Where have you been all my life?

Or, a belated love letter to Chris Edwards

How does a builder produce 4 islands over multiple years without any pictures passing across the desk of Kevoh T. Blocksworth? What awareness-be-gone spell was cast, and who could have cast it?

Thank providence, the spell is lifted. And so, like Dumbledore at his pensieve, Doc Brown in his Delorean, or you and your Tivo, we look into the murky past. "Long past?" inquires Scrooge. "No, a mere 2 Christmases ago" replies the Ghost.


December, 2007. Four days separate the uploading of "Island 2" and "Island 3." Island 2 is tropical and delightful. A charming path leads us lazily through a picturesque landscape. A small fortification acts as a folly, drawing the eye, as flowing water trickles and gushes.

Our ghostly tour guide then stops briefly at a most perilous construct; an abbey perched atop a massive boulder. Residents cantilever houses off the shear bluffs. What could make them stay here? Ho ho, dear reader, treasure lurks within these rocks.


Forward 4 months, April, 2008. A curious event is occurring; an enchanted jester wreaks havoc, damaging the aqueduct. "Somebody's poisoned the waterhole!" cries Woody. Alas, this is a part of the past best left kept there. It's really more a peninsula than an island. The culprit of this aborted island: it was build for a Classic-Castle contest.

Swiftly we move on, a year and 2 months more! June, 2009. Our journey is worth it; here is the island. This is the one to capture our imaginations. Every island on Earth pales compared to this; a place so magical it puts LOST Island to shame. Grass slips gracefully off a cliff. A perilous climb over rotten wood planks passes a determined, survivalist tree to an ancient stone chapel.

As the vision fades, as our bodies slip back into the lockstep forward march of Time, we hear a steady, faint sound. Water. It clings off the roots, collects into one single precious droplet, and falls.


Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip-Tick. Drip-Tick. Another sound joins in; the ticking of a clock. The noises align for the briefest of moments, then the water fades away. Tick Tick Tick. Wash that mercurial slick off your grizzly mane, Albus. We're home.