She Lay in Repose

He woke, not at first light or before as had been the custom of weeks, but after mid morning, the light of day blocked by curtains heavy and hanging. Reached to the bench, gathered things, unsure by feel of what they were with his fingers now numbing again, apart from the warmth of Her Fire. Passed through the door, to the kitchen, took the loaf of Seed and cut, twice, looked for the butter. And found naught. 

So he anointed with oil, placed the slices both, face to face, raising the couple with his two hands high, above his head and invoked 

Of this, Her body, i do gratefully partake. 

Then he walked farther, out the door, into the fog filtered morning, through the fields, down the path worn by Others, foxes and boars and goats, and to the waters, Her holy Waters, and across, to Her Grove, where She lay in repose, the incarnation Quercus.

All very nice, but... this shit has to stop.

Where's the fucking recipe???   --->

The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!

I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts. 

Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back.