prosthetic eye

Talk fantasy prosthetics to me.

An elf maiden dances on feet of living wood sung into shape, planted in soil and watered when she takes them off. Every year she plants the old ones and sings a new pair. (Incidentally, the pair of peach saplings from three years ago have produced an excellent crop- She makes preserves from them, and despite the inevitable jokes about “toe-jam”, they are appreciated.)

A dwarf king has a metal fist, all tiny gears and fine wires, kept wound by a mischievous mine-spirit bound to the spring as punishment- the more it struggles, the tighter the spring. 

An orc chieftaness is regularly asked for the story of how she earned the name Wyrmthrottler- she boasts of how she strangled the dragon that ate her arm, and had her shaman make a new arm from its bones, with its fangs as the fingers.

A necromancer simply re-attached his old leg bones- Sacrificing a few mice each day keeps it going.

A pirate captain lost her arm to a shark attack: a passing selkie saved her, and gave her tattoos of kraken blood. Now she has an arm made of salt-water, that grows and wanes with the tides, and swings a cutlass as well as the original. (She doesn’t sail as far these days though: she doesn’t want her wife to worry.)

A wandering swordsman was broken at the waist- his ancestral armour allows him to walk again, as long as he keeps it polished, and burns incense to the ancestors regularly.

A high priestess has an eye made from a crystal ball- to predict the future, all she has to do is wink.

A bard was struck deaf by illness- he struck a deal with the god of music. Now he wears hearing-trumpets made from his old pipes, and dedicates his every song to the god of music- the better he plays, the better his hearing. (It is said his music could make statues weep, and he can hear a mouse fart at 60 paces.)

A princess has the arm of a golem, enchanted clay with mystic words carved in- her music tutor despairs of how her harp playing has become even worse, but her calligraphy tutor is ecstatic over her handwriting.

A goblin pickpocket has an arm made of whatever he steals- no-one feels his fingers, and even if they did, they couldn’t find their possessions amongst all the rest.  

A witch has eyes made from shadow and starlight, given to her in a game with a demon. Nobody dares to ask what she wagered- they aren’t even sure she won.

A warg was born deaf and blind- his people learned of his power when the nearest birds started staring at them, and dogs pricked up their ears as he walked past.

An ancient prosthetic eye, on a female skeleton dated 2900 and 2800 BCE. The eye has a diameter of 2.5 cm and consists of a light material, probably bitumen paste. The surface is covered with a thin layer of gold, engraved with a central circle (representing the iris) and gold lines patterned like sun rays. The skeleton was 1.82 m tall (6 feet), much taller than ordinary women of the time. An extraordinarily tall woman wearing an engraved golden eye patterned with rays like a tiny sun


Today I went in to get my final prosthetic painted, and I took my camera to take pictures of my doctor while he did it (chickened out though HA) any way. I took this one while he went out to go polish the prosthetic. 

And I realized that this is something I need to get use to looking at, because with the other surgery it didn’t look like this. It was just pink and healthy and well… more normal to me than this. With this new surgery the white stuff just look so strange to me, and like it shouldn’t belong there if my doctor told me he could take it off I would say yes. 

Either way, I like this photo of myself 


I came across these pictures. They are me after I had my eye removed due to cancer. It was in the 90s when I was a teenager, and yes, they are actually polaroids. The first set is before plastic surgery, the second set is immediately after, and the third is the a couple months after (with prosthetic in obviously). I think the last set illustrates how important it is to pluck your eyebrows. heh. (Hopefully they didn’t gross you out, they eyebrows or the eye)

Ha, Alice in chains, red hot chili peppers, slightly dating myself.

Fetty Wap just inspired this young fan to face the world without his prosthetic eye 

Brenda Vaden, the mother of a young Colorado boy, shared a Facebook post Sept. 10 describing the powerful impact Fetty Wap has had on her son’s life. Vaden describes how, similar to Maxwell, her son Jayden lost an eye at an early age. Seeing the rapper face the world without his prosthetic helped Jayden gain the confidence to do the same. Wap, to his credit, responded with a heartwarming message of his own.

Just a cracked head-canon, but what if under Loboto’s oddly shaped and relatively large shower cap is a block of Psitanium? I mean, you see Ford Cruller with a chunk strapped to his back when he appears to save the day at the end of Psychonauts. But, let’s get down to it:

Ford explains the reason why he needs to be around the large amount of this psychic mineral is because of a very bad battle that left him barely alive years ago, and it is the only thing that keeps his thoughts together.

So, judging by Loboto’s state —what with his prosthetic arm, robotic eyes, and long scar on the back of his head — what if he himself got into a bad accident and needed the mineral for the same reason as Ford?

Also, this is how Ford describes Psitanium, “Psitanium is a very rare psycho reactive mineral that crashed from a meteoroid hundreds of years ago. It responds to psychic waves; focuses them, amplifies them. It could make psychics more psychic, but it could also make unstable people more unstable. Not everyone can handle that much brain activity in that part of their mind. It could lead them completely out of their gord.”

Sounds like something that could have happened to the mad doctor to me.


Betsy Youngquist (American, b. 1965, IL, USA) - Oyster Eye  Beaded Sculptures: Mixed Media: Pearl: Antique, Hand Blown, Glass, Human Prosthetic Eye. Surface: Glass Beads, Coral, Natural Shell, Vintage Glass Stones, Wire, Epoxy


In Louisiana there is a small chapel called “Saint Roch” where people leave their prosthetic limbs, glass eyes, leg braces and other items in tribute to the patron saint of Health.
Those who recover from their ailments, or hope to do so, leave letters of thanks and offerings and have been doing so since the 1800’s. (pics: Slate)


Shallura now rules my life. that is all

(on ao3 here)

It’s the second glass he’s broken.

He uncurls his fingers and looks at the remnants of the cup. Water spills onto the floor and wets the metal plates of his right rand, dewing into tiny droplets wherever it contacts the hydrophobic material of the prosthetic.

He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. He just needs to be more careful. That’s why he’s practicing with simple things like drinking water, right? Just being careful.

The broken cup and the water are soon cleaned up and resting on the counter, thankfully with no more accidents, when he hears movement behind him. Fight, his body automatically says, without his permission. Kill. Injure. Incapacitate. His right hand tightens into a fist before he can think, and all the ways to kill an opponent without a weapon scroll this his mind with calm efficiency.

You don’t need a weapon. You are a weapon.

“Shiro? Is everything alright?”

No, god, why did it have to be her? “Fine,” he says, controlling his breathing. Shame washes over him when he looks over his shoulder at Allura—big eyes filled with gentle concern. She’s good, he tells himself. He doesn’t ever need to defend himself from her.

“I heard a—ah, yes, the cup,” she continues, looking at the counter where he’s left his mess.

“An accident,” he says quickly. “I’m fine.”

“You look pale—well, more pale than usual.” Her head cocks. “You are certain you’re alright?”

“Yeah—yes, I’m fine. Just getting a drink of water.”

“On your hand,” she teases, a small smile playing at her lips.

He allows himself to return the expression and relaxes a little. “And the floor.”

“I break the cups sometimes,” she confides, moving further into the kitchen. It’s late, and the other Paladins are asleep, but he can’t shake the habit of sleeping in short shifts yet, and he hasn’t ever seen Allura so much as sit down, so they have the mess to themselves. “And forks. On one occasion I broke a chair, but that was a few years ago—well, ten thousand and a few years ago,” she adds. She hides the sadness well, but he can hear the soft edge of it in her voice. He wants to comfort her, tell her that he knows what it feels like to lose parts of yourself to time. He wants to place a hand on her shoulder and draw her in, if only to just remember what it’s like to hold someone.

“Still figuring it out myself,” he responds instead, flexing his right hand. “When I’m fighting I don’t really think about it, but off-duty—it’s more difficult to control.”

She nods. “Most Alteans go through periods where their minds haven’t caught up to their bodies yet—usually as young children—and they break a lot of things before they learn to master their own strength.”

He nods and looks down at his arm. “I sympathise.”

“But you’re doing well, Shiro,” she says, her voice lowering to almost a whisper, and he resists the urge to lean in closed to hear her. “The Galra gave you a weapon and you’re using it for good. That’s not an easy thing.”

“I don’t think drinking water will help save the universe,” he mutters, and to his delight she gives a soft, musical laugh that he wants to listen to for hours.

“Perhaps,” she concedes with a smile. “But it’s teaching you how to be gentle, and that’s a good thing, don’t you think?”

She’s gotten closer to him, closer than any person has gotten in a long time. He swallows hard and looks away from her. She’s not doing it on purpose, he tells himself.

“Yeah,” he says, in the same low voice, and her eyes crinkle in happiness. “Yeah, it’s a start.”