pokemon card jewelry

6

Pokemon Energy Charm Bracelet - First Generation

This light, colorful bracelet features the first energy types introduced into the Pokemon game and TCG. Each charm is hand-cut from energy cards out of my own stock and laid in settings with glass cabochons.

Fun fact, the cards I used to make this were only made in that style for the base set print! So they really are a blast from the past!

The charms are not heavy or bulky and the chain secures with an easy-to-use toggle clasp. It looks great when stacked with other bracelets, too!

https://www.etsy.com/listing/177252848/pokemon-energy-charm-bracelet-first

Reblogging and Liking my jewelry posts really helps my stuff get exposure! I appreciate each and every one of you that enjoy my work enough to like and share it, on any platform. You guys are amazing :D

OH MY GOSH, THIS BRACELET SOLD IN A LITTLE OVER A DAY.

Thank you all SO much for passing this post around. I can’t believe how much craziness you guys gave it!

CLICK THE LINK BELOW TO CHECK OUT MY NEW POKEMON BRACELETS!

https://www.etsy.com/listing/185455036/pokemon-energy-charm-bracelet?ref=shop_home_active_7

Hudson Valley Gothic

There was a music festival this weekend, and you could hear the echoes deep in the woods behind your house for weeks. You didn’t know anyone who went, but one girl at school could pick out every lyric from her bedroom window, and the light in her eyes and the way she moves her lips haven’t been the same since.

The local health food store is celebrating its anniversary again. You only have a murky sense of why they’re celebrating and you don’t know which anniversary it is. They’ve long stopped plastering new numbers over the old sign; all that’s left there now is a dark stain. The cashiers will avoid your eyes if you ask, and charge you extra for your Rice Dream bars.

It’s mid-autumn and leafpeepers are arriving in droves. They drive for days in wide curves through the mountains, unsleeping, until the time comes for them to leave wordlessly in the misty pre-dawn light. You met a few of them firsthand at a local cafe once, a married couple in their early thirties. Their glassy eyes, trembling hands, and coffee-stained teeth confirmed your suspicions that they hadn’t yet found what they were looking for.

On the weekends, you can park a car on a mountain overlook and clamber up a rocky path to reach the top of a waterfall. The signs on the sides of the trail warn you in blocky letters not to climb higher than the place where the path ends. Some primal part of you wants to know what will happen if you do, but everyone’s seen the bodies.

You never lock your doors. Your neighbor locked his door once, and woke in the morning to half-inch deep claw marks leading intermittently from the knob all the way into the woods. He never sleeps now, which you know because you can smell the smoke from his trash can fire and hear his off-key singing until you fall asleep.

You and a couple of friends find a deep pool in the stream while exploring up in the woods, near the waterfall, that seems to devour the afternoon sunlight and everything else you drop into it to gauge its depth. The cliffs are riddled with rattlesnake holes, but you climb them to avoid walking around the edges of the pool. You’d much rather be bitten by a rattlesnake than by whatever lurks in its lightless depths.

Every time you come to this town, you swear the streets are shaped a different way than they were before. You’re not even sure what the name of the town is. You’re not even sure if it’s the same town at all. You think so. That’s the same art supply store. You can tell because you bought clay there once, and you remember the corpses of trapped moths piling up in the flickering ceiling lights.

You’ve been out all day picking blackberries from roadside thickets, and you can’t tell how much of the red on your calves and hands and mouth is juice and how much of it is blood. You found a whole fallen robin’s egg in the brambles, and you try not to think about the crunch it made in your pocket as you toss your shorts into the wash.

You always take one specific path into town from the parking lot. One day, you don’t, and you find yourself coming around the side of a building with nothing to indicate its purpose with a large display window in which you think you can see your dreams staring back at you. There are no hours posted, but the interior is dark and the entrance is partially blocked by a rusting pickup. By the time you can come back, the building has been commandeered by another expensive boutique.

For every antique shop you enter, there are two more you never get around to. Not that you didn’t try, but they all have strange hours and windows crammed with lit lamps and if you ever see anyone emerge from them, it’s with dazed eyes and clutching lumpy bags of things they seem to be uncomfortable looking at or touching directly. They will have forgotten their uneasiness by the time they get home.

The same goes for the expensive boutiques.

You know every flea market vendor by name, (or at least by wares) save one. You watch him sell someone the top half of a real human skull, and afterwards you can picture everything but his eyes. He doesn’t return the next weekend. The Pokemon cards and overpriced vintage jewelry in your pocket make you nauseous.

Everyone who’s been a student at the high school has been to Dallas Hot Wieners at least once. Everyone. You don’t really talk about it much, but the details that stick out in your mind are always something wrong with your friend’s eyes, bits of metal at the bottom of your drink, fries with a flavor more like the metallic taste at the back of your throat that comes with a nosebleed than anything, and (invariably) the feeling of the linoleum under your feet being not quite right.

When you were little, there was an old woman who lived on the corner and raised the only sheep for miles. You only ever saw the sheep, and you don’t remember anyone telling you that an old woman lived there. There haven’t been any sheep in the yard in years, and you get the feeling that stepping up onto the rotting porch of the old house now would make you even more nauseous than it would have when there were.

You’ve never been to a ski resort. No one you know has ever been to a ski resort. You suppose people come from out of town in the winter to go to them, but you can’t figure out why they would. There is a ski resort commercial playing on the radio, and your fingers are numb. You would be able to see your breath in the air, if you could keep your eyes open.

There is garbage from decades past piled in the woods a few hundred yards behind your house, half-embedded in leaves and dirt and unpleasant bugs. You pull out shards of china, cans with faded labels, dozens of strangely shaped old bottles. Most of them are empty. Most of them.

There is a collection of abandoned office buildings in the city of Kingston surrounded by a tangle of roads that all lead back in on each other, no matter which direction you leave from. They’re easy to break into, (or so you’re told) assuming you know the way. If you get there at the right time on the right gray day and stand just so in the grid of brush sprouting up from the cracked asphalt, you might be able to peek in through the half-broken windows and catch the shadow of whoever left the overturned stroller partially hidden in the weeds.

There is a white mulberry tree in your grandmother’s yard. No one tells you not to eat the berries that fall to the ground like so many juicy grubs, but something tells you that you shouldn’t. They carpet the grass and you walk on them barefoot and think you feel something move.

It’s strawberry season, and the fields go on as far as your eye can see. You’re told only to pick from certain rows. One summer, you didn’t listen, and all you can remember from that day (no matter how hard you try) is the impression of having walked so far into the strawberry fields that the only sounds were that of your own breathing, and something else.

Your new next-door neighbors bought the house as a second home and your parents assume their first home is in the city, but they’ve never actually said so. You’re afraid to ask.

The main road is closed again for another wedding. When you complain about the inconvenience, your mother chides you, saying it’s a testament to how beautiful this place is, that you should be proud, and that you’re lucky to live here. Her eyes and smile are far too wide. You don’t have the heart to argue as the skin at the corner of her mouth begins to crack and peel.

There is an old stone wall in your backyard, separating your house from the woods. It has always been there. You don’t know which side it is protecting, but it has begun to collapse and you don’t think you’re ready to find out.

There is a haunted house being advertised on the radio. You find yourself reciting the words along with the advertiser, and begin to panic as you realize you can’t stop. You fumble to turn off the radio and manage it before the commercial ends, cutting off the sound, but when you look up you’re passing by a field that is filled with buffalo and ominously dwarfed by a gargantuan billboard plastered with the same advertisement in visual form. You drive faster even though you’ve forgotten where you’re going. It is early April.

4

ancient Mew pendant

- holographic Pokemon card, Ice Resin

[click here for the Etsy listing]