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Grrrrr.

I'm still writing it

Originally from the wilds of Southwest Wales I made the long trek Westwards in 1999 on the spring Equinox. I brought with me a store of knowledge in the ancient Druidic traditions and headed into the mountains. After three years amongst those icy peaks I descended to more temperate climbs having learned that my destiny did not lie in those fridged crags. I then embarked upon a tortuous education in master Tailoring and Taleoring. My goal now, along with the crew of the Skyship Last is to go about wearing holes in the fabric of reality just like the ones in your favorite pair of old Hakama.

"War is not about who is right, but who is left!" - Fay Goodman, Nanadan Renshi.

Raised by his father craftsman and mother healer, Markus grew up in a small village near a lake. His whole life he's been influenced by his pater, making toys and models in his young youth to learning how to work with raw materials like metal and wood later in his life. Alot of his knowledge has also come from his mater and her work in healing, wortcunning and other more basics. Together, this has lead him to be quite inquisitive in the world around him, learning it's history, how things work, why they work and when they work. At his current state he has learned all he could in the rurallands and gone to live in one of the portlands where people share culture, knowledge, and any other manner of tips and tricks one may seek. Now the quest is knowledge again, but in a vaster manner.

Computer savant. I just do it.

Photographic visionary. Graphic manipulator. Terrible writer.

I am the Voice of the Web Badger.

Some of you might be wondering what or who is the green fairy. I am me that is it.
I am not here to be cute, although some of you might think so. I am here because I am needed.
I don't write fance thing to create a world. I don't draw pictures for you to use your imagination.

My laws brought me here long ago and I am saying until other orders are sent.

At the age of 12, during the Clorian Massacre (The Imperials say it was a Riot.) my parents stashed me in under a couple of baseboards telling me to be quiet, handing me an ornate box. A few seconds later they covered the baseboards with the dinning table. I heard an explosion of noise. Ten ton boots running around everywhere in the house. Muffled sounds of voices, yelling, I couldn't make it out what they were saying. Just constantly "....kid?!," "....KID?!" . BLAM! I hear Mother scream BLAM! Everything went slient...I had to bite my toung, almost taking it off, to hide the screams and the sobs that were welling up in side.
There was nothing more than the squealing and hissing of the imperals steam vehicles continuning on. After the adreniline left my body, everything it me. I Paniced. I push streniously to get out. Hearing a loud thump. I stoped thinking they were back.. no noise except for the distance sounds of gun shots. So I try again.. this time with ease, realizing that it was the dining table just got knocked over. Then I ran... I ran all over the house looking for Mother and Father. I come across their room... seeing them spralwed across the bed, with gun wounds through their heads. I cried for 2 days. Dodging patrols.
Taking the box and few other thing. I set the house on fire. leaving all but the memories.
After that horrible experience I had to take the job of Loveable Street Urchin, with the side hobbie of picking fights with the Imperials. Many fights. Many miles running. Damn Imperials.

The progeny of artists and wizards, I sprouted up in a small village in the depths of Welsh West Wales with a big brother who went on to make clothing both futuristic and archaic in equal measure, a hoard of cats, chickens, goats and rodents, (who showed no interest in the fashion industry) and a fine and noble hound called Pedro - who always looked good in hats.
Now I make pictures, which you can see at www.flickr.com/photos/alexandrabecker/

Too long to tell,
Too short to be finished.

PHOTOGRAPHER

My story started too long ago to be relevant to these pages, but at some point the past became the present, and I found myself with two wonderous offspring in a stone house in the fastness of Wales. I had gained some skills along the way, some of which I shared with my darlings: silver, paint, clay, words and music. Although the Sufi teach that when you feel the urge to teach, sit down and shut up, I did not heed this wisdom and have been telling people things I have seen, done and learned in the hopes that these stories might be of some use to them. Oddly enough, it does seem to help sometimes. Now that I have been a smith and a mud and water man, a maker of pictures and a teller of stories, a writer of words and a singer of songs, I have embarked upon my greatest goal: to be a crazy old man who talks too much, but manages to get away with it. I feel sure my years as a pirate will help with this dream. Because of this, or in spite of it, I am not interested in what is right, only in what is true.

I am a man who works to do what he loves. I love to do what isn't expected, to be spontanious and innane. I walk my days in the land of the office zombies. Traversing through the concrete jungle bewildered by the views of the those that inhabit it. I wonder, am I the same as them...have I gone dead inside? I deny it, I won't let it happen. I can't even imagine losing the little bit of light that I carry within myself, and trading it for what they all value, the empty gray matter that they salivate over. Money, things, suburbia...the empty gray matter. They work, shambling around the town, and return to work on their hunger, play with their empty gray matter. I try to not show them the light within, for fear that they will try to eat that too in an attempt to make me one of them.

For now I hide the light and show it only to those that also have the light. I surround myself with those that have the light, and we help each others' lights grow. So for now I brave the world of the zombies, so that I can make my living igniting the light in others. So that one day the zombies will be out numbered.

Socrates Johnson is a renown feline philosophizer and master of ingress and egress. Little is known of his past, but in the present his time is spent thinking great thoughts while hunting in his game preserve.

Borne in the land of Spain from a spanish-parented french born man of computers and the dark haired beauty he entagled with, I very soon found out I never quite ticked my cogs the same way as the masses. For most of my younger times, I was content with this, for it was how world was meant to function, but, alas, when I had to daily abandon the family nest to embark the adventure of education, I faced distrust and beffudledment from my mates, making me try to fit the image other people had of what and who I should be. Recently I have accepted this strangement of me, and, far from content, am in the process of making it my standard, and travess life with pride, embellished by my differences.

Well I am a blacksmith and so many other things. I make lots of things with my hands. I am an artist of pretty much anything I can do with my hands. I found out about this through deviant art.

Many years ago, I lived in their neighborhood. They were Dorothy's friends, really, but they liked my cooking and company. They were kind and funny, handsome and smart. We went to the theater and the disco. At the neighborhood pub we drank fruity drinks and smoked clove cigarettes. We took turns pointing out the best looking men. They had nice parties and often graciously included me. We laughed a lot.

Then we drifted apart. Couples split. I left the neighborhood and lost track of them.

Now they are all gone - Ken and Michael, Tom and Jay, Douglas and Nathan. The disco is a college building. The pub has changed names three times.

I wasn't there to see them off. I did not imagine they would be leaving so soon.