Hello!

If you are reading this, please know that I am happy that you have found my page among all the static noise on the internet!

I am always happy to read any criticism or thoughts on any of my writings. So who ever and where ever you are, please feel free to speak your piece! 

Sunday

Ducks

Seven

Calm, floating

A mom and a dad, 

Five little ducklings

Enjoying a nice day

Both the sky and water

A refreshing blue

Wind through the reeds,

Nature's song

Softly

Plays

Street Surgeon

Some folks turn into serial killers due to something within that is broken. It may be spiritual, a darkness within that swirls about their soul and causes them a twisted excitement as they see the life drain from the eyes of their victims.

Absolutely detestable.

There are those who are broken mentally. Consumed by hatred, or anger, they lash out at a specific typecast victim that is a mortal effigy of those whom they wish to harm but cannot.

Totally pitiful.

Some become serial killers by accident.

Now, I was not supposed to be a veterinarian. I was supposed to be a doctor.  A surgeon. A skilled blade that could help anyone with anything. That was the plan anyway, though much like most of my plans, it kind of deviated along the way.

The path that led me to being unable to go through med school and resorting to animal medicine is about as convoluted as what led me to practicing surgery in the dark of night on people who were sort of willing. Or at least would have been had they been with it. My first unfortunate victim, if some insist on calling him such, was a fellow by the name of Martin. I don’t know if that is a first name or last name. I just knew him as Martin, and he hung out down the block from my office. Every day, he would ask for enough change for coffee until I just told him to come on down and get a fresh cup from my building.

It was through the little conversations over the course of the next couple weeks that led me to suspect he was having gallbladder issues. Now, to be fair, I did tell him he should go to the hospital. I told him it was serious, and that he could die, but he laughed at me.

A few days of his grumbling of midnight pains, and vomiting, as well as some yellowing of his skin, and I had to act. I spent the weekend studying. That Monday, I told him to meet me there later that night, tell no one, and I would see if I had anything in the cabinets that could help. His eyes lit up, and I knew that I had said just the thing to convince him to come in. An offer of pills? The only thing that could have made it a sweeter deal is if I had offered free booze.

That night, he came walking up the alley as I had directed him and knocked on the back door. I looked hard down both sides of the alley to ensure that no one had accompanied him, followed, or was watching before I let him in. He entered the surgery room with some expectation, and he was not disappointed, as I had left a couple blank labeled bottles on the desk. As he leaned over to inspect them, I jumped to action with the chloroform-soaked rag. After I wrestled his limp body onto the operating table, I gassed him to keep him under for a while.

Cutting away his filthy clothes was a chore, and I knew that it would make it even more difficult to keep things sanitary and sterile, but I did my best. Operating by oneself has some drawbacks that a proper ER surgeon would not know about.

The initial incision went well. I cut slowly, and deliberately, doing my best to make sure that I would leave as dignified a scar as possible. Now, up to this point, I have only watched videos and read online texts in regard to the surgery, so I had never seen a gallbladder in real life, let alone had my fingers on one. Even though I thought I was prepared properly about what to expect via research and my experience on animals, a human subject was new to me.

Martin either had a lower tolerance for what I gave him, or I fouled up on how much I should have given him. Either way, suddenly, he gasped a big breath of air, and let out a scream at the precise moment that I was making an incision to remove the diseased organ. I accidentally sliced it open, spilling bile everywhere inside the abdominal cavity. That would have been a disaster by itself, except that Martin was now awake, confused, in pain, and struggling to get away from me. Blood spilling through his dirty fingers as he attempted to hold himself closed with one hand, and push me away with the other, he tried backing away. His shoes, soles smoothed to nothing long ago, slipped quickly on the linoleum flooring, and his head came down on the operating table, and I heard what I instinctively knew to be his neck breaking.

I would be lying if I didn’t stand there for a good few minutes just staring at the mess, and silently cursing at his corpse. A quick cleanup and short drive later, and that is how Martin became my first failed patient, as well as my first kill.

I have gotten quite good since then. Some folks accept my help willingly due to being afraid of getting arrested or committed if they try to go to the clinic or the hospital, so I have the basics down pat. Larger surgeries are a wee trickier, and the willing are hard to come by. So, with some determined survelience, and some careful scheduling, I can usually obtain my patients from the homeless.

While those who survive never seem to report the procedures, those who do not have given me quite a bit of grief. Not only are they testimony to my failures and shortcomings as a Doctor, but they have led to something of a small media sensation calling my failures the work of a modern “wanna be” Jack the Ripper.

The only good thing about the media following my work, is it has been described as “Less Grotesque”, and one reporter commenting that I am “Really refining” my skills.  Rave reviews, if there could be any…

 

Random Fact

The thing about human flesh, is that you can almost convince yourself that it isn’t. Sure, when you are eating it raw in bloody bites straight from the torso or the appendage, there is no getting around it. If you are eating it out of necessity, there is typically nothing to justify it in your mind other than the screaming pangs of hunger from your gut, and the weakness in your own limbs. Over the scream of hunger, that soft whisper comes that justifies it. One way or the other, the whisper can seduce almost anyone that it is necessary.

You can fight the whisper for a spell, and maybe even overcome it until you yourself are rescued either by others, or death’s saving embrace. Anyone who gives in to the whisper will inevitably hear it return as a whisper that gradually turns into a scream until they follow its demands. Then after, there is just that cold firm voice of desire. There is no ignoring it. No overcoming it. If they listen when the voice speaks, they will not have to worry about the scream in their head…listen to the voice, eat well, and get a decent night’s sleep.

When you start incorporating it into recipes with other food items? That’s when you know that you can sleep better with yourself at night. Who else, but a well-rested person, can make General Tso’s with a little something extra? Ramen with “beef”. BLT’s. When you grind it up in order to make 5 alarm Chili, or a good old fashioned American cheeseburger with the works…that is the extra effort that comes with a hunger, not stirred by the whisper, but is born of a hunger from the darker regions of the soul…directed with a cold firm voice of desire.

It took me a while to figure out the fine line between lunacy and delicacy, between satiation and gluttony. It took me even less time to determine the best way to hold the knife, to grind the meat, or to which spices work best. The first bite is the hardest. After that, the hardest thing is to figure out where the next bite is going to come from.

Hymn to Juno Lucina

Dearest Juno Lucina, I have received great news!
That after examination all of those issues
that made my Son’s birth a risk
by your divine hand, have been whisked
away to some unknown place
and you have left, in your sweet grace,
a day to look forward to in a hopeful light,
one of joyous celebration and delight.

Mundus Patet

You may not see the mist swirling around the ground,

Wrapping around your ankles as if to pull you down…

Nor the fog that isn’t fog, cold and brief,

leaping from the earth in joyous grief

You may not see it , or touch it yet

but it is there to be sure, so do not forget:

Say a prayer for your ancestors and passed Kin,

set a meal for them to gather and partake in…

Wine for those spirits who enjoy a spirits drop

Milk and honey, or soup with bread to sop

Candles flame to light their path to and fro

incense to purify and enjoy before they go.

Say the names you know with reverence and respect

and nameless ask forgiveness, that you do not neglect

to honor all kindred, for though some names escape us

we honor them still, for they shaped us, and won’t forsake us.

Before dear Ceres, make certain to bow

And make an offering to her of a sow,

Or gather fruit, flowers, or a handful of wheat

To lay in offering at the Goddess' feet 

In gratitude for the boundaries she holds fast 

That the shadowed veil continues to last.

Or wear a poppy proudly upon your breast

That she may count you among her blessed...

Dis Pater, Dis Pater, Do not forget Dis Pater!

Say a blessing, and light a flame in his Honor!

A plate of food, a glass of Wine

A hymn and prayer said in honor of the divine.

Let no lip utter, nor mind give the thought

That this day came, and you observed it not.

May you be praised and held in esteem instead

That you fulfilled your oath to your honored dead,

and to the Gods and Goddesses most deserving

you gave praise, and offering, thus preserving

rites that have dimmed, but have not died

and your children may carry this on with pride

that one day your name may be honored as well

when you pass on to where your ancestors dwell.

Prayer of the Plazèràth

Beyond the rippling ocean of a veil that we can not breach lay a world much as our own. It is different in many aspects, from Names and styles to a plethora of historical events. So many that they can not be adequately documented here.

On the continent of Lyria there is a village named Hono Solla in the nation of Fenrüt. The village is simple, but ambitious. They belong to a sect of social and religious followers of the ancient people of Prima Solla. And call themselves Socia î Sollea. The citizens there are made up of people from around the world, and while it is not large, it grows.

In the far-off nation of Plazèràth are a good deal of followers of the Prima Solla Gods and Goddesses, separated by hundreds of miles from each other.  The dream to live in a community of fellow followers of The Sollea, as the Gods and Goddesses are called, is like a flame that burns in each of their hearts.

A couple of Plazèràth citizens involved in the higher offices of the Socia î Sollea decided to move to Hono Solla. It wad a matter of delight, and no small honor that they shed the cloak of their Plazèràth citizenship and make their way to Hono Solla within that nation of Fenrüt.

Feasts were made in celebration, and members of the Socia î Sollea still in Plazèràth watched in awe and a fair amount of envy as the expats were accepted in great joy and festivity. What a great honor, they thought jealously. Sacrifices were made. Libations were poured, and the Socia î Sollea knew joy and merriment.

However, Lyria was not just a home to the people of Fenrüt and the colony of the Socia î Sollea. It was a decent sized continent with multiple nations. One such nation being the Kazrýç. 

The Kazrýç eyed the Fenrüt as not an enemy to be conquered, but rather, a territory filled with brethren to be Reclaimed to restore the honor of their once great empire, fallen so long ago.

Lyria, then, was soon heard echos of marching columns as Kazrýç moved into action.  

In hushed tones, some Socia Î Sollea in Plazèràth exchanged conversations outside the ears of leadership. There was pride that Plazèràth Socia î Sollea would be able to defend Hono Solla. They remarked that either Fenrüt would notice their commitment to their new home and the Sollea would receive honor and glory by this....or perhaps, in a loss, the Kazrýç would recognize their Valor and determination and the Sollea would be honored by virtue of the struggle.

As Kazrýç and Fenrüt marched to war, the Socia Î Sollea in Plazèràth were dismayed to see that their former countrymen were fleeing Hono Solla. Not everyone fled, but the leaders from Plazèràth did, and did so as quickly as they could. 

With great horror and embarrassed shame, libations were poured and Sacrifices were made to the Sollea for the protection of Hono Solla, now all but abandoned to both the Fenrüt who would never trust those following the Sollea from Plazèràth again. 

Sacrifices made and libations poured that Hono Solla would be protected from the Kazrýç as it marches across Fenrüt.  

Sacrifices made and Libations poured that the honor of the Socia î Sollea would not be entwined in the eyes of the Sollea with the dishonor of the cowards who fled. 

Now safe in a new harbor of refuge, far from the abandoned village, those disgraced in The eyes of the Plazèràth Socia î Sollea commented on social affairs...world affairs...religious affairs... so arrogant as to not even entertain the idea that their thoughts and opinions...even their titles within the Socia Î Sollea were muddied with the filth of their cowardice. They would, for all of their boisterous blubbering and sense of self worth would hold the title of Çovæti (dishonorable) within within hearts and prayers of their Plazèràth colleagues. 

The evening prayer would often end thusly: "...and may the eternal Sollea and all of their servants and spirits see me and mine apart from the Çovæti. May my ancestors speak for me.  May the spirits of my land speak for me. May the Sollea save the Hono Solla, and may we have the opportunity to build a Solla within Plazèràth. Built by true Socia Î Sollea, of proud Plazèràth nature. Never to fall to foe from without or Çovæti from within."