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 –

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!

And hear it is.

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

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 . . . – Straight from the dragon’s mouth! SkyddsDrake tells it like it is, letting off steam and the odd profanity. – if love is your sweet tooth and passion your playing field, come take a walk with Lenise Lee. – 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? – Sanah bottles up her sentiments and makes her own word cider. Read some today! – Scrap booking for bad asses. – 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. – Together they shape the strangest of observations on everything from fungal aspirations to emotional constipations. – Catcher of Stars is a poet from sunny Florida who loves nature and tries not to let the red necks get her down. – 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 😉


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. 



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!”



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.

Small Wonders.

I wish I had taken this. Thanks Wikipedia.

Blue Brick posted a beautiful series of bird photographs.

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.

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.

In Dreams Begin Insanity

Sterling recently posted a very interesting article or dreams.

Once in a blue moon I’ll have an extremely complex and vivid dream. Sometimes I’ll even realize it’s a dream. Some people like to look for meaning in their dreams. Perhaps because their dreams make sense. No rhyme or reason seems to exist in any mine. Perhaps I should go ask Alice.

I do find them funny though. Here is one I’d like to share.

The Purple Llama Adventure.

       I was making my way out of a crowded theater, looking for my brother and my cousin. Cars were lining up outside to pick up movie-goers. I heard someone shout my name. My brother Eli held open the door of a white Volkswagen Bug hung with oversized Christmas ornaments. A smiling man in dreadlocks welcomed me in as Jamaican music blared on the radio.

      I had never seen this man, let alone his strange car but my brother seemed to know him so I squeezed past the mass of people in my way. Too late! My ride was forced to retreat down the line by the idiot directing traffic.

I waited and waited for them to come back around. I suddenly had to pee. Surly a quick trip to the restrooms wouldn’t cause me to miss them again.

I meandered through the maze of humanity – past the buffet of donuts and other treats put out by the staff. Never once did I wonder why a theater would even have a buffet.

I asked an attendant where the restrooms were. She pointed to an unmarked door in the back.

I figured the restrooms were somewhere behind it and stepped through into the longest hallway I had ever seen.

Stained wooden paneling lined the walls, the floor and the ceiling. Bright light shown behind me, and ahead of me. I couldn’t see where either path led.

Still thinking I was in the quote-unquote “real” world, I soldered on – for what felt like miles. There were no doors or windows on either side, just the endless stretch of brightly lit hallway behind and ahead of me. I started to wonder where the crowds had gone, why this hallway was so deserted.

A man carrying a small child on his shoulders walked by. He said Hello as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. I decided to ask him what the heck was going on.

“Isn’t this neat!” He said. “I thought my boy and I were the only ones who knew about this place. We come here all the time and explore.”

I asked him if they had ever discovered a restroom and he nodded. “Just turn around.”

Right behind me was the open door to a toilet.

It was as if angels were singing as I – wait a minute.

It began to dawn on me that this might be a dream.

I could feel myself waking but fought it.

There was a mountain of glazed donuts in the lobby.

I could stuff my face without consequence.

I backed away from the toilet (that action would have consequences) and raced back to the lobby. The donuts were still there but the crowds were not. An attendant informed me that they were free. I dipped a pastry in cinnamon roll sauce and took a bite – It was every bit as good as I had hoped. I ate until I got bored.

Again, I could feel myself waking, but I had to find my cousin and my brother. This may have just been a dream but my sleeping brain seemed to think that something bad would happen in real life if we remained separated.

In the parking lot was a man selling giant bibles out of his equally giant red pickup truck. He claimed to be a preacher and informed me that the robed figures riding in the back of the truck were his choir. Knowing that church folk tend to be charitable, I told him of my predicament and was allowed to come along. I climbed a ladder into the front seat and discovered that everything about the truck was giant – even the steering wheel.

It was so high up, the man could barely reach it, let alone see where he was going.

Things were crushed beneath us and people on the ground ran screaming as the preacher struggled to maintain his grip on a wheel he could barely reach. I climbed the dashboard and was surprised that he was managing to stay on the road, though everything else in the way was getting flattened.

We reached a town where there seemed to be a parade going on. The streets were lined with young girls in wedding dresses standing beside purple Llama-like beasts. I asked him what was going on and he mumbled something about heathens.

It was in this town we stoped for gas, and narrowly missed the white volkswagon as it pulled out of the station. The Preacher offered to chase them down in his truck but I feared he would crush them. I decided to call my brother on my cellphone instead.

That is when I noticed one of the Llama girls staring at me. “My spirit animal will help you find your friends.” She said, handing me the reins of something that was more like a hump-less camel then the Llama it resembled from a distance.

Up close, it was big enough to ride.

I only had to hang on as it carried me across the country side with lightning speed. It’s purple fur smelled like grapes. Not a smell I usually like but it wasn’t intolerable.

We soon caught up to the white bug. It stopped. My brother Eli got out and laughed. “Where the heck have you been?”

I tried to climb off the grape camel but the beast had other ideas, tearing across the horizon and forcing my companions to keep up.

The ornaments were torn off the little white bug as we raced each other through a brick-red desert, Jamaican music blaring from the open windows of the car. It was around this time I awoke. Wondering if there was something in the water.

Illegitimate Animals; Hybrids that (thankfully) don’t exist.

Squirrel + Mantis = Squantis

Take me to your nuts!

When a conventional relationship with a member of your own species involves decapitation and cannibalism it is easy to see how something like this could occur. Given the immense differences in the genes it is extremely unlikely. Yet it could explain why children in many countries closet themselves away with their video games and exhibit an unnatural fear of parks.

Pig + Octopus = Porktopus

This animal is not Kosher.

I’ll be willing to bet that this is what god sends in to punish Muslims and Jews who do not abide by their dietary laws. Weather it’s one of those awful parasites you get from eating underdone bacon or part of this complete Japanese breakfast, I’ll forgo the chops till we reach port.


Bee + Sheep = Beep

Adorable death!

Their honey tastes like lanolin and their hives are made of cheese but these pillow-sized cuties are willing to defend their home mercilessly. Beeps use their soft stinger-less bodies to smother their enemies in what has been described by witnesses as the cutest/most hilarious thing a human being can behold. A good thing to remember when faced with a swarm of killer Beeps is that no one will help you. They are too busy filming the spectacle with their camera phones and forwarding it to their friends. Remain calm, and run through a field of grass to distract the fluffy fiends.


Koala + Gorilla = Korilla

The right to bear arms!

Australia is home to all of the world’s most dangerous creatures; funnel web spiders, box jellies, fear snakes, and humans to name a few. So what’s a hapless Koala to do? At best you are no more formidable then say, a raccoon, and while raccoons are still pretty dangerous, they are far from being Australia dangerous. So you join a gym, lift some weights – somewhere down the line you notice your beautiful country has become a wasteland of uprooted eucalyptus trees and flattened dingoes, but such is the price of power.

Kangaroo + Rooster = Kanga-rooster

Jurassic Poultry

Here I go sending another monster to Australia again, as if they don’t have enough. While drawing this picture it occurred to me that this thing would probably be pretty dangerous if it existed. Imagine, if you will, having to out run one of these after ever-so-carefully fishing eggs out of the hen’s pouch between a set of wings that could punch you in the face at any moment. Sure, the thigh-meat would be endless but you would really have to earn it, which brings a whole new meaning to the phrase “Hunger Games.”

Bohemians at Large: This is some ‘Complex S@*!’

Pardon my french, but the name of this art piece just so happens to be – Complex S@*!. 

Where does Godzilla go? Anywhere he wants!

I don’t know what I find funnier; the fact someone actually made this thing, the fact a reputable museum was willing to display it, or the fact it was able to escape and go on a homicidal rampage.

The Paul Klee Centre in Bern, Switzerland, was proud to present an exhibit it called –

East of Eden: A Garden Show,

and before any accuse Switzerland of sullying its reputation as the pinnacle of western civilization know that this literal poo pile was the brain child of an American.

Paul McCarthy was born in 1945 in Salt Lake City Utah and has been treating the people of earth to his intellectual excrement ever since. Some of his early experiments challenge the limits of the human gag reflex, and are a little too graphic to discuss in vivid detail on a site I’d like to think is for everyone. I will sum it up by saying that Paul is a master multi-media Shock Jock, painting his words of wit upon the bathroom stalls of life.

His recent Christmas themed pieces reflect a subtler approach. Featuring a Santa Claus holding an apparently suggestive tree. I considered posting an image but will show you this ‘Sweet Brown Snail’ instead.

I’d be willing to bet It’s the only G-rated thing he has ever done and it was a collaboration with Jason Rhoades

Now back to the dookie.

I forgot to mention their inflatable.

Clearly the Klee Center noticed the hazard posed by these irregularly shaped brown blimps. A system was employed to deflate them should the wind pick up. Mother nature however was not about to miss a chance like this. The system failed and the s@*! hit the fan – tearing loose from its moorings to frolic in the countryside.

A power line was knocked down, and a greenhouse was damaged – as well as an orphanage of all things. Plans to return the sculpture to display have met with controversy.

Fears have been expressed,

of another s@*! storm.


RUST: Deja vu

Ever visit a place for the first time? A place you could swear you’ve never been, and yet somehow you feel you have been there before? Perhaps you remember being younger, or with different people, still, you can’t shake the thought that the past is somehow repeating itself. In my RUST novel, a girl named Amelia starts to experience visions from her childhood as she makes her way through a long abandoned amusement park. You can learn what happened next in chapter twelve.

What follows is a heavily photoshoped drawing. It wasn’t much bigger then a greeting card. I made it small so it wouldn’t take as long to make. I finished in three days. I took a lot of breaks though, because humans are not my strong suit. I was nervous you see. The color is pencil colors – Prismacolor and Faber-Castell. I started by drawing a picture with a regular mechanical pencil. I then made a copy so I would have an extra in case I messed up. I planed to use an orange filter but I liked the colors so much I decided not too. What follows is a small excerpt from the story – please enjoy.  

 Amelia approached a brooding, bay-windowed, brick mansion barely identifiable under its blanket of ivy.

She‘d been here before.

She recalled fighting her cousin so as not to be led in. They had stood beside the winged statues lining the path. In the end he had relented, perhaps at father’s urging, and she had been relieved.

Perhaps it was that past incident fueling her gut instinct to keep away, even though it was sprinkling, and the door to the fun house was ajar.