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My crazy brass replica weapon gloves from China finally got let through customs.
Check these bad girls out.
I'll try to get some better shots of them in the days to come.
The dream is always the same.
The house is old. All the walls are plywood or timber. It’s like the house was built to look like it wasn’t finished being built. There are no lights to speak of and I’m holding a flashlight. The floor is sprinkled with old damp sawdust and there are scattered bits of wood from the when the builders were still here.
Sometimes, in the way that a missing shoe in a dream can be just as horrifying as a dead body in the bed next to you, I notice that occasionally there are tool belts lying in corners. In the middle of one room that I dare not enter there is a solitary workboot.
The rooms are black except for the light thrown by my flashlight. It is the middle of the night. I get the feeling that this frame of a nightmare house was built in the middle of a forest. I can hear nothing outside. I’m a city boy and I’m used to the traffic. I feel like I can hear for miles. My own breathing seems thunderous.
I find it in the room near the back porch.
The top of it looks like one of those old fashioned copper espresso machines. It’s riveted and plated and shiny with brass highlights. It has a series of tubes leading down around itself to the floor. There are dials that stick up with dusted faces to measure air and pressure.
This metal construct is the cap on a transparent tubular fish tank. The water is green with algae. The water is green with sickly light. The water is green with a seaweed wildness. The water is green but doesn’t obscure the monstrous wide eyed fetus floating patiently inside it.
This fetus has fingernails and toenails that arc out and scribble on the glass with lazy patterns as the bubble streams that crawl through the tube gently nudge the fetus in lazy eternal circles.
This is a fetus that will grow until the time is right for it to be born. That time is yet to be determined.
Perched on top on this container, sleeping like a bird, is a man. He is squatting and balanced. His long coat spills out over the top of the bright metal container like a dust cover. His face is in shadow underneath his hat. He's wearing metal jointed gloves with long kruger points that hold on to the lip of the hatch wheel he's perched on. His feet are similarly adorned.
His face is black. His hair arcs back in two impossibly long wolverine raven wings of ebony that kiss the ceiling.
I can’t tell if he’s a guard, the father of this thing, or both.
He opens his eyes when he senses that I’m there. His eyes are white. His head turns towards me and I hear his neck tendons creak. Dust sloughs off of him in a beige curtain. I scream and drop the flashlight.
The dayglo lightstick emerald light takes up the slack and the room we’re in starts to glow like its being lit by an old school computer. The thing on the top of the fetus holder grins with impossibly white teeth.
He’s happy to see me.
tags
Check these bad girls out.
I'll try to get some better shots of them in the days to come.
The dream is always the same.
The house is old. All the walls are plywood or timber. It’s like the house was built to look like it wasn’t finished being built. There are no lights to speak of and I’m holding a flashlight. The floor is sprinkled with old damp sawdust and there are scattered bits of wood from the when the builders were still here.
Sometimes, in the way that a missing shoe in a dream can be just as horrifying as a dead body in the bed next to you, I notice that occasionally there are tool belts lying in corners. In the middle of one room that I dare not enter there is a solitary workboot.
The rooms are black except for the light thrown by my flashlight. It is the middle of the night. I get the feeling that this frame of a nightmare house was built in the middle of a forest. I can hear nothing outside. I’m a city boy and I’m used to the traffic. I feel like I can hear for miles. My own breathing seems thunderous.
I find it in the room near the back porch.
The top of it looks like one of those old fashioned copper espresso machines. It’s riveted and plated and shiny with brass highlights. It has a series of tubes leading down around itself to the floor. There are dials that stick up with dusted faces to measure air and pressure.
This metal construct is the cap on a transparent tubular fish tank. The water is green with algae. The water is green with sickly light. The water is green with a seaweed wildness. The water is green but doesn’t obscure the monstrous wide eyed fetus floating patiently inside it.
This fetus has fingernails and toenails that arc out and scribble on the glass with lazy patterns as the bubble streams that crawl through the tube gently nudge the fetus in lazy eternal circles.
This is a fetus that will grow until the time is right for it to be born. That time is yet to be determined.
Perched on top on this container, sleeping like a bird, is a man. He is squatting and balanced. His long coat spills out over the top of the bright metal container like a dust cover. His face is in shadow underneath his hat. He's wearing metal jointed gloves with long kruger points that hold on to the lip of the hatch wheel he's perched on. His feet are similarly adorned.
His face is black. His hair arcs back in two impossibly long wolverine raven wings of ebony that kiss the ceiling.
I can’t tell if he’s a guard, the father of this thing, or both.
He opens his eyes when he senses that I’m there. His eyes are white. His head turns towards me and I hear his neck tendons creak. Dust sloughs off of him in a beige curtain. I scream and drop the flashlight.
The dayglo lightstick emerald light takes up the slack and the room we’re in starts to glow like its being lit by an old school computer. The thing on the top of the fetus holder grins with impossibly white teeth.
He’s happy to see me.
tags