Conservative Art – Page 62 – LLOYD'S LENS PHOTOGRAPHY LLC

The Beacon part 6

digital art, Fiction Story, short stories, The Beacon

After getting his bearings the young man and the caretaker went about their routine. The young man took his turn in the bed and fell asleep quickly. Sometime during the night however he woke up in a cold sweat. The room was spinning and he felt very weak. He tried to get to the door but his knees buckled and he collapsed before reaching the door. He felt himself being lifted up and placed back into the bed. A cool cloth was placed on his forehead. The last thing he saw before passing out again was the caretaker’s face. He spoke in a soft reassuring tone to the young man. The next time he came around the bedroom door was open and the young man could see the caretaker sitting at the table in front of the empty chess board. He could hear the same soft tones as the caretaker rested his elbows on the table and bowed his head in prayer.

Outside the storm was raging. Harder than before and in the middle of the day which was unusual for the island. The young man’s eyes closed once more. Again he woke up and this time the caretaker was sitting on the edge of the bed with a cup of broth. As the young man sipped from the cup he could taste the medicinal herbs in the infusion. It was bitter but the treatment was working.

Afterwards, the young man managed to stay awake. The caretaker came into his room and checked his fever. He gave the young man a pat on the shoulder and a thumbs up. Then he went back out of the room and started to work in the kitchen. The young man rose from his bed and sat down in front of the fire. He wondered how long he had been sick but really didn’t know how to ask. The caretaker looked at him from across the room and held up three fingers. Then pointed to three days on the calendar. The young man counted his blessings. He could have been on his one man vessel when the sickness struck. He would have been at the mercy of the sea.

Long Term Parking

Abandoned, Color Photography

This Jeep was parked in this very spot when I was a kid. It’s one of several old Willie’s Jeeps that the landowner has. In my imagination I can see young soldiers crossing the battlefield in this jeep. I imagine the stories of home that are exchanged. The men are hopeful because the war is over and they are returning home. I imagine that when the jeep is sold as surplus it falls into hands of someone who puts his heart and soul into making it roadworthy again. I can see him exit the highway on a whim to explore some mountain trail. He and his jeep are a good match. They are both rugged and free spirited. Not to bound down by the well traveled highway which goes only to and fro but not out. I imagine the fishing and camping trips with friends and laughter they enjoyed. The jeep started out with a mission to bring people home. Now with it’s mission accomplished it was time to rest. It made one last trip. It’s last escape from the pavement on the edge of the home it came back to. There it could stay parked and enjoy the peace.

The Beacon part 4

digital art, short stories, The Beacon

The young man was just putting away the last of his recovered belongings when the caretaker emerged from the bedroom. Determined to not be a burden the young man had already prepared the next meal from his supplies. It was early afternoon and dark clouds were already gathering to engulf the small island. At the first flash of lightning they began to count the seconds between the flash and the sound of thunder. This would let them know how many miles away the edge of the storm was. The second flash was a few seconds shorter between flash and crash. This one was coming in fast. The caretaker drops his spoon into the bowl with a splash and starts for the supply room . The young man catches him by the shoulder and motions towards the spiral staircase. The caretaker understands, the young man had already prepared the next round of oil in the lamp. They made their way to the top of the lighthouse and once more the beacon began it’s nightly battle with the darkness. They returned to the meal and stoked the fire. The little cottage had few creature comforts but the fireplace and generous supply of cordwood was one of them. It was while sitting by the fireplace that the caretaker noticed the small stack of personal items recovered from the wreckage. On top was an oilskin wrapped around a book. The caretaker gestured for the younger man to show him what was in the bundle. The young man handed him the oilskin and the caretaker removed a Bible. The leather cover was very worn and pages were falling out but it was all there. A certain look came over the caretaker’s face and a small tear formed in corner of one eye. The caretaker seemed to caress the book as he held it. Without lifting the cover he began to speak. It didn’t take long for the younger man to recognise that the caretaker was quoting scriptures verbatim in his own native tongue. After reciting a few passages the caretaker returned the sacred book to its oilskin and secured the closure. “It was my father’s book.” The young man said as he returned it to the small stack. “He was lost at sea when I was a child. It’s all I have left.” The caretaker placed a hand gently on the younger man shoulder as he spoke. After a few minutes of silence the caretaker motioned him to move back to the table and sit down. He disappeared into the back of the supply room and returned with a bottle of wine and a box. The caretaker pours each of them a proper glass of wine and opens the box. Inside was a chess board and pieces carved from shells gathered from the beach. They passed the evening with a few rounds of chess until it was time for the caretaker to focus on the maintaining the lamp and watching the rocks for the signs of ship in trouble.

The next morning the storm seemed to break early. The young man ventured into kitchen and greeted the caretaker. They had one more round of chess and the caretaker disappeared into the bedroom.

The Birth of Steam

digital art

Winter in West Virginia can be kinda tough for photography. Nothing much is in bloom. We get more rain than snow most years and it gets dark really early due to angle of the sun to the mountains. With the opportunities growing scarce I like to mix photos in with different shapes and backgrounds. This image is a composit of rain on glass, ink poured into plastic plate and a digital mist from one of the apps I’ve got. Color was changed and images twisted and remixed. The process was already making me think of a blacksmith heating steel, shaping it and folding it over and over again. Then that moment when he quenches the hot metal and the steam rises from his pail.

The Beacon part 3

Fiction Story, short stories, The Beacon

Before advancing the story I want to talk about the image. The base is is the lighthouse at Summerville Lake in West Virginia. The background is a manipulation of one of those surprises you find on your camera roll when you have accidentally hit the shutter button .

The storyline started out as a was of featuring the lighthouse images but has seemed to take on a life of its own. As fitting images and inspiration allow I will continue to advance the the story of the beacon.

On the following evening the storm came back with a vengeance. The old caretaker gestured for the younger man to help him carry a fresh supply of oil to the lamp at the top of the lighthouse. They each took a canister into a hand and began to climb the spiral staircase. In spite of his years the caretaker seemed to make the ascension with ease. The caretaker’s large hands kept a tight grip on the precious liquid during the climb. When they reach the top of the tower the first order of business is to fill the reservoir. The young man finished pouring his oil and paused to look out at the pitch black sea. The occasional flash of lightning revealed the angry sea below. He could see the broken hull of his one man vessel still hung up in rocks just beyond the beach. Judging by the number of oil canisters in the supply it could be months before he would be found. “At least I’m not alone.” He thought to himself as the caretaker pulled a striker from his vest pocket and lit the wick. The caretaker motioned him to move back down the stairs and he took one last look at his boat before descending back to the cottage. They entered the kitchen and soon the caretaker sat two more bowls of soup on the table. As they ate the younger man noticed that the caretaker’s bowl was only half full while his bowl was almost spilling out. There was sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. While there was plenty of oil to last a certain number of nights the rocky island only held enough food for one person to last the same span of time. The caretaker was rationing himself and sacrificing for the benefit of his guest. If the boat wasn’t washed away by the latest storm the younger man would have find a way to retrieve any supplies from the hold. Why had the caretaker not tried to make him understand about the food supplies? He would have understood. Was it pride or a sense of duty? The young man stopped eating at a half bowl thinking he could save the other half for breakfast. This resulted in a stern look from the caretaker as well as a gesture to finish eating. The young man recognized only one word of what the caretaker spoke during the exchange. “Wasted”. It was clear that the caretaker was insulted by any refusal of food. “Pride it is then” the young man thought as he finished the soup and began to formulate a plan to get to his boat.
As he tried to sleep the young man’s mind mused about what it would take to reach the boat. He had noticed a damaged sail in the storeroom of the lighthouse. If he could find something to use as framework he could fashion the sail into a skin boat. Another problem would trying to communicate his plan to the caretaker. As he finally drifted off to sleep he decided to present a sketch of his plan to the caretaker first thing in the morning just before the caretaker would be ending the night shift.
The morning sun broke through the clouds and the young man sprang from the bed and headed to the top of the lighthouse. The caretaker was just putting out the lamp to conserve the oil when the younger person reached the top. Out of breath he handed the caretaker the sketches detailing the construction of the skin boat. The caretaker looked at plan and smiled. He stepped onto the balcony at the top of the lighthouse and pointed towards the beach. There in front of the young man’s eyes was his boat fully beached.
The young man rushed out to his boat. By some miracle the water had not entered the large hole near the bow. He managed to get in through the cabin window and even though everything was tossed about nothing seemed to be missing. He began to gather his possessions into blankets starting with the canned goods. By the time he made it back to the cottage the caretaker was taking his turn in the bed. The young man started stacking supplies and replenished the pantry. His journey would have been three months between ports. The pantry now held more than enough food for two men to eat well until the next supply drop.