plagues cause fear, suffering and anguish/ part 3
the Doctor
fiction
edward w pritchard
The Doctor watches in horror as plague invades the bodies of his family and his neighbors. He knows all too well the pain and suffering that will occur over the next few days in the plague's recent victims. The Doctor is a plague survivor himself. Plague has left him a changed man, but he survived and now is one of the only lay persons who will attend to the local sick, of which there are many.
The Doctor's reasoning and will has been effected for years by his bout with the plague as a young man. He knows to avoid rats and sick people but he believes his calling is to alleviate the suffering where he can. Still the Doctor logically cannot find a cause for the catastrophe effecting Europe and the world.
The Doctor secretly is not a religious man. Still he administers the last rights. In desperation, because of the deaths of so many priests, the Church has allowed lay persons such as himself to administer last rights. Even women are now permitted to administer the sacred last rights under certain circumstances. Usually the victims do not respond to his administrations, but the Doctor takes small comfort in the effect his performance of the Church's final ritual brings to the families of the plague victims. The Doctor feels more useful in the spirtual comforts he provides than he does in administering the medicines he offers.
The Doctor also secretly wonders if it would be humane to just end the lives early of those who have been cursed with the Black Plague. Those laying in bed unable to stand or attend to their own needs. No, he reasons, he himself has went through the pain and suffering of the Plague and survived. We must bear forth despite the odds.
Onward, he carries forth in his duties.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
plagues cause fear, suffering and anguish-part 2
plagues cause fear, suffering and anguish-part 2
intense/ read with caution
fiction
edward w pritchard
The Flagellants went from village to village beating themselves and to support their activity beating others for money; to protect others from getting plague. To appease God's wrath.
To scare us older children to comply and not try to run away we were told terrible stories of the plague. It wasn't enough to be surrounded by plague's ravages we had to be threatened with even worse terrors. Me being terribly incorrigible I was threatened additionally. I was told my hand would be nailed to a fence post, like Jesus. Nailed to a fence post so I couldn't run away when the flagellants came to our village. It was for my own good. No one wanted me to die. It's for your own good to protect you from the invisible forces of evil that cause sickness and infection.
end
intense/ read with caution
fiction
edward w pritchard
The Flagellants went from village to village beating themselves and to support their activity beating others for money; to protect others from getting plague. To appease God's wrath.
To scare us older children to comply and not try to run away we were told terrible stories of the plague. It wasn't enough to be surrounded by plague's ravages we had to be threatened with even worse terrors. Me being terribly incorrigible I was threatened additionally. I was told my hand would be nailed to a fence post, like Jesus. Nailed to a fence post so I couldn't run away when the flagellants came to our village. It was for my own good. No one wanted me to die. It's for your own good to protect you from the invisible forces of evil that cause sickness and infection.
end
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
plagues cause fear, suffering and anguish
Imagine losing half of the people you know to a plague. It has happened before in 548 and 1347. How long would it take us as survivors of plagues to adjust to the suffering. Imagine multiplying your current suffering and anguish by 100 times. Such is the plight of plague victims and survivors.
Watched the movie Contagion recently. It stirred up a few racial memories of past lives.
we wrote before:
wildflowers
fiction
edward w pritchard
Wildflowers come in and out of fashion. In the 1960's we were flower children and beautiful girls picked flowers and twirled around dervish style in a joyous manner. Joyous girls picking colorful flowers is a distant racial memory of us all as a species.
Throughout human history during wars, after a large brutal battle, local townspeople bury the dead of both armies. As survivors of wars worked at the job of burying, civilians would gently drop flowers into the open graves. Dropping flowers on mass graves is a racial memory that we all carry deep in our subconscious.
Our ancient ancestors would have been intimately acquainted with wild flowers. They would walk through red and violet flowers while hunting or gathering and sleep on or near them at night. Perhaps they collected sweet smelling flowers to freshen their camps. The sweet smell of deep red flowers would be a respite to our ancestors. Close your eyes and smell the colorful sweet sweet fragrance of flowers carefully being dropped into shallow grave pits.
However, despite the terror of wars, nothing would be as horrific to humans as a species as the periodic massive outbreak of plagues. You as a rare survivor would watch those you love wither away in agony. You would remember the suffering of your family and friends the rest of your life.
Ring around the Rosie pocket full of posies. During the Black Death, the great plague of 1348, well to do Europeans lined their pockets with flowers. Wild flowers served as a nosegays to be pulled out and put on the face to ward off the odor of the dead. In time the posies in the pocket were clutched desperately during the Black Death in the hope to ward off deep red and purple rings of unknown invisible infections. Flowers, fragrant flowers clutched tightly in fear of creeping death is an ancient subconscious memory of us all.
Fully 30 to 40 per cent of the citizenry of Europe died of the black death from 1348 to 1350. Maybe fifty million people. Before in 548 up to one hundred million people may have died worldwide in the plagues of Justinian. What terror must have been felt by those living at the time of the plague. Racial memory of plagues still exist. Plague is a memory so strong it survived the actual events waiting to become alive again in the memories of all of the human species whenever or where-ever pestilent plagues should re-emerge.
An escape to the country, with its clean and pure air and beautiful wildflowers was the hopeful wish of most during the black death. To escape crowds and return to large open fields of wildflowers, to escape to our ancient pastoral life style would be our hope and prayer in the time of plagues.
Without warning or a known cause the Black Death devastated Western Europe twice. At the time of the Black Death in England then enjoying relative prosperity the average life span was forty years. What terror must have been felt by those living at time of the Black Death a more religious age than ours trying to escape the horror of the biological Armageddon sent by God. Lining ones pockets with posies, trying to ward off the invisible forces of a brutal early death our ancestors suffered and prayed, helpless against the invisible wrath of God. Rings, circular red and harsh purple rings on the bodies of plague victims, buboes under the arms, and in secret places, rings and rings of terror brought by rats. Rats creeping about our houses at night and fleas biting at us and living on and on victim to victim in our clothes are our racial memory of the ancient plagues.
Pick a wildflower and place it to the memory of our ancestors who lived with the terror of the Black Death. We are survivors of plague genetically. Deep in our subconscious might we remember the suffering of our ancestors by those who survived the plagues yet then witnessed their loved ones perish? First a strong person begins to cough. C, C, coughing and coughing fills the house.Then our loved ones take to their bed with trembling fever. If you are loved, if you are lucky enough to be cared for; from time to time you will be rotated off your back as you sleep. It's wise not to sleep on your back if plague is active. A day or two of oozing leaking buboes and searing thudding pain to the ravished flesh slowly follows. Ruining sheets and bedding you wither away as you drift in and out of consciousness awakened only by your pains. If you lived in a town or city the dutiful night watch would seal you in your house; nailing the doors and windows closed. Hear the tap tap tapping of the hammers, as the night watch crew pounds in the darkness in a hysterical attempt to protect others from you. To remove the dieing from sight is the goal. Even the Priest wouldn't come to you to administer last rites. A bumpy ride in a cart follows; toward the large open mass graves. If you weren't quite dead yet, if you are strong and willful, as the cart bumped and swayed you would be clinging to life among the corpses of your neighbors; methodically searching for a plan, a remedy, salvation for a few more hours of painful shallow breaths. If you can just survive until the cold weather strikes maybe the rats will move somewhere else. As you are awkwardly heaved into the open graves, amongst the scurrying copse rats, a breeze carries to you a whiff of the smell of fragrant wildflowers. As you groan, your last groan for you aren't quite dead yet, your eyes espy the grave digger noting that you are still alive. The gravedigger crosses himself and reaches for his nosegay of wildflowers which he clutches to his face, to protect him from you as he reaches for the next rotted body to sling with his stiff and tired arms into the piles and piles of flesh. Your last thought is you didn't get the last rites.
Go about your business. Don't worry about unknown horrific infections savagely invading the persons of those you love. You will be a survivor. You have a fifty fifty chance of survival . We can handle anything. Don't fret, it will be light soon.
Oblivious, I lay down to sleep; skipping my prayers, I prepare to dream and plan of the morrow.
end
Watched the movie Contagion recently. It stirred up a few racial memories of past lives.
we wrote before:
wildflowers
fiction
edward w pritchard
Wildflowers come in and out of fashion. In the 1960's we were flower children and beautiful girls picked flowers and twirled around dervish style in a joyous manner. Joyous girls picking colorful flowers is a distant racial memory of us all as a species.
Throughout human history during wars, after a large brutal battle, local townspeople bury the dead of both armies. As survivors of wars worked at the job of burying, civilians would gently drop flowers into the open graves. Dropping flowers on mass graves is a racial memory that we all carry deep in our subconscious.
Our ancient ancestors would have been intimately acquainted with wild flowers. They would walk through red and violet flowers while hunting or gathering and sleep on or near them at night. Perhaps they collected sweet smelling flowers to freshen their camps. The sweet smell of deep red flowers would be a respite to our ancestors. Close your eyes and smell the colorful sweet sweet fragrance of flowers carefully being dropped into shallow grave pits.
However, despite the terror of wars, nothing would be as horrific to humans as a species as the periodic massive outbreak of plagues. You as a rare survivor would watch those you love wither away in agony. You would remember the suffering of your family and friends the rest of your life.
Ring around the Rosie pocket full of posies. During the Black Death, the great plague of 1348, well to do Europeans lined their pockets with flowers. Wild flowers served as a nosegays to be pulled out and put on the face to ward off the odor of the dead. In time the posies in the pocket were clutched desperately during the Black Death in the hope to ward off deep red and purple rings of unknown invisible infections. Flowers, fragrant flowers clutched tightly in fear of creeping death is an ancient subconscious memory of us all.
Fully 30 to 40 per cent of the citizenry of Europe died of the black death from 1348 to 1350. Maybe fifty million people. Before in 548 up to one hundred million people may have died worldwide in the plagues of Justinian. What terror must have been felt by those living at the time of the plague. Racial memory of plagues still exist. Plague is a memory so strong it survived the actual events waiting to become alive again in the memories of all of the human species whenever or where-ever pestilent plagues should re-emerge.
An escape to the country, with its clean and pure air and beautiful wildflowers was the hopeful wish of most during the black death. To escape crowds and return to large open fields of wildflowers, to escape to our ancient pastoral life style would be our hope and prayer in the time of plagues.
Without warning or a known cause the Black Death devastated Western Europe twice. At the time of the Black Death in England then enjoying relative prosperity the average life span was forty years. What terror must have been felt by those living at time of the Black Death a more religious age than ours trying to escape the horror of the biological Armageddon sent by God. Lining ones pockets with posies, trying to ward off the invisible forces of a brutal early death our ancestors suffered and prayed, helpless against the invisible wrath of God. Rings, circular red and harsh purple rings on the bodies of plague victims, buboes under the arms, and in secret places, rings and rings of terror brought by rats. Rats creeping about our houses at night and fleas biting at us and living on and on victim to victim in our clothes are our racial memory of the ancient plagues.
Pick a wildflower and place it to the memory of our ancestors who lived with the terror of the Black Death. We are survivors of plague genetically. Deep in our subconscious might we remember the suffering of our ancestors by those who survived the plagues yet then witnessed their loved ones perish? First a strong person begins to cough. C, C, coughing and coughing fills the house.Then our loved ones take to their bed with trembling fever. If you are loved, if you are lucky enough to be cared for; from time to time you will be rotated off your back as you sleep. It's wise not to sleep on your back if plague is active. A day or two of oozing leaking buboes and searing thudding pain to the ravished flesh slowly follows. Ruining sheets and bedding you wither away as you drift in and out of consciousness awakened only by your pains. If you lived in a town or city the dutiful night watch would seal you in your house; nailing the doors and windows closed. Hear the tap tap tapping of the hammers, as the night watch crew pounds in the darkness in a hysterical attempt to protect others from you. To remove the dieing from sight is the goal. Even the Priest wouldn't come to you to administer last rites. A bumpy ride in a cart follows; toward the large open mass graves. If you weren't quite dead yet, if you are strong and willful, as the cart bumped and swayed you would be clinging to life among the corpses of your neighbors; methodically searching for a plan, a remedy, salvation for a few more hours of painful shallow breaths. If you can just survive until the cold weather strikes maybe the rats will move somewhere else. As you are awkwardly heaved into the open graves, amongst the scurrying copse rats, a breeze carries to you a whiff of the smell of fragrant wildflowers. As you groan, your last groan for you aren't quite dead yet, your eyes espy the grave digger noting that you are still alive. The gravedigger crosses himself and reaches for his nosegay of wildflowers which he clutches to his face, to protect him from you as he reaches for the next rotted body to sling with his stiff and tired arms into the piles and piles of flesh. Your last thought is you didn't get the last rites.
Go about your business. Don't worry about unknown horrific infections savagely invading the persons of those you love. You will be a survivor. You have a fifty fifty chance of survival . We can handle anything. Don't fret, it will be light soon.
Oblivious, I lay down to sleep; skipping my prayers, I prepare to dream and plan of the morrow.
end
Sunday, November 20, 2011
being vs. becoming/ Sunday night Nov 21, 2010 vs Sunday night Nov 20, 2011
being vs. becoming/ Nov 21 2010 vs. Nov 20, 2011
Below is what we wrote one year ago today. Has anything in our lives changed in one year? Here's a reprint of last years stories with a few edits.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Sunday, November 21, 2010
A What if: If Alexander the Great receives a restraining order
fiction
edward w pritchard
The most successful human to date was the Macedonian General Alexander the Great. However Alexander by all accounts took reckless chances in battle, wore a plumed colored hat to flaunt military convention, and charged directly at his enemy the King of Kings and commander in chief Darius, of Persia.
What if Alexander the Great had been deemed too short, too gay, and too suicidal to lead the troops to India? What if a restraining order was issued to keep Alexander from leading the Macedonians and what if another Gereral had done so for Macedonia and lost to the Persians?
In that case Darius the Great of Persia, winning General, would have been deemed the greatest human and their God, Ahura Mazdah, would have been proclaimed dead [ by Nietzsche] in the last century.
Posted by edward pritchard at 4:42 AM 0 comments Labels: untitled
second story written one year ago [ we were watching football today, today's consensus subject of discussion being, again, there's too much passing in Pro football]
There's too much passing in professional football/ Nov 21, 2010
fiction
edward w pritchard
There's too much passing in professional football. Too much passing in football is caused by the desire by everyone for instant gratification of all their needs. Instant gratification causes the slow demise of the school systems which keeps the young from being properly educated. Lack of education is causing politicians to be selfish and not altruistic and greedy and dishonest. Poor performance by politicians screws up the economy. A screwed up economy makes people cash poor and poor people can't afford tickets to professional football games.
In time the economic system in America is self correcting. Until then maybe women quarterbacks in Professional football; it's indisputable that women can't throw a football as far as men; all other things being equal.
male avon rep
male avon rep
fiction
edward w pritchard
I was at the gym lifting weights and I had just been introduced to Watley. Watley Perkins had been a star athlete down at Ohio State, football and tennis. He was all American linebacker his junior year but at the start of his senior year he lost his left arm in car accident.
Now Watley spends most of his time lifting weights. He goes from gym to gym in our small city lifting weights to get new prospects for his Avon business. Watley sells beauty supplies to men. Watley is an Avon representative.
Watley knew me. A lot of people do now. I am Tommy Linus the star quarterback at Coventry High, and as a junior I have broke all of the school records and that's saying something because Coach has had several QB's go to the major colleges.
Watley is rubbing lotion on my neck with his right hand. It will relieve stress and alleviate sun damage. His fingers are like coils of rope and the skin is like sandpaper. Watley is asking me do I know Mrs. Perkins the English teacher.
Of course I know her. She is the English teacher at Coventy and she has spectacular breasts. She leans forward when she talks to you and who could forget Mrs Perkins.
Watley is trying to tell me something.
fiction
edward w pritchard
I was at the gym lifting weights and I had just been introduced to Watley. Watley Perkins had been a star athlete down at Ohio State, football and tennis. He was all American linebacker his junior year but at the start of his senior year he lost his left arm in car accident.
Now Watley spends most of his time lifting weights. He goes from gym to gym in our small city lifting weights to get new prospects for his Avon business. Watley sells beauty supplies to men. Watley is an Avon representative.
Watley knew me. A lot of people do now. I am Tommy Linus the star quarterback at Coventry High, and as a junior I have broke all of the school records and that's saying something because Coach has had several QB's go to the major colleges.
Watley is rubbing lotion on my neck with his right hand. It will relieve stress and alleviate sun damage. His fingers are like coils of rope and the skin is like sandpaper. Watley is asking me do I know Mrs. Perkins the English teacher.
Of course I know her. She is the English teacher at Coventy and she has spectacular breasts. She leans forward when she talks to you and who could forget Mrs Perkins.
Watley is trying to tell me something.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
My Jesus is not a compilation
My Jesus is not a compilation
fiction
edward w pritchard
My Jesus is personal. Jesus is not a compilation of other people. He was born and sadly he died; to save us, you too, even you who believe Jesus is was a compilation of several Roman persons and deities.
Get to know Jesus. He says something you need to hear.
end
fiction
edward w pritchard
My Jesus is personal. Jesus is not a compilation of other people. He was born and sadly he died; to save us, you too, even you who believe Jesus is was a compilation of several Roman persons and deities.
Get to know Jesus. He says something you need to hear.
end
musican, first paying Gig
musican, first paying Gig
fiction
edward w pritchard
Drink plenty of liquids. Water is best, alcohol never. Arrive early, survey the territory. Everything should be set up for your performance but double check all the sound systems. Now relax, go to the bathroom one last time.
Smile. Turn on the charm. You are going somewhere, tonight is the start.
After focus on what went well. Ignore missed chords and broken guitar strings. Dylan and John Lennon both started this way. Persevere, you are going somewhere.
fiction
edward w pritchard
Drink plenty of liquids. Water is best, alcohol never. Arrive early, survey the territory. Everything should be set up for your performance but double check all the sound systems. Now relax, go to the bathroom one last time.
Smile. Turn on the charm. You are going somewhere, tonight is the start.
After focus on what went well. Ignore missed chords and broken guitar strings. Dylan and John Lennon both started this way. Persevere, you are going somewhere.
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