo, your whole life you’ve never been involved in an accident until now?” Joanne was silent. David went on. “I didn’t know a person’s personality could change as quickly as yours has. The Jo I know would not be cowering in fear of a stuffed animal. If there is any proof something isn’t right with this thing, it’s in the fact the great Jo Jonson doesn’t like it. I say, sell the cat.”

Joanne smiled. “I’ll still have to sleep on it.” David headed for the door. “You are probably still shaken by that brush with the truck. I’d wait for the shock to wear off. I’m meeting some friends at the mall tomorrow. A local band is performing. Just throwing it out there in case you feel like you need to get out of the house. Please watch yourself Jo.”

David left and Joanne returned to her room. She threw herself across her bed, right beside the burlap beast that had her so worried. To think she could fall asleep in the same room with it, Joanne really was the great Jo Jonson.

Early the next morning Shelly and Eric arrived with David, David’s parents, and several small, annoying children who seemed to be even less enthused to be there then Joanne’s older friends. “All aboard the Polar Express!” Shouted David as Joanne shrugged into some fresh clothes.

He was waiting in the living room. Someone outside was furiously pounding a horn. “I thought you said we would be going to see a band!” whined Joanne as she trudged down the stairs. “I Did.” said David. “The Sweet Street Carolers!”

Joanne headed back up the stairs. David followed. “Please Jo, don’t throw me to the preschoolers!” David caught her coat. “There are six children out there who’s parents want keepsake photo’s with Santa. My own folks agreed to take them but plan to spend the whole time shopping. There’s a giant sand box full of real snow for the kids to play in. It’s our job to hang out at the food court and watch them. I know It’s going to be a chore but with you around I’m sure we’ll make the best of it.”

Joanne was a sucker for flattery. She left the house and squeezed into the large van waiting outside. A hyperactive two-year old smacked her with an elf doll until she took it away. David slid in beside her. “My cousin’s a handful so we’ll both be in charge of him.” David handed the doll back to the boy. “You like to run off, don’t you, Randy.” Randy smiled, now seeming to be the picture of innocence.

Shelly was present with a niece and two sisters, one of whom was six and absorbed in a video game.

Joanne didn’t know Shelly very well. She was a relative of David’s and a total buzz kill.

Eric was in charge of his siblings, twins that bickered constantly. He was mostly a fun guy, but his insistence on following Shelly around made him less so.

The mall, a monstrous, castle-like building, was every bit as crowded as Joanne expected it to be. They waited for what felt like hours for the stupid pictures with Santa, only to have Randy start crying at the last-minute. Joanne wondered if this was more about having the perfect Christmas card photo then any real fun for the kids.

The snow pit was a hit though, at least with Randy. The other kids complained of being cold and wet and opted to ride the carousel instead, leaving Jo and David to fend for themselves at the less popular end of the food court.

David raised his computer case to block a snowball. “I’ll forgive you if you don’t want to talk about it, but you didn’t happen to see who was driving the truck?” Joanne shook her head. “It was a white or gray pick up. The weather was bad so it was hard to tell the exact color. I didn’t get a license plate either. They probably lost control because of the slippery road. They probably didn’t even know I was there anyway.”

David’s eyes shot toward the snow pit, then he sighed and shook his head. “Jo now ya got me seeing that stupid thing.”

It sounded like a joke but Joanne took it seriously. “Where?” David caught her as she left her seat. “That kid over there, see? It’s just a Hello Kitty.” Joanne shook him off and headed for the snow pit.

It was not just a Hello Kitty.

A little girl sat at the entrance to the snow pit, playing with the burlap cat. Joanne used all of her strength to remain calm. “My, that’s a beautiful dolly.” Joanne said to the girl. “May I see it?”

The girl laughed at Joanne and tossed it to another kid.

Joanne had no intention of joining a game of keep away, so she waited at the entrance to the snow pit. Joanne wasn’t sure what would be the best way to handle this, but one thing was certain. She couldn’t let the burlap cat out of her sight.

The cat was eventually passed to Randy, who seemed to want to give it to Joanne. The boy climbed through the snow in his bulky blue coat, but veered past her at the last-minute, disappearing into the crowd.

“Crap” Said David as he appeared beside Joanne. They ran through the throngs of people desperately searching for the missing boy.

Jo soon caught sight of Randy’s red scarf. He was inching along the wall giggling to himself.

They both raced toward him. Randy squeezed under a partition as soon as he was discovered. David grabbed the large canvas wall (on to which a holiday scene had been painted) and dragged it sideways. Joanne secretly hoped security would come running. They could use extra help catching randy.

Behind the canvas wall was an empty space used for storage. Toward the back was a plastic curtain. Randy pushed past it.

David climbed over covered crates with Joanne close behind him. They emerged into the deserted right wing of the mall. The wing was currently under renovation. Thick sheets of plastic covered everything like ice. Dust hung like mist in the air. Randy’s shadow disappeared around a corner.

Joanne and David tried to keep up but by the time they rounded the bend he was gone.

Joanne caught her breath. “Is there a number we can call for security? Have them watch all the doors or something.” David ran into an empty store and emerged empty-handed. “I’ve got a number for the police – but by the time they – ” Joanne left when she heard a noise. David started to dial. Joanne heard the noise again. Both shouted “Randy!” at the top of their lungs. A small voice called, “Just a minute!” They flew toward the source of the sound.

Randy was standing on a tarp-covered bench, picking peeling, white paint off the wall behind it.

“I found a train.” he said, pointing to part of an old poster somewhat exposed by the paint.

“That you Did.” said David. “The painters couldn’t get it off so they painted over it.” David gripped the boy’s shirt. “Next time just ask Santa for a train, and don’t go wandering off!”

They started to walk back.

“Marvin!” Shouted Randy as he reached for the toy he’d left on the bench.

Joanne had completely forgotten, about the burlap cat.

David was frozen, both by the sight of the cat and the fact Randy had chosen the same name for it.

He handed the boy to Jo, and picked up the cat. “Randy where did you find this?” “In the snow.”said the boy, pointing back toward the lobby. Joanne gritted her teeth, hoping the boy wasn’t too attached to his new friend. “Randy someone lost their teddy. I think we should give it back.”

Randy ignored the tattered, stuffed toy in David’s hands, and started to fall asleep. “Okay.” said the boy, oblivious to the trauma he had caused.

David spoke gravely as they reentered the public section of the mall through the canvas partition, the sleeping Randy in tow. It wasn’t like him to be so serious. “Jo if this is some kind of game you are playing with me, confess now and I’ll forgive you. Face it, you are the only one who could have given this to Randy and told him I named it Marvin.”

Joanne didn’t know what to say.

David spoke for both of them.

“Joanne, I’m selling this crazy thing to the crazies, any objections?” Joanne shook her head, though she felt slightly guilty inflicting the cat on someone else. At least the people receiving it might know what they were dealing with. Perhaps it would be happier with some occult collector, so happy it would leave her, and those around her, alone.

Joanne expected to see the cat waiting on her bed when she arrived home. The weight of the world fell off her back when she saw that it wasn’t. David called that night to say that he had shipped it.

Joanne doubted this was the end of it, but a day passed, then another. The fifty dollars arrived and Joanne soon dared to hope.

Christmas morning however, was not as merry as it could have been, for sitting amongst the presents under the tree was – the burlap cat.

by

MARCH HARE

Sorry folks, but I’ve been involved in a what is for me – a major construction project, my computer is often buried in junk as I struggle to build a jungle suitable for mom’s chinese water dragon – a lizard who’s space requirements – come to find out – are wildly disperportionate to  its relitively small size. I had also recieved an E-mail from a small online publisher who isen’t excepting but seems to be sniffing at the bait. I seasoned my work some more and sent it back. This will continue until a deal is made or a restraining order is issued.  

Mean while I managed to complete another fun poem. For those who find it confusing, I’ll state it references the Alice in Wonderland duology – I’ve seen many movies but would really like to read the books –  

You live on a rock you think to be flat,

while the moon laughs above you

like a Cheshire cat.

 

This is the inside,

but where is the out?

Your world is a small one,

and yet you must shout.

Quickly I race

through the loud repetition

and into a hole

in your own superstition.

Your late,

your late,

for a brief chance encounter

with an odd twist of fate.

Should you

dare to venture

around the next bend,

there just might be something

that will make our heads spin.

Like you, I am tired of rushing about.

It’s time

for that clock

to be turned inside out.

How long must we travel

to see something crazy?

The powers that be,

I feel,

have gone lazy.

Look There!

Wonderland waits

through a hole in the air.

Just a skip

and a jump

through a jabberwock’s lair.

We’ll pledge no allegiance

to hope or despair,

for you are the White Rabbit

and I the March Hare.

　

You live in a world

full of order and rules.

It’s time you skipped off

to a party with fools.

Hats shall be worn

and tea shall be swallowed.

I’ll bring extra chairs.

Just in case

you are followed.

by

Bohemians at Large in Paris!

The Crime of Backwards Vandalism

How dare they trespass on public property and fix things!

The Paris Pantheon is a sacred monument for the heritage and history of France, a resting place of it’s greatest heroes and most brilliant academic minds. Recently it was also the scene of a crime, at least according to the assistant administer at the time.

I’d be edgy too if someone put me in charge of this thing. It looks very expensive and easy to break.

Back in 2006 the Pantheon’s administrator and his assistant were confronted by a group of ruffians who called themselves Untergunther. The group brashly admitted to invading this national treasure after hours, squatting within it’s confines, and secretly tampering with one of the priceless relics it contained – namely a vintage clock that had been silent for fifty years.

They claimed to have restored the annoying thing which would now require winding and regular maintenance . . . With an already stretched budget, methinks management was not in a position to spend any resources on a thing not even worth mentioning on the tours.

and to your right . . . oh nevermind that’s nothing.

The Administrator was reportedly thrilled, hearing of how these intrepid rogues hid in the building until closing time, and let themselves out through some carelessly unlocked doors. Doors that would grant them passage night after night, until they got a hold of copied keys.

They explored the place from top to bottom – going where no visitors were allowed and no doubt touching things with their unwashed peasant hands.

They soon laid claim to a forgotten chamber just above the ceiling of the pantheon’s famous dome. Here they set up shop, creating a hideout worthy of childhood fantasies. Complete with electricity and internet access, this secret workshop housed a library, and easy chairs that could be folded into unassuming crates should suspicious eyes gaze in.

Also smuggled into this annex was an expert who specialized in antique clocks. He soon discovered why the unrenowned Wagner Clock had stopped functioning.

Apparently someone had taken a crow-bar to its escapement wheel back in the sixties – perhaps a former employee. An electric mechanism had replaced the damaged gears, but that too was deliberately sabotaged. Clearly some one had it in for this hapless time piece.

After dismantling and washing out the rusted works one part at a time, and repairing the damaged wheel, the group removed all evidence of their presence in the building. The only proof being their story, and the newly restored clock.

Naturally the authorities feared for the Pantheon’s security should it’s extreme ineffectiveness became common knowledge. Not surprisingly the current administrator was soon replaced by his more level-headed  assistant, who had a better grasp of law’s letter – if not it’s spirit.

Weeks went by as the group smugly awaited a demonstration of it’s achievement. Fearing their work was for naught they sneaked in once more, on one of the few days the building was closed.

Bells that had not rang in decades chimed on Christmas morning, filling the deserted interior of the neoclassical cathedral.

To the newly promoted assistant, arriving after his vacation, this tick-tocking present was less welcome than a pair of moldy socks. It meant the backwards vandals had struck again.

An expert was hired to return the clock to it’s deteriorating state and Untergunther was taken to court.

Attempts to Sue them however, proved that they hadn’t technically broken any laws – though changes have been made since. It also turns out that trespassing on public property and fixing things is a hard case to sell to a Judge.

The clock itself was only carefully disconnected. The escapement wheel removed. The expert hired to unfix the thing probably never had a request like that in his life and was understandably confused.

You want me to do what now? Break it? couldn’t you just do that yourself?

Unterguther claims it has successfully stolen the wheel from the administrator’s office and plans to try it’s little caper again. Rumor has it they are still going about their business literally over the heads of the Paris Pantheon’s appointed staff.

 Images courtesy of Wikipedia and this flicker account -

http://www.flickr.com/photos/23339804@N00/6014140483/

　

There is also a lot more to the Untergunther story. Dig deeper here -

http://www.gizmodo.com.au/2011/04/unlocking-the-mystery-of-paris-most-secret-underground-society/

　

　

　

by

Reckless Quest.

We lie here under endless skies,

faceing that space between truth and lies.

The air catches fire as the sunset dies.

 

We wonder,

 

if hell is a gateway -

and heaven’s just a consolation prize.

 

What if the world truly is perfect,

and it’s we who are flawed?

When a wound never heals,

what if this is just how happiness feels?

 

Perhaps, it is we, who should learn to enjoy it.

Perhaps, it is we, who are missing the point.

Perhaps, we are not, to assume that there is one.

 

We cling to these reins,

our own preconceptions.

Perhaps it is right,

that we cast them away.

 

Perhaps before,

we let reason escape us,

 

we should reach out

and catch hold of this beast.

 

Follow it far, toward the darkest horizons

and there learn to master this thing that we are.

 

What if pain contains knowledge

from which we are not meant to hide?

 

What if life is just that wild horse

you were born to ride?

by

LIEBSTER AWARD; Blogs In The Crosshairs.

After receiving my first blogging award from Catcher of Stars – a Kreativ Blogger Award – (something to do with my multiple misspellings I presume), I was privileged to receive several more.

My second, was yet another Kreativ Blogger from Munchow -

http://munchow.wordpress.com/

I will post it when the Kreativ craze dies down so I don’t render anyone’s collection less diverse.

My third award, was a colorful heart from my most frequent commenter, that seems to have been made especially for me.

Thankx Basu.

Check out her many sites and dazzling art work. She is very prolific!

http://magicthought.wordpress.com/

And hear it is.

The Liebster was a gift from my magical, new-agey friend, Sue Dream Walker.

http://suedreamwalker.wordpress.com

I passed my first award on to her, via an ambiguous comment that suggested I might not really take these things seriously . . .

Yay! a door stop!

I never heard back from her till she thanked me. By then I assumed I was off the hook. Then I was informed I had won a Liebster.

Now, I had seen this thing around and had wondered what Liebster ment. Apparently It’s German.

The award is a special one intended for the less popular . . . who – with all due respect – deserve more attention then they are getting. (AKA – Hipster bait.)

Years from now they will argue over who it was who saw you first. In the mean time hold on to your Liebsters, and turn up your noses, to mainstrean culture.

I copied this bit from Sue’s award post, in case you would like a full description, this being one of the few awards that actually has some criteria, though that criteria does seem to apply to most of us.

“Here are the rules and a few words about the award:

Leibster is German & means ‘dearest’ or ‘beloved’ but it can also mean ‘favourite’ & the idea of the Leibster award is to bring attention to blogs with less than 200 followers all in the spirit of gathering more connections

1. Show your thanks to the blogger who gave you the award by linking back to them.

2. Reveal your top picks for the award and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.

3. Post the award on your blog.

4. Bask in the love from the most supportive people on the blogsphere – other bloggers.

5. And, best of all – have fun and spread the karma.”

　

Please note. (Don’t feel pressured, this isn’t something you have to do, just a fun activity you may take or leave.)

　

And hear are my picks for the Liebster . . .

　

http://anotherdayanotherface.wordpress.com – Straight from the dragon’s mouth! SkyddsDrake tells it like it is, letting off steam and the odd profanity.

http://iamleniselee.wordpress.com – if love is your sweet tooth and passion your playing field, come take a walk with Lenise Lee.

http://freshbakedsarcasm.wordpress.com – There is only one post but I am intrigued. Who is this mysterious Kater, and where is all this sarcasm she is supposed to be cooking up? Clearly she is active, as I’ve been followed five days ago. May haps she has gone off to collage?

http://bottledupsentiments.wordpress.com – Sanah bottles up her sentiments and makes her own word cider. Read some today!

http://xartpunkartx.wordpress.com – Scrap booking for bad asses.

http://schtiel.wordpress.com – Music dances with art in Schtiel’s world. This intrepid Romanian searches all corners of the web for the most intriguing videos of sound manipulation and hand drawn animation.

http://whitepaperandapencil.wordpress.com – Together they shape the strangest of observations on everything from fungal aspirations to emotional constipations.

http://versenotprose.wordpress.com – Catcher of Stars is a poet from sunny Florida who loves nature and tries not to let the red necks get her down.

http://trueouroboros.wordpress.com – Jake Thrasher draws and paints and shares his discoveries with you. Let’s see what he is working on today!

　

Please note that I have other awards to give away and needed to save some people for my Sunshine, Inspirational, and two additional Kreativ Blogger Awards. So don’t think for one minute you will escape a wordpress Rick-rolling ;)

　　

by

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.　

　

by

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!”

　

　

by

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.

by

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.

by

Scattered Skull Canyon.

Buzzards circled the ledge where Lynx lay sleeping. He wasn’t dead yet. Those birds should really learn some manners. He stood up and chucked his hunting stick. It missed, bouncing of the walls of Scattered Skull Canyon.

“Go, Hurry!” The village elder had said. “Everyone and everything will be fine. All that time you waste playing amidst the rocks will finally pay off, you will be able to show us what a great hero you are! The greatest, mightiest climber!”

Lynx wondered if the old woman had gone mad, raving about his climbing skills as the shadows of Dragon wings passed over their heads. She promised him, swore to him, that it all would be fine. Lynx new better.

It was the dawning of the spring festival. Long ago, it had been a day of rejoicing. Fat elk were slain and roasted long into the night as they celebrated the breaking of the winter fast. Then the dragons moved in.

The dragons had their own spring festival. They ate nothing but elk the rest of the year, along with mountain goats, and the odd cave bear. They steered clear of humans most of the time, but at the spring festival, all bets were off. Men were taken because they were meatier, women because they were mild, children because they were tender. Every one of the beasts had a preference. The people would fight but none could deny the Dragons their traditional holiday feast. None save Lord Amberheart, who just so happened to be a dragon himself.

Depending on who you asked, he was either the best dragon who ever lived or the worst.

Ten years ago, his fire filled the sky. All other dragons gathered for the feast fell to their deaths with tattered wings. The village ate roast dragon that day, cooked in the breath of the magnificent turn-coat.

Several years passed with peaceful springtides. All wanted to believe Lord Amber Heart was a friend. Yet some wondered what a beast who mass-murdered its own kind would do if approached by a human. Lynx was about to find out.