I Tremble

"I tremble lest I should in any way offend my Eternal Lover." 

- Jim Elliot -

From a letter to Elisabeth in Passion and Purity

I have recently, though not very stringently, been making my way through the book Passion and Purity by Elisabeth Elliot. I highly recommend this book, especially for any single young women out there, though I think she has a lot of good to say to women in any situation. This quote above snagged my attention so I can't quite get past it. I don't know why it came as such a shock. I've certainly heard God described as a lover before. Perhaps, it's because this quote came from a man writing to the woman he loved while in the course of deciding whether or not marriage might be in God's will for them.

As a single woman, I admit that I often think of love as something to be sought after. This is due to far too many factors to go into in the short time I have here. Suffice it to say that I certainly never considered that if I found love in the form of some delightful young man that I might make the conscious choice to put it (and him) aside to more fully follow my Lord. Perhaps, it is better then that I have never been given that choice, because I fear I would fail such a test. Though I desperately long to have a heart like Jim Elliot's, I often forget that God is, in fact, a being capable of greater depths of emotion than I am myself. And that he has chosen to love me. I should tremble at the thought of offending him. Not out of fear of punishment or separation, but because to offend someone who has done so much for me is wrong, and I should fear the kind of person that would make me.

Psalm 51

Self-destruct

You know those movies, the old sci-fi flicks with more cheese than lasagna where the courageous Captain decides to self-destruct rather than let his ship be dragged into a planet's gravity by some arch-enemy thereby destroying life on the planet. You know the one. It's an old plot, so I wonder if anyone thinks about how hard that would actually be. I mean, to put it in real-life perspective it would be something like diving in front of a bus to push someone else out of the way, or intentionally veering into a side rail to keep from hitting a kid on the road. To bring it down to an even smaller level, it would be like keeping your mouth closed when your pride is stinging rather than striking out in retaliation, or working quietly without worrying about whether or not you'll get the credit.

Sometimes, the grander gestures, the more visible sacrifices are so much easier to think about, because the answer is so obvious. The small things though, tend to trip me up like invisible snares. But small by no means equals unimportant.

Self-destruct. Tearing down the self. Stripping it away. Undoing it.

I could use a self-destruct button in my own life. If I had my way, it would be big and red and blinking. Because there are a lot of times I should use it and I don't. There are a lot of times that I self-construct instead. Culture tells us that this is a good thing. Be proud of who you are. Don't let anyone tell you who to be. You are good. You are beautiful. You deserve great things. And on and on. None of those statements are bad in their own self-contained, encouraging way. I certainly don't think people should go around thinking they're scum or ugly, or that they should be treated that way. Self-esteem and arrogant pride are different things. But being too self-effacing is also, definitely, not where my own flaws lie.

I don't know about you, but I don't need to be told to be proud of who I am. Sometimes, I need someone to remind me that it doesn't matter. None of it matters. Anything I do outside of Christ means absolutely nothing, zero-Kelvin-middle-of-space nothing, and anything I do in him, means life. Those are the only two options. 

In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven. - Matthew 5:16

Notice, he doesn't say, do good works so people will see you as a hero, send you candy and flowers and discuss you on talk shows. Do good so people see God, not you, and praise him, not you.

So, yes. I need a self-destruct button. I need to use it every day. Because self-construction builds up fast, like hard water residue. It grows uglier and thicker and the longer you wait to scrub at it, the harder it is to get rid of it--the harder it is to notice that blinking, red button.

Being in the Elevator

     This morning, as on many others, I stepped into the elevator and pressed a button for the floor I wanted. The elevator moved, which is nothing unusual--in fact, I prefer it that way. I was rather surprised when it went down instead of up, and I looked a little foolish to the man who got in on the subbasement level while I was trying to figure out where I was. In the end, however, I figured it out and started up again.
     It occurred to me while I was hanging in a metal box suspended by, I assume, cables and tracks, how much faith I have in ordinary things. Faith is, by definition, being certain of what we don't see. When I'm inside the elevator, I can't see the cables that are holding it up. I can't even see the floors passing. If it weren't for the delightful red display of numbers ticking steadily up (or down) I would have no idea where I was at any given point. And yet, I never doubt that I'm going to get where I need to be...in an elevator.
     An elevator, I feel the need to point out, is a machine. It doesn't think. It doesn't feel, and it certainly isn't infallible. The elevator doesn't care if I get out on the right floor, and if a cable were to snap, the elevator would not save me from a fall. So why then do I continue to take my life in my hands and climb into an elevator rather than taking the stairs. Faith. Well, that and the fact that eight flights of stairs are rather too daunting a task for me. But the elevator, despite all that could go wrong, has never let me down. I've never been in an elevator that fell. I've never been stuck, although I think I remember one opening a little off between floors. Obviously, it wasn't enough to make a truly lasting impression.
     So it comes to this. If I have that sort of faith in a machine without even thinking simply because I've never had one break on me, then why, oh, why is so difficult for me to trust God so completely? Why do I hem and haw and hesitate as if he's leading me somewhere I don't want to go? Why do I struggle and fight when I could be relaxing and being glad that I don't have to go through all those steps myself?
     Rather than just stepping in each morning and letting him take me were I need to go, I try to be helpful. I try to press buttons and flip switches, and I panic at every creak and jolt because I can't see what's happening and I'm in no way in control.
     This week, I'm going to remind myself every time I step into an elevator that God knows where I'm going, he knows how he's going to get me there, and he isn't going to let me fall.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Hebrews 11:1

Medicinal Herbs for Fictional Use, Part 2

1. Urine, that wonderful liquid gold.

Splash, photo by Pro2

Urine has had many uses in history and in historical medicine, everything from being used as a face wash to tanning hides to a detergent for tough stains. Urea, a main component of urine, is used in many beauty products today that are used to treat dermatological conditions like psoriasis and eczema. Urea can also dissolve the nail plate of an infected or overgrown nail without damaging the healthy tissue.

Now, depending on your fiction world, urine might very well be the most aseptic liquid available. Urea, a component of urine, can debride wounds by breaking down the dead tissue. If it came right down to it in a survival situation, I would probably go with urine over alcohol for a large wound since alcohol kills all tissue, both healthy and non, and the urine of a healthy person probably contains less sugars and odd yeasts than your fermented beverage of choice.

On a side note, urine is supposed to be a wonderful fertilizer so if you have a compost pile of your own...

2. Mullen (Mullein Root, Wild Ice Leaf, Hag's Taper, Candelaria) is still proclaimed today to be a wonderful cure for things like ear infection and respiratory disorders. Historically, the leaves steeped in vinegar were used to treat lameness and internal bruises as well as respiratory congestion. Do note that the hairs on the leaves can cause contact dermatitis, so people shouldn't be picking them without gloves. The flowers are used to create a wash for minor wounds and abrasions.

Mullein, photo by Schnobby

3. Lobelia inflata (Indian Tobacco) leaves and seeds were used dried, crushed and tightly bottled, made into a tea, tincture or pill. A few teaspoons were given at a time to treat asthma, whooping cough, difficulty breathing, consumption, cholera, lockjaw, rabid animal bites, wasp or poisonous insect stings and, surprisingly, hydrophobia. Lobelia is toxic in large doses and does tend to cause vomiting indicating that the dose needs to be titrated according to response.

Lobelia inflata, photo by H. Zell

4. Knotgrass (Polygonum Aviculare) extract was used for nose and gastric bleeding. When powdered it was drunk with wine to treat poisonous bites. And was in general considered to be a remedy for gangrene, ulcers, broken joints and dysentery.

Common Knotgrass, photo by Aiwok

5. Foxglove (Digitalis Purpurea) was first documented for use in cardiac issues in the late 1700's and contains a strong cardiac glycoside that slows and strengthens the heartbeat. I can't see a reason any character in any of my stories would conceivably use this as it deals more with a chronic condition than an actual disease process. But I found it interesting so I'm including it anyway. Honestly, it would, in fiction land only of course, be more useful as a poison. Overdose of foxglove causes visual disturbances (yellow-green halos around lights), vomiting, dizziness, seizures and ultimately death as it stops the heart.

Digitalis Purpurea, photo by Kurt Stüber

Well, that's it for this section. This is, of course, in no way comprehensive, but I hope it has helped to imbue a modicum of historical accuracy to your literary endeavors. Happy writings, everyone!

Medicinal Herbs for Fictional Use

For those of you writing either historic novels, or novels where such wonders as penicillin and morphine have yet to be discovered, you may be wondering what you can use to help your ailing characters without just throwing random (or made-up) herbs into a poultice. So here is a list of herbs used in the 19th century for various ailments. 

As a disclaimer, this is not sound medical advice for real world people living in the 21st century, so please do not try any of these remedies on yourself without doing some thorough research of your own.

1. Chocolate Root (purple avents, geum rivale) can be used to treat fever, consumption and sore throat. Mix about twenty grains of the powder with honey. Take every day. Can also be made into a tea.

Indian Chocolate: Photo by Jeffdelonge , Les Verrières de Joux, France, mai 2005

 2. Bloodroot (sanguinaria canadensis, bloodwort) is used for fever, wound cleaning, cough and croup, dental hygiene, and, in those cases where it is desirable, to cause vomiting. The underground part of the stem (rhizome) was used for medicinal purposes. Dosing is not specified. However, if taken orally it is an emetic (causes vomiting) or it can be placed directly on the skin around a wound to clean away dead tissue and reduce inflammation. Bloodroot may have some antibacterial and anti-inflammatory properties.

Bloodwort: CC-BY-SA-3.0/Matt H. Wade

3. Crow's foot (buttercup, ranunculus) is supposed to be good for blisters and can be used to treat asthma if made into a tea.

Creeping Buttercup: Photo by Laura Brolis, Wikimedia Commons

4. Canada Snakeroot (asarum canadense) has a "spicy" flavor and was used to treat catarrh, cough, colds, scarlet fever and lung complaints, such as tuberculosis. It must be said, however, that it is now known to contain a carcinogen.

Asarum canadense: Photo by Chris S. Packard, Wikimedia Commons

5. Comfrey (comphrey, knitbone, boneset) is still used today, and I can actually vouch for the authenticity of this one when used to treat burns. It is also supposed to heal with healing fractures, various skin ailments, bruises, wounds and sprains. Either create a poultice with honey and oil and place it directly on the wound or ailing part, or boil it down and use the extract, or have them drink it as a tea.

Syphytum officinale: Photo by Agnieszka Kwiecień, license: CC-BY 3.0

Well, that's all for now. Join me next time for URINE and its various uses.

Note: Most of these herbs were found in "The Ladies' Indispensable Companion and Family Physician" published in 1854. Another of the remedies for burns found in said book is to burn the inside sole of an old shoe and sprinkle the ashes on the wound...

Heart Healthy

"Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it." Proverbs 4:23

Easy words to say. We know what it means to guard something, to lock it up tight behind walls of stone and ironwood gates and courtyards filled with strong-armed and well-armored men. But how does one go about guarding a heart. One's heart, in the non-organic sense, is not easily confined. Even if it were practical to lock ourselves in a tower, which I don't suggest, our hearts would by no means be safe. How do you guard something that is essentially metaphysical?

"Keep your mouth free of perversity; keep corrupt talk far from your lips." Proverbs 4:24

Corruption spreads like bacteria in the blood, fast and hungry and surrounded by delicious things to eat. Bacteria are small, by themselves, they look harmless enough that we might not be able to tell the difference between the flesh-eaters and vitamin K-makers. So it is with corruption, and if we lack vigilance both can slip through cracks in the skin that protects and wreak havoc. The first step obviously then, it to keep them from getting inside.

"Experience teaches us that it is much easier to prevent an enemy from posting themselves than it is to dislodge them after they have got possession." - George Washington

Step I: 
Be careful what you allow yourself to take in. Don't let anything that carries a seed of corruption come inside, no matter how harmless is looks. (Anything by the way, means anything: books, television, speech, relationships, even thoughts, must be monitored for signs of infection and treated accordingly - a simple hand-washing will probably suffice for most things if you catch them in time James 4:8, but for those really tough jobs I suggest some serious knee-time and an industrial strength cleaner. Galatians 4:9, Proverbs 17:3)

"Let your eyes look straight ahead; fix your gaze directly before you. Give careful thought to the paths for your feet and be steadfast in all your ways. Do not turn to the right or the left; keep your foot from evil." Proverbs 4:25-27

Step II:

Follow through.

Yup, that's it. Decide what you need to do, and do it. Don't be distracted by all the shiny color and sparkle of culture. It's all plastic and plaster anyway. People will think you're strange. That's all right. They might even call you a prude. Heaven knows there are worse things you can be called (unsaved, unrepentant and wicked come to mind). By the way, the word prude is short for prude femme, meaning virtuous woman. Isn't it interesting how culture has taken something good and made it sound bad? Sounds like corruption to me.

The Homosexuality Issue is the not the Issue

Over the last few weeks, I found myself feeling increasingly uneasy, watching the unrest over the issue of homosexual marriage and homosexuality in general. As event unfold it's becoming more and more clear that in order for "everyone" to be free those who don't fall on the right side of this issue are going to be punished unfairly. And that is worrisome.

Then I realized what's going on here. Talk about smokescreens. This isn't about homosexuality; it isn't about marriage, abortion, slavery, genocide, or which version of the Bible you use. The issue is, as always, whether or not we as Christians are going to choose to act like Christ. That's it. Bottom line. God is control. Always. Our job is to share Christ's love with people.

I think personally, my job in the healthcare field has made part of this easier for me. In healthcare you don't discriminate. I've taken care of people who have done drugs while pregnant, who've been imprisoned for rape, who've tried to commit suicide, who are transgender or homosexual, who are alcoholics.... And it doesn't matter. You treat the person in front of you, and you don't judge them or look down on them, because if you did, you wouldn't be able to do the job.

That's the way it should be in our Christian lives. Treat the person in front of you. Love them as the circumstances call for it. I'm not saying you should tell them what they are doing is right. I don't tell patients who use drugs that they are okay to keep on doing drugs. It is going to kill them, and I have a responsibility to warn them of that. But people should learn to care about your opinion, because they care about you, which happens when you invest time into them. It doesn't work the other way around. No one says, "I really respect that outspoken opinion that was thrown at me like a dart, maybe I should get to know that person."

My point being, don't let what society says is the issue confuse you about what you need to be doing. God has already told us what is required. He didn't tell us we were responsible for fixing the world. He didn't tell us we had to run the country the way we want it run. Just imagine if we didn't live in a democracy. If we lived in a dictatorship where these issues weren't even up for a vote, how would that change how we act and think? The ideal answer would be that it wouldn't change our actions at all.

1 Corinthians 13:1-3, 13 (ESV): If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing...so now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is LOVE.

On Women

Recently, I started reading Seven Men and the Secret of Their Greatness by Eric Metaxas. For those of you unfamiliar with this author, he wrote biographies on both Dietrich Bonhoeffer and William Wilberforce. In the introduction to his latest book, Metaxas brings up the ideas of what culture today says about manhood. He writes that "we live in a culture where strength is feared and where there is a sense that--to protect the weak--strength itself must be weakened....It leads to a world of men who aren't really men. Instead they are just two kinds of boys: boasting, loud-mouthed bullies or soft, emasculated pseudo-men" (xx). Metaxas points out that manhood as God designed it is the selfless use of men's greatest gift from God, their strength, to protect those who are weaker. I agree whole-heartedly with this statement and think a great many of societies evils could be cured if men chose to use their strength in this way.

Reading this introduction, however, led me to wonder what God's greatest gift to women might be. I would like to set forward women's ability to use words, especially speech, as one of the main talents God has provided the fairer sex. And, just as men's talent has been perverted by culture, I think women's talent has been tainted as well. 

Allow me to explain. We are repeatedly told in the New Testament to use our words to encourage each other to good works, to build each other up and to show respect to the men in our lives--most especially husbands. But I see women all the time who use their words to purposefully disintegrate relationships, whether those are relationships with other women or men. Rather than using their talent for words, especially spoken words, to help, they are used as swift stabbing weapons, and whoever can think faster is the "winner" of the verbal warfare. As everyone knows, the old adage about sticks and stones could not be more untrue. Words can leave wounds that gape and fester for years, even a whole lifetime, after the actual injury is done. I could go on and on in this subject, talking about the prevalence of gossip and spreading of malicious rumors that seem to be the topic of so many television shows geared toward a teenage female audience, which I find horrifying and sad for so many reasons, but my main point is simply this: women have a God-given talent. Just as men should use their strength to protect the weak even to the point of self-sacrifice, women should use their talent to honor and encourage and bring life back into relationships. These talents are two complimentary sides of a coin. The loss of one leads to the downfall of the other. So let me encourage you women out there to use what you have been given for good. Write a note. Send an email or text or telegram if you have to. Tell someone you love them. Tell them they are important and special and that you are glad to have them in your life. Tell them you respect them...and then, act on what you say.


----

Metaxas, Eric. Seven Men and the Secret of Their Greatness. Nashville: Thomas Nelson, Inc., 2013.

Summer Reading List

For those who are always looking for new books to read here are a few recommendations from some of my favorite authors:

1. Pathfinder/Ruins by Orson Scott Card : 
         A far-future sci-fi series about the expansion of the human race to another planet. It's written for young adults but thoroughly enjoyable for a more advanced reader as well.

2. The Wind Through the Key Hole by Stephen King : 
        An addition to his infamous Dark Tower series, this is a tale within a tale within a tale that occurs during the events of the main series. If you were a fan of the series, you should enjoy this.

3. Dodger by Terry Pratchett :
       This novel has much of the humor and flavor of the Discworld series while holding to the setting of Victorian London.

4. Worldshaker/Liberator by Richard Harland :
       Steampunk science fiction for young adults that focuses on the strict class differences aboard the mobile city, Worldshaker.

5. Behemoth/Leviathan/Goliath by Scott Westerfeld :
       Another steampunk science fiction trilogy that begins at the onset of an alternate version of World War 1. I highly recommend this series as well as his Uglies series.

6. Reckless/Fearless by Cornelia Funke :
       A new fantasy series from the author of the Inkheart trilogy. Jacob Reckless is a hunter of fairy-tale artifacts in "the world behind the mirror," but finds himself in trouble when his brother follows him.

7. The Yard/The Black Country by Alex Grecian :
      These novels follow the cases of Detective Walter Day of the Scotland Yard Murder Squad after the infamous Jack the Ripper has disappeared from the streets.

8. The Affinity Bridge/The Osiris Ritual/The Immorality Engine by George Mann :
       Fans of steampunk should definitely give these a read. Newbury and Hobbes, working for Queen Victoria, whose life has been extended indefinitely by a monstrous version of life-support, hunt down the occult in London.

9. Portlandtown by Rob DeBorde :
       Zombies and a little voodoo mixed with northwestern American mythology.

10. The Complaints by Ian Rankin :
        A twist on the normal police/detective fiction involving Malcom Fox of "The Complaints", the Internal Affairs of Britain's police force.

11. Rot & Ruin by Jonathan Maberry:
       Zombies and a coming of age with an interesting message : "Zombies were people, too."

12. The Eyre Affair (Thursday Next #1) by Jasper Fforde :
        Time-travel, a literary detective agency, a master villain...This series moves so fast, it'll be hard to keep up if you aren't paying attention. You'll probably enjoy this series if you have a prolific knowledge of the classics, such as Jane Eyre, Great Expectations, Hamlet and more.

Three Personalities

"In the late 1940's, WH Auden became enamored of the idea that every writer's mind is a household containing three personalities. T.S. Eliot's, he wrote, included an Archdeacon, an old peasant grandmother and a young boy who liked to play practical jokes." - Adam Kirsch


I came across this quote as a writing prompt and decided to try my hand at it. I think there are far more than three floating around in here, but these are the top three personalities that I find myself writing into every story without conscious decision to do so.


LadyAmadeus' Household

1. The Flawed Hero
This is the protagonist who strives and strives for perfection even while making, sometimes extremely destructive, mistakes. He uses his strength (or sometimes weakness) to protect others as best he can while being singularly unconcerned for his own safety and well-being. This is a growing role. Flawed men turn into Heroes throughout the course of the story. And, yes, it usually is a "he," because in my own opinion females are far too complicated for this role (but this is an entirely different subject and may appear in another post at length, so we'll leave it to rest for now).


2. The Misunderstood Villain
My favorite is the misunderstood villain, because, if you are willing to let him, he can unearth a level of empathy that a hero is simply incapable of evincing. It requires the realization that everyone has their own reasons for doing what they do. Very rarely do people set out just to be evil. There are extenuating circumstances. There are turning points and cruxes and opportunities for change. The degree of separation between this villain and the hero can sometimes be as small as a single moment of decision, but that decision was shaped by a past, which is what I'm interested in. I myself am very rarely a hero, even a flawed one, but I do like to think that if I ever play the part of a villain it's simply because my actions are being misunderstood.


3. The Younger Brother
This is the one who desires more than anything else to make others proud of him, to make them acknowledge his skills and ability, and to live up to a standard that was set by someone, usually older and more skillful, going before him. The younger brother is useful in that jealously and unreasonable decisions as well as labile mood are completely in character. You still love him and want him to grow up well, but sometimes, he's simply maddening.

Hollow Land

I am lost in hollow lands
shades of things present and past collide together like astral planes
justice a bankrupt commodity, a mockery for the world-wise and powerful
avarice a staple of see-it-now-and-have-it-yourself mentality
the truth hemorrhages, crushed beneath an earth-weight ton of lies cast in heady disguise as noble means to save the world
I have fallen prey myself to such tremors of conscious, confabulation of purpose in a desert of shifting sands and crooked lines
and I am lost in the desperate caustic dust of drought

Lost until the gleaming morning star fixes direction, sets justice high above kings, floods greed with gracious generosity, overwhelming love, and proves truth the only thing able to save the world despite the sugar-sweet subterfuge of the overlord of this hollow land

The Alley

Thanks to Nicholas Schafer for the lovely picture that inspired this story. This is just an opening scene, and I don't plan to run it as a series on this blog. However, if you are terribly interested, let me know and I'll send you a copy when the story is complete.



I.
    Alois blinked several times. Paint dripped from his fingers. He could smell it. He stared at the wall in front of him, but he couldn’t see anything except a blur of browns and greens without his glasses.
    He wiped the paint off on the leg of his pants and wondered where he’d gotten the paint from this time. His head ached, right behind his eyes, and he drew his somewhat cleaner left hand across his face. He knelt down carefully and felt across the ground for his glasses, but he couldn’t find them.
    “Not again,” he muttered.
    “Hello? Alois?”
    “Jana?” he said, squinting at the figure coming toward him.
    “Thank goodness and mercy. I didn’t think I was going to find you.” She handed him a damp cloth and his glasses.
    “How long was I gone this time?” he asked.
    “I was out until about an hour ago. You were gone when I got back.” She looked past him at the wall. “What this?”
    He shrugged and turned to see what he had done.
    “This is amazing. How do you do such detail without even a brush?” she asked, leaning closer to the still wet paint.
    “I don’t know,” he said. He glanced at the scene, a sunny forest glade.
    “I feel like I could walk right into it,” Jana said.
    “You’ll get paint all over you,” Alois said without a hint of humor.
    “Probably.” She turned back to him with a smile. “We’d better go. It’s almost curfew, and you don’t want the badges seeing what you’ve done. Even if it is beautiful. They don’t like people painting up walls that aren’t theirs.”
    Alois gave a startled look up at the street light that stuck out of the wall and past it at the darkened sky.
    “Come on now,” Jana said, holding out her hand to him.
    He looked up at her. “Are my parents home?”
    “No, darling boy,” she said with a look around her eyes that was pitying. “Come along, and I’ll get you something to eat.”
    Alois rubbed at his temples, trying to stop the pain behind his eyes as he followed his nanny out of the alley.

II.
    At half ten, long after the curfew bells had rung and the lights had gone out, a boy about sixteen years old darted into the alley with the sound of boot steps following him down the street. He wasn’t surprised to find that the alley was a dead end. That was just the way his luck was running that night. He crouched against the wall, hoping the shadows would hide him and knowing that they wouldn’t.
    It wasn’t a part of town he normally hung about. The people who lived there were the posh of the nobs, and he was a factory worker who lived in the Shatter. The kind of guy who came home with grease embedded in every crease and crevice.
    He wouldn’t have been there at all if the Rocker Men hadn’t been waiting for him outside the building where he kept a room. He rubbed the back of his head where the first––and last––blow had landed. As soon as it had, he’d scrambled back up and run, because that was what he was good at––running, not fighting. He wasn’t used to having anyone so very intent on catching him though.
    They were going to gut him, he was sure, and he was very particular about the amount of blood in his body. If he could have his own way, it would be all of it. He studied the walls in the dim light, but they offered no way up. The one behind him was covered in a mural and smelled of still wet paint.
    “Come out, little Joe,” said a voice he recognized as belonging to Figs, the mouth of the Rocker Men. “We just wanna have a nice, little talk with you.”
    Four silhouettes appeared at the end of the alley, and Joe eased back, never minding the wet paint. It would wash out easier than blood in any case. But he couldn’t find the wall behind him. He slid back farther and his hand came down in something damp and soft. He drew it back at once, not wanting to think about what he might have stuck his hand in.
    He looked over his shoulder just for a second to see where exactly the wall had gone, only to discover that it wasn’t there at all, and neither, when he turned back, was the alley. He sat alone in a clearing surrounded by deciduous trees and filled with the faint but distinctive smell of wet paint.

Faye

She drinks the evening sunlight in

Amber and ocher, swirling steam

Like hot tea, it tastes of cinnamon

The fragrance of lilac hangs

Lazy drops of amethyst about her wrist

Silver bird song spins and twines

Through her hair, through the night

Moonlight wraps her in his arms

Starlight crowns her pretty face

Leaves move in the breeze,

Play a waltz as she dances

If you ever see her

No doubt you'll be enchanted

The Great Gray Divide

The darkness is
a living thing
that breathes
out coals and poison
and turns my soul
to ashes

The light is
a mighty force
that scorches
so brightly does it shine
and turns my soul
to gold

The gray is
where comfort lies
No change required
No pain to bear
and leaves my soul
just as it is

A dusty, useless thing

Black and Green (Part 6)

 Green

  "What's it going to take to end this war?" the colonel asked.
   Risen blinked slowly. The doctor had given him something for the pain. It had worked, but it made it hard for his eyes to focus in the same direction which was a definite downside. "Just wait through next winter," Risen said. He pulled at his left wrist, attached to the bed rail. "Those who ain't starved won't be strong enough to fight anymore."
   The colonel looked at him sharply. "What's wrong with your crops?"
   "You burned them," Risen said, "and a blight took the rest." He blinked again, thinking that he shouldn't be talking, though he couldn't remember exactly why not. He ran his right hand down his left side and found the thick layer of a bandage.
   "How'd you get that?" the colonel asked.
   "Sarks," Risen said. "We didn't know they were dangerous. One caught me. My team shot it, but the paralysis set in...they thought I was dead."
   "They left you behind."
   "Wasn't their fault. They're good men."
   "And what were you doing out in the hollowland in the first place?"
   "Looking for a way around the mountains--" Risen stopped himself then. "I'm not supposed to tell you." He clenched his hand against his wounded side, pressing his fingers into the bandage. Pain spiraled through his head and cleared away some of the fog.
   The colonel caught his hand. "You'll tear it open again."
   "I know," Risen said, pulling away clumsily.
   "So you think the war will be over in a year?"
   "I think everyone'll be dead in a year and ain't goin' to matter either way," Risen said.
   "You think maybe there's a chance for a truce?"
   "No. I'm sure they'd die first."
   The colonel got to his feet. "Do you know why?" he asked. "Do you know what started all of this?"
   Risen closed his eyes and recited by rote, "A minor clash at the border resulted in the death of Commander Peterra's only son, sparking the first stages of the War. Most of the major cities fell in the first years of the war, as the enemy targeted hospitals and schools. Children were evacuated to the outskirts of the country. Those who were left alive found they had little enough left to fight for beyond their honor and their lives." He drew a slow breath. "Does your side say the same?"
   "Nearly," the colonel admitted. "I suppose we'll none of us ever know the truth of it." He clasped his hands behind his back, his normal stance, and said, "You said something to me out there, when I asked you why you would want me alive."
   Risen said nothing.
   "You said I was just a man," the colonel paused. "Do you really believe that?"
   Risen tried to see past the uniform with its silver piping and colored medals, and the hardened face to the man that owned it. It was difficult, especially with the cuff holding his left hand to the bed rail. "Yes," he said quietly.
   "I don't think my men would believe you," the colonel said with a brief smile that Risen didn't share. He let his eyes wander the tent before settling again on Risen. Then he reached across the bed and cut the cuff that held Risen's hand to the rail. "I'll see you have clean clothes and a way back to the lines."
   "Sir," Risen said as he sat up, slowly. "You're letting me go?"
   "Don't read into it. I owe you my life, so I'm giving you yours. It's not going to change anything. It won't stop this damn war." The colonel shook his head and walked toward the exit.
   "I'll tell them," Risen said. "I'll tell my people. Maybe someday something will change."
   "Maybe," the colonel said with one last look at him. "But I won't start packing up my gear just yet."


The End

Black and Green (Part 5)

This is the second to last installment of the series. Thanks to those of you who've been following along!

                                                                                  ~~~

Green:
   Risen sat in the bottom of a wooden box roughly the size of a coffin stood on end. There was just enough room, if his knees were tucked against his chest, for him to sit. It was hard to breathe in that position. The twisting knife of pain in his side didn't help either.
   He could hear the patter of rain against the wooden walls. Chill water crept in along the floor to wet the seat of his pants. He shivered and pressed his bound hands tighter against his stomach. His heart stuttered in his chest when the lock on the door clattered. The door swung open. A woman stood there, her blonde hair close cut beneath her cap. She wore a gun.
   "Get up," she said.
   His legs were cramp, numb when he stretched them out in front of him.
   "You heard her, greenie," a man said, stepping up beside the woman. "On your feet."
   "I've got this, Beck," the woman said.
   Beck ignored her and reached for Risen's wrists. He jerked Risen forward and to his feet. Risen gasped, falling promptly to his knees. Beck cuffed him across the side of the head. Risen felt as though his skull had shattered. A blaze as bright as lightning lit up the inside of his head, gradually fading to hot red. For several minutes, he couldn't see or hear anything beyond that hot red behind his eyes and the roar of his pulse in his ears. Blood trickled down the back of his throat, bringing with it the taste of iron.
   By the time he got his head clear, he had been dropped into a metal chair in a gray tent with a single light shining into his eyes. He squinted, but that caused too much pain. He closed his left eye completely, which helped. He could just make out the colonel in front of him, freshly shaved and wearing a crisp, black uniform with silver piping along the shoulders and a plethora of small, colorful patches across the left breast. A new bandage had been spread across the side of his face. It was matched to his skin tone so it was almost invisible, but Risen knew where to look.
   "I'll talk to him alone," the colonel said with a brief flick of his fingers toward the others.
   A gust of chill rain against the back of Risen's neck told him that they'd gone. He lowered his eyes to his knees, away from the light. He didn't flinch when the colonel reached forward with a knife and cut the plastic cuffs from his wrists.
   "Have they fed you?" the colonel asked.
   "I got nothing to tell you," Risen said blandly. "I been lost out there for months. I don't know anything you could care to hear." He picked at the grim and blood crusted beneath his fingernails.
   The colonel moved over to the far side of the light and came back after a moment to hold out Risen's tags. Risen hadn't realized they'd been taken. When he stretched his hand out, the colonel drew the tags back.
   "Captain Zedekiah Risen," he said as he ran a thumb over the raised stamping. "I ran your number through the system. I didn't expect to get anything. Your methods of record keeping baffle even our most brilliant men. In any case, I did find something of interest."
   Risen let his hand fall back to his knee.
   "You're on the dead-list from a few months back."
   That news didn't surprise him. He knew they'd thought he was dead, or they wouldn't have left him behind, buried in a hasty cairn. What surprised him was that the black side had access to their dead-list. It made him wonder how far the colonel's intelligence extended.
   "I don't care much for deserters. No matter which side they come from."
   "I'm not a deserter," Risen said with as much heat of indignation as he could muster. Blood rose to color his wan cheeks beneath his unkempt beard.
   "Then what were you doing playing dead in the hollowland?"
   Risen pressed his lips together and tucked his hand beneath his jacket. "I don't got anything to tell you."
   "So you've said before," the colonel replied impatiently.
   "Are you going to kill me?"
   "Not just yet." The colonel clasped his hands behind his back. "I don't believe in wasting any resource. However small it may seem." He paused, then leaned forward. "I believe you know more than you pretend."


Black:
   When Risen had been taken back to what the soldiers had affectionately, if morbidly, named the graveyard, Colonel Marsh returned to his own tent and sat down behind his desk. Everything that had been taken from Risen's person was spread out on top of the desk. He set the tags down with everything else.
   "Lieutenant," he said.
   The other man looked up from his cot where he sat with a book in hand. "Sir?"
   "Tell me, what sort of man uses all but two of his bullets to save a man he doesn't know."
   "Sounds like a daft fool of a man to me," Lieutenant Carver muttered.
   "Perhaps." Marsh shook his head as Risen's words came back to him. You're just a man, aren't you? Could he really believe that though? Was he able to see past the color a man wore? If Risen could do such a thing, Marsh thought, then he was far more skilled than Marsh himself. He leaned back in his chair, feeling the tightness of the bandages across his chest and the dull, painless throb in his healing leg. He might have survived until his men arrived. Then again, he very well may not have.
   "Take him to the medical tent," Marsh said, startling Carver out of his reading once more, "and see he gets something to eat."
   Carver got to his feet at once and shrugged into his jacket. "Anything else?" he asked.
   "No. Let him stay in the med-tent tonight. I'll see to him in the morning."
   "Yes, sir," Carver said and went out into the rain.

 

The Incredible Human Body - ABGs

I'm fairly sure not many of you have taken the time today to realize what your body is doing to keep you alive, but the fact is that your body is constantly working to keep itself in balance, like a tightrope walker over the Grand Canyon.

Today's example of awesomeness comes by way of the arterial blood gases or ABGs. For the sake of brevity and balance, here are the three most important ABGs: pH (acid-base level), paCO2 (level of carbon dioxide, an acid), HCO3 (level of bicarbonate, a base).

Normal blood pH is between 7.35-7.45, which is quite a small range if you think about it. Let's just say that bad things (like coma and death) start to happen when the body gets outside of these limits. In order to maintain pH balance there are two systems that come into play. Your lungs regulate the amount of CO2, while your kidneys produce or reduce HCO3 in the blood.

Here's where it gets fun. Say you take off at a dead run for one block. Now, if you aren't an experienced runner, your muscles are going to produce lactic acid (H3C6O3 - for those who are desperate to know). Lactic acid in the blood stream decreases the pH (making it more acidic). Your lungs compensate for this change by having you breath faster, blowing of CO2 (remember it's an acid), until the pH level returns to normal.

But what if your lungs weren't capable of removing CO2 fast enough? In the case of chronic lung diseases where a person is constantly struggling to remove CO2, the kidneys kick in and produce more HCO3, which brings the pH back into balance. This is a snapshot of the respiratory side of things. There is also the renal side, which deals directly with HCO3, but that is much more complicated. Just think diabetic ketoacidosis and you'll get the idea.

My point is, that this is only one tiny, brilliantly working, self-correcting system out of hundreds of thousands in the body. Once again, the human body is incredible!

Black and Green (Part 4)

Green:
   Risen searched through the med-kit in the wan light of the rising sun and came up with a bottle of FreSkin. He tried it on his own arm to be sure it sprayed. It came out clear with the sting of antiseptic and gradually grew opaque as it congealed into a thick gel. Risen sprayed it over the worst of the colonel's wounds. The sarks had abraded most of the skin from the colonel's chest, leaving raw red muscle open to the air in bloody patches. There was the bite to be dealt with as well. Risen had little medical knowledge and not much desire to learn, but he used the spray on the colonel, then lifted his own tattered shirt and sprayed the gel across his own wounded side. He held his breath against the sting, which wasn't as bad as he'd expected.
   The colonel watched him. At least, his eyes were open. Risen had his doubts about the colonel's level of consciousness, but he leaned closer, studying the rough splint around the colonel's leg.
   The colonel sat up, shaking in every limb, and looked at him. "What do you want?" he asked.
   Risen folded his fingers around the map and tapped it against his leg as he looked at the dead sarks. Eight of them. The gun on his hip had two bullets left.
   Leave him, said the voice of survival in the back of his mind. And do what? he returned. He'd no way home and only two bullets left. He was behind enemy lines. Sooner or later, he was going to have to try to get across to his own side. He might as well try it with a colonel whose life he'd saved. It wasn't likely a better chance would come along. Shoving the map into his coat pocket, he slung the pack with the med-kit over his shoulder and held out his hand.
   "Are you coming then?" Risen asked, his voice harsh as ever.
   The colonel ignored the offered hand and struggled to his feet. Risen watched a moment impassively, then stalked into the trees. He found a branch the right size and brought it back.
   "Here then," he said, holding the branch out to the colonel. "You won't get far hobbling."
   "Why do you want me alive so badly?" the colonel asked without moving.
   Risen thought again of his father's words. "You're just a man, aren't you?" He held the stick out until the colonel took it, using it to take the weight from his broken leg.
   They climbed out of the hollow, the colonel huffing and sweating and shaking. Risen was glad enough of the slow pace as his own breath came short and his head throbbed.
   He should have heard the transport, but didn't until it was above them. Five men dropped down around them, trailing ropes. They wore black. Risen reached for his gun. A hard, heavy hand clamped over his, pinning it to his side. A boot snapped into the back of his knees, and he collapsed.
   Well, he thought, I gave it a try, didn't I, Dad?


Black:
   Colonel Marsh woke up beneath the harsh white light of the medical tent.
   "There we are," said a voice he recognized as the regiment's doctor. "Good thing we logged your beacon when we did. You look like you had quite a time of it out there."
   Marsh blinked against the glare. "I thought it shorted," he said.
   The doctor put a finger to the black design tattooed on Marsh's left shoulder. "I noticed that. I reinforced it with the new series, so it shouldn't happen again."
   "Again," Marsh said with a half-hearted chuckle. The cool slide of analgesic through his veins left a thin mist over his mind that chilled and slowed his thoughts. He didn't much mind the reprieve. It had been ages since he'd been able to stop thinking, even in his sleep, of men lost and battles won, strategies and plots and key locations. It was a war that would not be won, not even in his mind.
   "That's the last of it. Do you want me to have someone take you to your tent?"
   Marsh sat up, flexing the toes of his broken leg. "Can I walk on it?"
   "Yes, but don't try running if you can manage it," the doctor said as he turned to wash his hands.
   "How are things here?" Marsh asked.
   "Already keen to get back out there, are you?" came a voice from the tent entrance.
   Marsh turned to see Lieutenant Carver framed by the cloth. "You managed to survive without me?" he said. "I'm surprised."
   Carver smiled. "Glad to see you're alive, sir. What happened out there?"
   "Another time," Marsh said with a weary shake of his head. "Where's the man they brought in with me?"
   "The greenie?" Carver said. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "He's in the graveyard."

Black and Green (Part 3)

Black:
   Colonel Marsh had always believed he was stronger than the circumstances around him. It was due to that way of thinking that he'd been able to last through the years of war and loss that had torn through his country, destroyed his family, and left him with nothing more than his position and the will to fight. He did not see himself as weak or a coward, even so when he opened his eyes again and heard the cries of the monsters surrounding him, he wished he would die. He wished it with such terrible desperation that if he'd had a knife to hand, and if he could have moved his hands, he wouldn't have hesitated to slash his own throat.
   Pain had became a solid force in his body, so heavy that it crushed the air from his lungs. He could taste pain in his mouth, a bitter metal like rusted iron. He knew there was no escape from it except death. Even unconsciousness could only last so long--as he was already well aware--and it was not long enough.
   He couldn't move himself. When they had first taken him, one of them had bitten him and filled him with paralytic, leaving him only enough power to breathe and open his eyes. One of the creatures came closer. Its foul breath spilled over his face as it crawled onto his bloodied chest. Four feet sank sharp points sank into his flesh, digging into bone and reaching for his heart. A rough tongue scoured the side of his face like steel wool.
   He tried not to scream, but he didn't have the strength to hold it back for long. The sound only seemed to drive them into a frenzy. Another came, fixing itself to his arm. One latched onto his broken leg.
   A shot crashed through the air. It took Marsh a moment to recognize the sound through the pain. The creature on his chest disappeared. Several more shots rang out. He lost count as his head filled with the thunder of gunfire. Then silence.
   He heard footsteps moving closer through the blanket of dead leaves, branches and refuse. The man who appeared at the corner of his vision wore tattered green, so weathered and worn it appeared mostly brown. He waited for the last bullet, the one that would end his misery, but it didn't come. Instead, the younger man leaned closer. Blood darkened the left side of his face and stiffened his hair. Chill fingers probed at his throat and felt at the ragged edges of the bite in his shoulder. Then touched the torn lapel of his jacket.
   "Colonel," the hoarse voice said, thoughtfully. "I should leave you here." The young man shook his head and shifted his gaze to something Marsh couldn't see. After a moment, he went back to his study of Marsh, searching through the colonel's pockets until he came up with the waterproof map marked for troop placements. Marsh almost groaned. If the man realized what he was looking at, the entire operation would be in danger, and if the operation failed, they would be on the cusp of losing the war as well.