Archive for the ‘Series’ Category
Tucker’s Galleria Part Three
Friday, August 7th, 2009
TUCKER’S GALLERIA – New Acquisitions
(catalog continues)
7. Collected Tears (artist: Nicole R Murphy)
glass jar, $5,700
Within this jar rests approximately 250ml of fluid, a collection of tears shed by hundreds of volunteers. Murphy has included the particulars of every participant, and notable weepers include a nun questioning her faith, a child who had just witnessed his dog being run over, and a murderer about to receive a lethal injection.
While the piece can simply be kept as is, Murphy’s intention is that the purchaser ingest the tears, or apply them liberally to the skin. For this reason a HIV/HEP B shot is recommended, and a waiver must be signed.
8. Ball’s Lexicon (artist: Peter M Ball)
bound volume, magnifying glass, $145,500
Noted demonologist and linguist Ball has compiled his life’s work in this hefty ledger. This lexicon was written over several decades, following a lengthy series of interviews with various dead souls, infernal beings and multi-dimensional observers from the Outer Dark.
The Lexicon is an exhaustive work, listing and referencing every single word that has been forgotten, fallen out of usage, destroyed by iconoclasts or purged by historical revisionists since the dawn of time.
While this may be of great benefit to etymologists and historians, there are several authentic (and dangerous) words of power, the actual names of demons, and several references to dangerous adverbs that are better off forgotten.
9. Database (artist unknown, attributed to the late Robert Hood)
data file, Toshiba notebook, $25,000.
This simple database returns a numerical figure to any query, however obtuse. Some queries found in Mr Hood’s search history include:
[How many prawns have I eaten during my lifetime?]
[What is the exact age of the Earth?]
[What is George Romero’s phone number?]
[What are the coordinates of Atlantis?]
[What is the exact date and time of my death?]
The accuracy of these results appears to be uncanny, or as in Hood’s unfortunate demise, perhaps self-fulfilling.
We at Tucker’s Galleria attempt to offer you the most outstanding new works, in media both unusual and unexpected. No refunds, no personal cheques.
THE ROC GRAVEYARD
Tuesday, August 4th, 2009
This entry is third in a series. Feel free to revisit Basilisk Tracks and Bats on Fire before or after reading.
#
Michaela wondered how they knew to come here to die. Was it something like how sea turtles always found the same beach they were born to lay their eggs?
No one had ever photographed one of the great birds actually coming here to die. It happened so infrequently. Still, gatherings like this, with great numbers of the aggressive, territorial birds were rare. Her group was in luck.
François would have loved it.
She fingered the Phoenix feather he had bought her. He had given it to her before their first kiss. He had been that sure. Even now, she still carried it with her.
#
The island mountaintop was littered with giant bones. One by one the giant birds dropped from the sky and perched on the macabre roost of bleached rib cages, beaks and skulls. The group’s transport lifted from the waves, hovering high into the air for a better vantage. This was as close as they dare come.
Something bumped the transport. A young Roc. Defenses fired. Flares. Water. Directed blasts of sound. The bird held on.
Michaela composed a frantic message to François on her PDA. “Dearest One. I am sorry. I do not know how to untie this knot we got in, but there is still so much love…”
The boat lurched. A big flare exploded and the Roc let go. The rest of the group scrambled for their cameras as if this were routine.
#
The Rocs sang. Their mourning vibrating with the flickers of the endless stars above. What worlds, what sights had the departed bird seen? Scientists said they flew between worlds. In the quantum spaces between realities. They saw possibility. They lived in worlds that could be and that never would be.
Michaela held the phoenix feather up. Rich orange shimmered through the stringy fiery red veins. It was perfect. And for a while there she and Francois had been so perfect. She brought the message up on her PDA. She stared at the little glowing screen, counting each bell she wished they hadn’t rung, then hit delete.
The transport hovered above the waves. The stars lit the deck. The Roc song was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard and she couldn’t hold her tears back much longer. Oh, Francois, she thought. She released the feather and let the night wind take it.