#Budget Funeral Services

[globalindeed]

Factors That Influence Your Choice of Funeral Director

Where death occurs, the grief comes automatically, and in this situation, making funeral-related arrangements becomes a major challenge. The right solution is to contact a reputed funeral home and seek funeral director services. These professionals are experts in this profession and understand the phase and grief that the family is going through. They ensure that every arrangement is made according to the family's wishes, religious considerations, and budget. Your responsibility would be to find a reputed funeral director, and you can do this easily by going through this post carefully.

WHAT IS THE ROLE OF FUNERAL DIRECTORS IN PLANNING FUNERALS?

The fact about these professionals is that they are the ultimate remedy if you require any assistance related to funeral planning. They will offer seamless funeral director services tailored and planned to match your family's wishes and requirements. They follow all your considerations and specifications closely and ensure that the deceased is honoured and that dignity is maintained at every step.

IMPORTANT FACTORS TO CONSIDER WHILE FINDING A FUNERAL DIRECTOR

FUNERAL INTENTIONS

You should ensure that the funeral director guarantees to reflect your intentions and the wishes of the deceased at every step of the process. They should come up with specific funeral plans and arrange everything as per your wishes or the last wishes of the deceased. They should also give you exciting ideas on choosing the ideal casket inside your budget.

UNDERSTAND THE LOCATION

The funeral director should be fully aware of the location to choose for the end-of-life ceremony, and they should also understand your needs directly. There should be no confusion, and it is important that you choose a local funeral director for this. They know every detail about the location and ensure that all the services are readily available. Further, they are well-versed in terms of the following –

HOW DO WEATHER PATTERNS WORK?

Where each religious location is designated for specific religious preferences?

Where and how can you match the site to your loved one's final wishes?

DETERMINE THE SERVICES OFFERED

Your shortlisted funeral directors should provide various funeral director services for funerals. They should be maturely responsible for making all the arrangements and offering services that match your requirements and don't breach your budget. Most importantly, these services should match your cultural requirements. Apart from this, these professionals should also take care of requirements such as casket style, flower style, music style, religious services, legal paperwork, liaison with the church or cemetery, transportation, etc.

[simplecremationusa]

When seeking a cremation service provider, it is essential to consider their reputation in addition to their location. Working closely with a provider that has a poor rating can lead to an unpleasant experience. Instead, it is advisable to select a local cremation service with a solid reputation within the community. By doing so, you can ensure a positive and supportive experience during a difficult time.

Visit Us: https://www.simplecremationusa.com/about-us

[cooliestghouliest]

pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

plot summary: It’s Eddie’s birthday! He said no presents but you said fuck that. He’s getting two.

word count: 4k+

cw: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI; this is smut; porn with plot; Eddie being mean to Gareth; handjobs and blowjobs and Gareth unknowingly being a bystander of both; there’s some cum stuff in here, too.

notes: set in early 1990s. reader and Eddie are both in early/mid 20s. let’s pretend the PlayStation had co-op online gaming so this story makes sense. a part two may be in store. let me know what you think. 😈

Working overtime at The Hideout was not something you necessarily wanted to do, but with Eddie’s birthday coming up, it was something you had to do.

As much as you would have liked them to, bills wouldn’t simply pause just because you wanted to save money to buy Eddie a PlayStation. No, you had to use your math-inept brain to start budgeting, getting some help from Steve, who’d just recently been hired to work at a local accounting firm.

While you were hoping Steve would magically find money hidden somewhere in your finances, you were annoyed but not surprised at his only solution:

“You need to pick up more shifts.”

You and Eddie had moved into an apartment just outside of Hawkins after Eddie had finally graduated, you having helped him through that dreaded English class so you could both walk the stage together. That had been three years ago now. Money was tight, sure, but the two of you never went without the essentials. There was always dinner to be had, clothes to be worn, cable to be watched.

Between you bartending and trying to get a degree part-time, and Eddie dealing and working at the auto shop part-time, you both managed to make just enough to stay afloat.

Sometimes Eddie would score a few hundred playing a gig with Corroded Coffin, and he’d use that to wine and dine you like the fancy little lady you were. His words, not yours. You knew Eddie liked to spoil you. You knew he hated he couldn’t do it more.

Many stoned late night conversations had been had between the two of you where he fantasized aloud about taking you country to country once the band made it big, fucking you in soft, plush, expensive hotel beds, and spoon feeding you gelato while watching the sunset on a balcony, your bodies wrapped in silk, name-embroidered robes.

Eddie was a total lush at heart. The most broke rich man you’d ever met. You assumed this was because he came from virtually nothing. You didn’t need everything he wanted to give you, but he made it clear on more than one occasion that once money wasn’t a barrier, he would treat you like a queen.

You felt like he already did.

This is why you sucked up the hatred you had for The Hideout and told Roy, your boss, you’d work whatever shifts he could give you for the next few weeks. You endured handfuls of handsy truck drivers, pretended to flirtatiously banter with beyond drunk bikers, and held back the powerful urge to gag while stroking the egos of middle aged business men who chose to go through their midlife crisis in a seedy, dimly lit bar.

Seeing the look on Eddie’s face when you slid the wrapped package across the small dining table in your kitchen made all of the extra hours of rum pouring and forced salacious smiles worth it.

He had been mid-sentence, talking about a client at the auto shop who he’d spent an hour after hours with, the guy telling him all about medieval torture devices. This didn’t surprise you. Eddie’s fascination with the macabre was one of the things that had drawn the two of you together in the first place.

The first time you’d officially met was in English class your junior year, his third senior year. You’d told him you lived in a funeral home because your dad was a generational mortician, and that one day you’d probably own and operate it once your father retired. You also told him your mom was a self-proclaimed psychic who held seances for family members of the dead following their services. Eddie open-mouth stared at you for at least an entire minute in silence before telling you that was the creepiest fucking thing he’d ever heard, and that he would never feel fulfilled in life until you invited him over so he could experience it all firsthand. 

The rest is history.

“What is this?” Eddie asked, brown eyes wide as he observed the gift in front of him.

“I know we said no presents this year so we can save for the new car, but... you know how I had all those late night study groups I had to go to this semester?”

He nodded, long fingers toying with the black parchment wrapping paper.

“Weeeeeell, actually, I was working overtime at The Hideout,” you admitted, pulling your bottom lip into your mouth. You knew he wasn’t going to be happy to hear you hadn’t been honest this past month, but you figured once he saw what you’d bought him (and what you’d had planned for the rest of the night), maybe he’d decide to let bygones be bygones. Not likely, as Eddie thoroughly enjoyed teaching you lessons as punishment for bad behavior, and you figured lying for weeks on end about attending study groups qualified as pretty bad behavior. You rushed out the next few sentences, smiling innocently and tilting your head to try and appear as cute as you possibly could, “It was so I could buy you that. For your birthday. Happy birthday, Eddie. Love you.”

Eddie’s brows lifted toward his hairline at your admittance, slow blinking a few times as your confession set in.

“We are definitely going to revisit all that at a later point,” Eddie warned, a ringed finger pointing at you. “Because that is so not okay. But -- ” he couldn’t help the excited, boyish grin that enveloped his features. “I really wanna open this and see what it is.”

You giggled in excitement at his eagerness, drumming your fingers on the table. “Okay, come on! Open it!” You would enjoy these few hours of spoiling him as he so frequently spoiled you, and you’d worry about whatever punishment he’d dole out when it came later.

And right now, the look of elation on his face as he unwrapped the PlayStation was worth however many studded belt spankings or denied orgasms you had in your near future.

“Fuck! Baby! No way!” he practically squealed, jumping up from the chair. It fell to the ground behind him with a clatter, but he paid no mind. He held the gaming console above him in awe. “You’re fucking kidding!”

“No, no kidding,” you answered, even though you knew his words were rhetorical. You could feel your cheeks growing sore with the smile stretched across your face, basking in his reaction. “There’s a real PlayStation in there, I swear.”

He laughed and protectively cradled the console under his arm, hurrying to you to slam his lips against yours in a kiss. No tongue, but plenty of fervor. “God, I fucking love you,” he muttered, placing small kisses on your nose and cheeks. “I mean, I’d fucking love you even if you got me nothing, or just, like, socks or something, but, shit, baby, this is -- I have to call Gareth! We can play King’s Field together now!”

A laugh bubbled out of your lips at his sudden change in direction, knowing Eddie was always at the whim of his impulses. You watched as he ran off to the living room to make the call. You knew Gareth would be waiting for it, as you’d told him to make sure he didn’t have plans on Eddie’s birthday, so the two of them could spend it playing the multiplayer game together late into the night.

It was all part of your grander birthday plan.

You waited until you heard Eddie’s voice rambling off to Gareth in the living room, the sounds of him unboxing the console to start to hook it up mingled into his conversation, before you disappeared into your bedroom to change.

Phase one, complete, success. Phase two, final phase, commence.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

It was about twenty minutes later when you reemerged from the bedroom, wearing nothing but a newly bought matching blood red bra and panty set. It was solid colored with black lace outlining the rim of both pieces, flattering against your skin tone.

Eddie was sitting on the edge of the La-Z-Boy, headset mussing down his wild curls, talking animatedly to Gareth about the skeletons they were currently fighting on the screen.

“No, no! Go left, go left! God damnit, Gareth, do you know what your left is?!”

Eddie was loud and mouthy enough as it is, but add in a game where he had the ability to lose and the whole apartment complex would be banging on their door come tomorrow morning with noise complaints. Hell hath no fury like a twenty-something man’s confidence in his pretend battling skills.

While some might find it annoying, you found Eddie’s unbridled passion for everything he was interested in endearing. He was someone who let himself be totally engulfed by the plot of a movie or a game or a story, attaching himself to the characters and their the ups and downs as if they were tangible and could be found in his own everyday life.

You were happy for his distraction as it gave you time to compose yourself and slowly stalk your way to the center of the living room, where the chair sat directly across from the TV.

By the time you made your way to the side of the La-Z-Boy, finally coming into Eddie’s peripheral vision, he was still berating Gareth for his poor sense of direction.

“I mean, what the hell, Gare, we learned our lefts and rights in, like -- oh, fuck.”

You’d brought you hand out to trail down the exposed skin of Eddie’s arm, watching it goosebump in your wake. He’d taken his shirt off at some point, much to your appreciation. Eddie’s attention was fully on you now, as was evident from his failed completed sentence to Gareth, who you could now hear through Eddie’s headset going, “Oh, fuck? What? What, oh fuck? You don’t even know how to talk, Munson.”

But Gareth went unheard by Eddie, who’s eyes were drinking in the sight of you in your lingerie set. His tongue darted out to lick at his lower lip, which he then pulled into his mouth to sink his top teeth into.

You offered him a playful smile, watching as his neck began to turn red, the color almost a perfect match for the satin set you had on.

Without a word, you dropped to your knees on the carpet in front of him, sitting between his legs.

“What -- what are you doing?” he managed to choke out.

Gareth’s voice through the headset: “What? Dude, I’m fucking going left like you told me to!”

“Shut up, Gareth,” Eddie warned, his brown eyes now full of fire for the sight before him.

He brought one hand to cover the mouthpiece of his headset, the other placing the controller on his lap to reach out and cradle your face. You leaned into it.

“What are you doing, baby?” Eddie asked again, but he knew. Especially from the wicked grin you were giving him now.

“Just play your game, Eddie,” you whispered, careful to be quiet so Gareth didn’t hear. You moved your head to rest your cheek on his thigh, staring up at him with big doe eyes as you brought the fingers of one hand to lightly trace the line of his zipper. “And don’t get caught. We don’t want Gareth to know what a bad girl I’m being, playing with your cock while you play with him.”

His breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t believe it.

Not only had you gotten him exactly what he’d been wanting since it came out that prior winter, but now you were going to suck him off while he played it?

Jesus, how did he get so lucky?

“You are a fucking minx,” Eddie said, voice stern but his face lighting up in satisfaction as he readjusted himself on the chair, spreading his legs a bit wider.

He dropped the hand from the headset and picked the controller back up again just as Gareth was saying, “Eddie, man, are you still there? Your character’s been standing in the same place for, like, five minutes.”

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Sucking dick was not only one of your favorite things to do, but it was one of the things you were best at.

You prided yourself on how quickly you could work Eddie into a panting frenzy, how easy it was for him to lose control in your mouth, thrusting his hips to force you to take what you could and to choke back the rest.

But tonight you were taking it slow. Slow and sloppy. And you weren’t letting him do any of the work.

You’d only pulled his cock from his jeans, leaving his balls in the confines of the tight denim. You’d used so much spit that the fabric of his pants was soaking through to his boxer briefs. You watched his face intently as one of your hands wrapped around the thickness of him, stroking upwards in long, drawn out movements. You could tell he was trying to jerk his hips up but was failing, as your other hand was pressed into his side, trying its hardest to keep his body weight back against the chair.

“Greedy,” you scolded, clicking your tongue to the roof of your mouth.

He smiled sheepishly, eyes meeting yours over his hands which were holding the controller against his chest. He stopped the movement of his hips even though he felt as if it physically pained him to do so.

You’d been working him with your hands and mouth for the better part of half an hour now, releasing him entirely any time he came close to coming. He’d let a whine out at one point, to which Gareth asked, “Dude, you good?” and Eddie had to scramble out in his lust addled brain an excuse as to why that type of noise had erupted from him. He didn’t even remember what he’d said to explain it away.

All Eddie wanted to do was come. He wanted to cover you in him, drench your face and chest as you’d drenched his pants and cock in your warm saliva. He kept picturing it in his head, in alarmingly graphic detail, which was making this video game very, very hard to concentrate on.

Eddie got the idea that maybe if you neared your breaking point too, he’d finally be allowed to come. His cock throbbed at the thought, a bead of precum oozing from his slit. You sucked it away. He groaned and rolled his eyes back, controller wobbling in his hand and threatening to fall to the floor.

Taking a deep breath, he steadied his grip again, pressing a few random assortments of buttons to make Gareth think he was still coherent and definitely not getting a blowjob from his girlfriend right now.

“Will you please play with yourself?” Eddie asked, trying to put forth his best pleading puppy dog eyes. This was his big plan. Get you to get yourself off so he could sneak his orgasm in there, too.

He clearly had forgotten to cover the mouthpiece because Gareth’s voice was incredulous on the other end.

“What the fuck, Munson? What do you mean? I can’t play with myself! We’re almost at the end, man! Don’t give up now!”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips, your head falling back for a moment at the exasperation in Gareth’s voice. Gareth was none the wiser, but just so you felt better, you made a mental note to buy him something nice or bake him those cookies you knew he liked, just for being such an unknowingly good sport during all of this.

Sticking your tongue out a bit, you bit down on the fleshy muscle in your mouth before rising more on your knees, leaning closer to Eddie. With the hand that was previously pushing his hips down, you covered his mouthpiece. “Is this a game you can win?” you asked. Your hand had stopped stroking now, and your fingers were instead running light pressured circles around the head of his weeping cock.

“Wha -- what? Uh, yeah... yeah, I can win,” Eddie stumbled, attention off the game momentarily to watch your hot little mouth move. “Just... fuck up a few more skeletons...”

“Okay,” you said, hand tightening on his member again, this time sliding it down slowly, twisting as you went. He hissed, trying to lean forward to capture your mouth with his own. You backed away, falling back down to your bottom as you continued playing with him in your hand. “Then win and I’ll let you come.”

Eddie huffed, trying to thrust his hips up for more friction but was stopped by your hand reclaiming its spot on his pelvis again, pushing him back down. If he wanted, he could absolutely overpower you. He could grab your wrists and pull you up into his lap, sliding the side of your panties over with one hand before impaling you on his wanting cock. He knows you’d let him. But he likes when you get like this, thinking you’re in control. It makes it all that much better when he finally flips the script and has you teary eyed begging for him to let you come.

“Gareth, I swear to fucking god, if we don’t win this game in the next three minutes, I’m never speaking to you again.”

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

It takes longer than three minutes, and it’s not because of Gareth.

Eddie keeps screwing up, pressing X when he should be pressing O; spamming the start button to bring up the game menu when you take him particularly deep into your throat; accidentally stabbing Gareth’s character with a sword instead of the skeleton because his eyes keep rolling into the back of his head with the words spilling from your filthy mouth.

It’s all, “tastes so good, Eddie,” and “can’t even fit you all in my mouth,” and “I’m dripping on the floor, want you so bad.”

Evil woman.

Evil, perfect woman.

Eddie sees a light at the end of the tunnel. Literally. In the game, the hallway he and Gareth had been running down is opening into the brightness of a lit arena. It’s the final stage. One more fucking skeleton and he can let go. He can turn this headset off and grunt and groan to his heart’s content without having to worry about Gareth thinking he’s a fucking creep.

“I’m almost there...” Eddie’s saying, and he’s kind of talking about winning the game, but is mostly talking about the orgasm he can feel tightening in his balls, swirling in his stomach, clenching in his thighs.

“Yeah, dude! We got this!”

Eddie does not want to hear Gareth’s voice right now. He wants to hear you, pretty and whiny, loving the noises you make when you make him come. He loves how much you love it. You’re not even the one coming, but you’re always right there with him, moaning about how good his warm seed feels inside you or all over you, wherever he decides to finish. You’re not picky.

Just then, Eddie jolts forward in the chair. The head of his hard length hits the back of your throat and you cough a little, sputtering as you move your head. Looking back over your shoulder at the TV screen, hand moving up and down Eddie’s slippery cock, you see the words 'YOU WIN' in radioactive green.

“Fuuuuuuck, yes!” Eddie shouts, throwing the controller in the air. He rips off the headset without saying goodbye to Gareth, dropping it to the ground as he turns his attention back to you.

He looks absolutely wrecked. Black bangs are clung to his forehead with sweat, his chest is heavy with labored breaths, his skin is tinged pink from being so worked up and then worked back down over and over for the past hour. He can’t believe he hasn’t accidentally came yet. He assumes it’s because his mind was preoccupied with the game, because now that his full attention is on you, remembering what you’re wearing, what you’re doing, and how you look so fucking good doing it, he doesn’t think he’s going to last.

“Baby, please, I wanna come,” he’s saying, bringing one hand to the back of your head, tangling it in your hair. He’s not guiding you or helping at all, doesn’t want to be in control yet, he just wants to touch you, needs to have his hands on you somehow. “I won, did you see, I won, I get to come, right? Please make me come...”

You bit back a self-satisfied look at his pleading, bringing both hands now to wrap around the length of him. It doesn’t need it, already soaking from being in your mouth, but you let a string of spit fall onto the head of his cock, making your hands glide even easier over the velvety hardness of him. You can feel him throbbing, his hips finally able to rock up into your touch.

“Are you gonna make me all messy, Eddie?” you ask, tilting your head down to look up at him with wide, faux innocent eyes.

He’s nodding, thrusts finding no rhythm, just trying to reach release. “Yeah, baby, you love it when I cover you in my come, get you all wet and sticky...”

“Uh-huh. Love when you help me clean it up, too.”

And that’s what does it.

Eddie let out a stilted moan, one that changed octaves, and he’s coming harder than he thinks he’s ever come before.

Thick ropes of white hit your cheeks, your chin, your neck, your chest.

You gasped at the contact, then let out a moan that made his toes curl into the carpet, licking your lips to catch anything that landed in tongue distance.

He watches it all. His eyes threaten to close but fuck no, he loves to see you get marked by him in the most primal of ways. Loves to watch his cock paint the prettiest portrait on you.

He brought his hand down to help you stroke him through it, wanting to feel your smaller fingers on his cock as he rode out his high.

Then he gave you what you love, helping you clean it up. He bent his head down and ran his tongue across your hot skin, scooping up as much of his release as he could. He grabbed you by the chin, pulling down until your mouth opened before spitting into your mouth, watching as you let it sit for a moment before closing your mouth and swallowing, your eyes heavy with arousal at his actions.

“Mmmm,” you sound, smiling dopily. You kissed at his lips, your hand still slowly stroking him as he softened.

He licked at your bottom lip before his tongue moved into your mouth and against yours, pulling you into his lap. You melted into his touch, becoming boneless flesh in his arms. He groaned at the feeling of your wet, clothed cunt pressed against his lower stomach. He hadn’t even touched you -- you hadn’t even touched yourself -- and yet you were still so slick for him.

That thought alone was enough to cause his cock to twitch, and he thanked the sex gods or whoever was in charge for gracing him with stamina tonight of all nights.

“Best,” kiss to your nose, “birthday,” kiss to your chin, “ever,” kiss to your lips.

You smiled against his lips, humming happily at his admission. This was exactly how you planned the night going. Surprise Eddie with a PlayStation and an explosive orgasm.

Then he just had to go and throw a curveball.

“I’ll be good to go in twenty minutes,” he conceded, fingers running featherlight down your bare back. “Then we’ll see what we’re gonna do about that lying mouth of yours.”

Damn it. The study groups. He remembered. Part of you hoped you’d sucked all the sense out of him, but apparently not.

“Mean,” you pouted.

Eddie’s eyes flashed wickedly, a lazy grin stretching across his face.

“Oh, I will be.”

[bekolxeram]

Human remains as props — the Billy Boils of old horror movies

In this week's Halloween themed 9-1-1 episode, Buck rented a mummy replica from a Hollywood prop shop which turned out to be a real human body. This set off a series of misfortunate events for the firefighter, that might or might not be the result of a curse. Once again, the writers have surpassed themselves in terms of over-the-top silliness that has become the trademark of our beloved weewoo show. There's no way someone can accidentally get their hands on a real corpse... right?

Oh, you'll be surprised. You too may have seen a real cadaver or two on the silver screen.

The Economics of prop dead bodies

Using real human remains as movie props was such a common practice back in the days that prop masters working on the 1979 Vietnam war epic Apocalypse Now were totally unfazed when body broker (later revealed to be a grave robber) brought several dead bodies to the set. The plan to use those bodies as props for maximum authenticity was only scrapped after a producer ruled against it.

Source: The Independent

Interestingly, films that ended up actually featuring real bodies were the low-budget, fake looking ones. In the age before 3D printing, creating a set of realistic human skeleton was a very labor intensive process. That combining with the cost of the material used, the price of a plastic replica was in fact more expensive than a real skeleton.

A special effect make-up artist who worked on the 1982 Spielberg classic Poltergeist explained the film's decision to use actual human remains on a podcast:

Source: Snopes

Eerily, two young actresses who worked on the Poltergeist trilogy passed away unexpectedly shortly afterwards, leading to the urban legend of a curse on set.

The story of Elmer J. McCurdy

In late 1976, the production crew of the TV show The Six Million Dollar Man was filming scenes at the Pike, a then amusement zone in Long Beach, California. While shooting a scene at a thrill ride, a member of the prop department spotted a wax mannequin covered in fluorescent paint dangling from a noose. Worrying it would get in the way of the camera, they gave the dummy's arm a tug in an attempt to remove it, but instead of the whole thing coming off, only the arm broke off, exposing a human bone and muscle tissues.

A penny from 1924 and ticket stubs to the "Museum of Crime" were found in the body's mouth. Investigators contacted the museum owner's son, who identified the body as Elmer McCurdy, an outlaw killed in 1911 in the middle of a shootout with police following a botched train robbery in Oklahoma.

Unlike the fictional McCurdy in 8x05, the real McCurdy was a simple petty criminal looking for some extra cash to support his alcohol habit. Utilizing the skills he learned from the army, his robbery method of choice was explosives, but he was very terrible at it.

Source: KCRW

His body was subsequently taken to a funeral home, where he laid unclaimed for the rest of his stay. The undertaker embalmed the body, shaved his face, dressed him in a suit, but refused bury him until someone come forward to claim it and pay for the service. As time went by, the owner of the funeral home decided to dress the body as a gunslinging cowboy and allow visitors to see "the Bandit Who Wouldn't Give Up" for the price of a nickel, in order to fund his burial.

5 years later, two men claiming to be McCurdy's long lost brothers came forward to take custody of the body for a proper burial. End of the story, right? Well, of course they were travelling carnival owners lying to acquire the body for their shows. In 1922, the body was sold to yet another travelling exhibit called "Museum of Crime", which featured wax figures of other famous outlaws in history.

For the next 3 decades, McCurdy's body travelled all around the country as an attraction. He even had a brief film career. He was once used to promote the 1933 film Narcotic!, then he had a small cameo in the 1967 B-movie She Freak. In 1968, the Museum of Crime owner's son decided to sell his father's exhibits to the Hollywood Wax Museum. There, McCurdy's body started getting mixed up with other wax figure, and his origin story long forgotten.

Following over half a century of voyage, McCurdy eventually became fully mummified. The wax museum believed that the body was too gruesome and unlifelike to be showcased anymore, so he was finally sold to The Pike, an amusement zone in Long Beach, where he began his new life as a thrill ride decoration dummy.

After the shocking revelation by TV crew in 1976, McCurdy was transported back to Oklahoma, where he took his last breath 66 years ago, and finally laid to rest after a graveside service attended by 300 people. (Under 2 feet of concrete, to prevent grave robbing)

Source: Atlas Obscura

[alittlebitofloveliness]

@zvoiderror000 @sipping-wxterfalls @obsessingoverl This is the full fic that goes with the out of context snippet you all seemed excited about

***************

Darry hadn’t been sure it was even worth putting together the funeral. After all, few folks had loved Johnny Cade, and even fewer had loved Dallas Winston, and most of them were the five who remained, all but three of whom were unemployed. He’d managed to scrape together money for headstones, albeit cheap ones, but a funeral- even a joint one- so soon after mom and dad was more of a strain on the budget than Darry could realistically handle, even with Soda and Steve offering to pitch in.

Then the parents of all those little kids Johnny and Pony saved had contacted him out of the blue, offering to help cover expenses and for all his pride Darry didn’t have it in himself to turn them down. Johnny and Dal deserved a proper burial any way he could manage to make it happen, and if that involved taking a bit of charity, well, for once so be it. It sure as hell wasn’t like Mr and Mrs Cade were going to pay to make sure Johnny was properly laid to rest.

So he’d taken the money and made the same terrible phone calls he’d made eight months ago, contacted the same vendors, and booked the same small room at the same small funeral home, feeling sick to his stomach the whole time. Pony had helped, more than he had eight months ago, had chosen Johnny’s casket from the few they could afford and written a eulogy he refused to show to anyone until the service itself. Darry didn’t begrudge him, trying to tamp down the guilt that came with the relief that cut through him every time he looked at his baby brother. It felt wrong, planning the funeral of two of his best friends, knowing that if the universe had offered him any sort of choice, he'd have still chosen Ponyboy and doomed them both anyway, every time. It’s a hard truth, a horrible one, but Darry has grown used to confronting such horrible things as of late, even if he can only ever confront them in his own head. 

After a few weeks of planning, the day of the funeral seems almost underwhelming. Soda and Ponyboy are once again dressed in the outfits they wore to mom and dad’s funeral, Ponyboy somehow looking twice as lost as he did then for all he’s grown almost half a foot taller. Soda is a shadow of his usual self, drawn in behind the careful mask he dons when he doesn’t want anyone to see what he’s really thinking, but the cigarette in his hand is enough to give Darry a good idea of his tenuous mental state.

Pony climbs the steps of the funeral home in the same dreamlike manner he’s adopted since the night of the rumble, the same cloak of oblivion he’d shrouded himself in for months after mom and dad passed, the one he’d only just started to lift off himself before Darry ruined it all with his temper and that slap. Sometimes he thinks he will never truly be able to undo the damage he caused that night, all the consequences of one despicable rash action.

Soda loiters near the stairs, Steve a supportive, grim faced pillar beside him, their shoulders pressed together and pinky fingers linked in a way they probably think is subtle. Darry wants to tell them they’re too close, warn them yet again about being in public and what people might think, but today he doesn’t have the energy. Besides, it’s not like there's anyone coming. All of them, from Two-bit to Ponyboy, know the only folks this funeral is for is them, the gang. If anyone else shows at all it’ll be a miracle. So he leaves Soda and Steve and the obvious, secret love that could kill them both by the door, and goes inside to check on Ponyboy.

His younger brother hasn’t stepped into the small chapel yet, instead he’s sitting with his back against the wall and his legs sprawled out, half hidden behind a small side table. The picture of Johnny that is supposed to be beside the guest book is clutched in his hands, and silent tears are running down his face, his tiny form shaking violently with suppressed sobs. 

Shit. The sight of it chips another shard off of Darry’s thrice broken heart. This poor kid. This sweet, sweet kid, who’s been through more in the past year than most people go through in a lifetime. Darry can’t help but wonder if his baby brother is ever again going to know a life without pain. 

“Hey little buddy,” Darry’s knees crack as he kneels down beside him, tossing an arm around his brother's shoulders, “how’re ya doin’?

It’s a stupid question, and they both know it, but it startles a choked off, surprised laugh out of Ponyboy, and it feels like a bigger win than winning the state football championship back in high school.

“M’alright,” Pony glances around as if making sure they’re alone before snuggling into Darry’s side a bit. He’s been awful cuddly since he got back home, but fourteen and a greaser is still fourteen and a greaser, and Darry knows Pony would die before he let anyone outside the gang find out about his newfound clinginess. 

“You sure?” Darry tightens his grip on Pony and drops a kiss on his gelled hair. Today is gonna be a hard day for all of them, but things like this always hit Pony worse, and he’s worried about him. He’s still so young, only fourteen. Darry himself had seen some rough stuff by the time he was fourteen- you couldn’t grow up in their neighbourhood and not see some stuff you wished you hadn’t- but back then he’d had dad to talk things through with and mom to lie to him and promise everything would be okay. Compared to that, Pony has nothing, just two brothers who love him but can’t protect him, and now a dead best friend to mourn on top of his parents.

“No,” Pony shakes his head, letting out another watery laugh, this one verging on hysterical, “no, I’m not okay. Sometimes I think I’m never gonna be ok again.”

“Baby…” Darry doesn’t know what to do. He isn’t cut out for this, isn’t meant to be a guardian or a parent or whatever he’s become, and he’s never been good with emotions anyway. It’s always been Soda’s job, since their parents passed, to deal with the feelings while he deals with the bills, but Soda is his little brother too, has decided not to feel today so that he can cope, so Darry is once again all Pony has. He wishes he could be enough, or at the very least think of something to say, but he isn’t and he can’t. Instead, all he can do is rock Ponyboy as he cries and wish the world wasn’t so horrifically cruel. At the very least he wishes he could reassure him…but Darry doesn’t like to lie, and the truth is that lately he isn’t sure Pony will be ok. Lately, his brother seems uniquely broken in a way Darry isn’t sure he can fix. 

Johnny would have known what to do. He and Pony would have gone for a smoke on the porch and talked in low voices, and somehow whatever he’d said would have brought Ponyboy back to himself. But Johnny is gone, isn’t coming back, and Pony might just stay this empty shell because of it. The thought makes something dark and cold creep into his chest, but Darry is a realist and learned a long time ago that ignoring uncomfortable things does not simply make them go away, as much as he might wish they would. Johnny is gone, and Pony is different, and things will never be the same as they were. That’s that.

“I just…” Pony manages once he’s cried himself out, “he- he was the only person who completely knew me without me havin’ to tell him. I’m never gonna find anyone like that again in my whole life I don't think, and that…that’s terrifyin’.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Pony nods fervently, almost begging him to understand, and fuck it, Darry is trying because he isn’t Johnny and he isn’t Soda but he’s still trying his best, “I miss Dal too, of course I do, but losin’ Johnny is just- different. He dug me and I dug him and I just-I’m really gonna miss him. “

“Sometimes,” Pony’s voice breaks, but he soldiers on, “sometimes I wish I coulda died in his place. Or Dal’s. That way we’d at least be together.”

“Don’t say that!” Fear so cold it burns flashes through Darry, and he squeezes Pony tighter, as if the mere thought is a blow he could shield him from, “Please baby, don't ever say that, I couldn’t survive without you. Soda would go clean crazy I-”

“Cool it Dar,” Pony shakes him off, “I know that. I ain’t stupid and I don’t got a death wish either. I just miss him and I…wonder, sometimes. That’s all.”

“Well quit your wonderin’,” Darry scolds. He can hear himself getting harsh, the way he always gets when he’s worried, and tries to even out his tone, “that sort of wonderin’ does more harm than good. I wouldn’t trade you bein’ here for the world and I know for a fact Johnny and Dal wouldn’t neither. Savvy?”

Pony looks at him for a moment, and there’s such fear in those eyes, such grief, and yet so much trust it makes Darry’s heart ache in a completely different way.

“I savvy.” he says at last, and Darry internally sighs in relief. This conversation isn’t over, and Ponyboy has never been one to let things go, but at least, for the moment, he is safe.

The door opens then and Soda and Steve reappear, flanked by Two-bit with his mom and sister. Darry climbs to his feet, pulling Pony up beside him and they take a deep breath and all enter the chapel together.

For a second he stands there frozen, completely caught off guard, heart swelling with an odd mixture of gratitude and something else that isn’t quite grief, but has the same bittersweet tinge. 

There are more people inside than Darry expected, which is to say, there’s people there at all. He’d fully believed the only ones who’d bother coming to Johnny and Dal’s funeral would be the gang and Two’s family, but Tim Shepard and a few of his guys are clustered near the back door, looking uncomfortable, and Sylvia Devares is as cold eyed and sour faced as ever, but present nevertheless, sitting in the second row of chairs, glaring at Dally’s casket as if she expected him to sit up and start cussing her out any second. There’s no sign of Mr or Mrs Cade, but there’s a dark haired girl probably a year or two younger than Ponyboy sitting next to a tired looking man in his forties that Darry remembers Johnny staying with sometimes when he was really little, before Mrs.Cade cut her family out of her life for good. It’s strange, Darry thinks, seeing the love people don’t express until it’s too late. It has to have been nearly a decade since Johnny last saw his uncle and baby cousin, yet here they are, waiting to say their goodbyes.

Darry speaks quietly with the funeral director and the service begins, some local pastor kicking things off with a short sermon. Darry knows Dally probably would not have chosen a clergyman to speak at his funeral, but he also probably would have told them to have a beer in his honour and chuck him in the ground; and knowing how much Johnny had liked going to church with Pony, the sermon seemed appropriate. If he’s being quite honest with himself, Darry isn’t at all sure heaven or hell exists, but he also isn’t willing to gamble when it comes to Johnny and Dally’s souls. If a qualified preacher putting in a good word with the big man could get them a chance at eternal happiness, Darry would gladly sit here for fifteen minutes listening to him talk. If Darry’s being honest, if Dally’s gonna get into heaven, his soul needs all the help it can get.

It’s after they’ve all said a final amen, but before Pony has managed to start the eulogies, that the door creaks open and one final mourner slips inside. She’s clearly trying to be inconspicuous, but the timing of her arrival and the fact she clearly isn’t from around here make it so every eye in the room turns directly on her the second she gets through the doorway.

The first thing Darry notices is how skinny she is. He’s known a lot of folks in his time that are somewhat underfed, but this woman is better described as emaciated. The second thing he notices is how sick she looks, with her pale face, puffy eyes, and hunched posture; and the third is her white blond hair and pointed ears, two features he’s only ever seen on one other person.

“Who’s the junkie?” Tim Shepard sidles over and murmurs in Darry’s ear as the woman takes a seat in the second row of chairs, and Ponyboy clears his throat and starts Dally’s’ eulogy.

“Hell if I know.” Darry murmurs back, and it’s true. Dallas never mentioned anything or anyone from his past, and the gang had always respected that. He has no idea who the girl might have been to Dallas, just figures there must be some sort of familial relation.

“Well damn. Mighta been useful to know he had family who like smack,” Tim shrugs, “coulda got her a decent price at least.”

Darry glanced at the girl’s slumped posture and the way she kept scratching at her arms, and winced. Drugs are an aspect of the east side he’d always found particularly unsavoury, simply based on how visibly they could destroy someone. There were slower poisons, yes, like booze and gambling and hate, but drugs were simply more obvious. There were plenty of addicts that bummed around the train tracks or out near Brumly territory, and much as Darry hated to admit it, Tim’s assessment of the blonde was spot on. She was clearly hooked on smack, and from the looks of it, had been for a while.

Pony finishes the eulogies, voice shaky but more composed than Darry would have expected, but he barely hears him. All he can see is the back of the girl's blonde hair and the points of her ears. For some reason it had been easier to grieve Dallas when he felt like one of the only people who could mourn him properly; but this girl has clearly travelled who knows how far to attend this cobbled together funeral, and now some part of Darry feels like maybe he should have publicized it wider, spent some time really looking for Dallas’ next of kin. Not that he would have known where to look, but maybe it was selfish to just assume their ragtag pieced together family was truly the only family Dallas had. After all, everyone comes from somewhere, right? Maybe he should have tried to learn more about Dallas’ somewhere. 

A voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Dallas himself tells him not to be stupid, that Dallas was a kid who’d left where he came from and never looked back once, a kid who had died after losing the only person he couldn’t stand to lose. This girl may be here now, the voice says, but whoever she was clearly meant nothing to the person Dallas was when he died. It still does little to assuage the guilt slowly curdling in Darry’s heart.

The funeral director smoothly wraps up the ceremony without Darry having to do anything, mentioning the refreshments in the other room and reminding everyone to say their final goodbyes as they’d be closing the caskets in half an hour before moving to the graveyard. There’s a part of Darry that’s grateful that making the announcement didn’t fall on him, and a larger part that dreads the next half hour but dreads the minutes after it even more fervently. 

A line at the caskets forms quickly, the scant mourners each taking a turn to say their own goodbyes, and it would be almost sweet if it wasn’t so grim. 

Mrs. Mathews and Susie go first. Neither one of them glances at Dally for long, but Darry can’t really blame them for that, considering they hardly knew him. Both women linger longer next to Johnny, and Susie drops a tootsie roll into the casket with a sniffle. Those two were buddies, Darry knows. Johnny used to crash at the Mathews’ place almost as much as he crashed at their house, and Johnny and Susie’s matching gentle souls had bonded them quickly.

Tim and his guys go next, and they linger longer beside Dallas. None of them say much really, but there’s a tightness in Tim’s jaw that speaks more to regret than anger when he finally mutters an ‘asshole’ under his breath and stalks away, his gang following behind. Darry doubts he’ll show up to the cemetery, but can’t exactly begrudge him for it. It was good of Tim to come at all, mostly because if the roles were reversed and it was Tim lying there instead, Darry isn’t at all sure Dally would have done the same. 

Sylvia goes next, and her glare doesn’t waver, but whatever rant she’s murmuring to Dallas seems heartfelt for all of its rage. She doesn’t even glance at Johnny on her way out, and it should make Darry’s blood boil, but it doesn’t, not really, because everyone knows Sylvia Devares doesn’t care about anyone but herself, so if Dally meant enough for her to show up at all then she really must have cared as much as she could. Those two were a dumpster fire even at their best, and nothing about them ever gave the impression they were in love, but Darry knows better than anyone that you don’t need to be in love to love somebody in a way that could destroy you. 

Johnny’s uncle and cousin step up the small dais, and the old man says something in the language Johnny’s mom stopped letting him speak the same year she stopped speaking to her family, the one Johnny tried teaching to Ponyboy just to spite her. Whatever he says, it’s a blessing meant only for Johnny, but Darry can feel the weight of it, the love, the regret, the pain, just from the man’s tone. Johnny’s cousin glances once more over her shoulder as they leave, black eyes twinkling just the same as Johnny’s used to, and for a second it’s hard for Darry to breathe.

Now it’s the hard part. Ponyboy, for all his evocative words and stubborn strength, has not looked at Johnny’s body since he stepped into the room, and the second he does he lets out a horrible sound, something between a choked off whimper and and a sob, before darting from the room like something is chasing him. Maybe something is. Darry knows all about how memories can be specters. 

“I’ll go,” Soda stops him from following after Pony with a hand on his shoulder, “you say your goodbyes.”

Dary almost protests, almost tells him to say his own goodbyes while he still can, but there’s shadows in Soda’s eyes, and a strickenness to his face. Suddenly, Darry remembers the way Soda had panicked back when they closed the caskets on mom and dad, how his face had turned white as harsh breaths forced their way through clenched teeth, and he realizes that maybe this is Soda trying to save himself; so he nods and offers him the closest thing he can manage to a smile before Soda turns and follows Pony out the door, leaving Darry with Steve and Two-bit.

Two-bit is blubbering where he stands in front of Dally, and Steve is misty eyed beside him with a hand on his shoulder. Darry knows he should comfort them, play big brother to the brothers who are still his, just not by blood, but there’s something about watching the other people who cared say goodbye that is healing a piece of him, and he can’t bring himself to move. Not yet.

Eventually, Two-bit’s sobs give way to hushed murmurs and begging, Steve’s solemn facade cracking a bit as a single tear finally traces down his cheek. Darry swallows against the lump in his throat, wishing there was a way to make this easier for them and knowing there isn’t. This is one of those things they’re just going to have to feel.

“We’ll see you out there, Superman,” Steve claps Darry on the shoulder as he guides Two-bit out to the parking lot, the redhead already in the process of lighting a cigarette. Not for the first time, Darry is inordinately grateful for Steve Randle and his unmatched ability to be supportive without ever being overbearing.

He steps up the dais, steps muffled by the cheap carpet of the funeral home, but seeming to echo nonetheless. Johnny and Dally are arranged side by side, cleaner and more put together than they ever were in life. Darry hadn’t had any nice clothes to send for them to be buried in, but they wouldn’t have wanted them anyway. They’re both in jeans, Dally in a black t-shirt, and Johnny in a blue one, his jeans jacket pressed and arranged neatly around his small frame. There’s the same uncanny wrongness in their corpses that there was in mom and dad’s that make it impossible for Darry to be able to pretend they’re sleeping or any other such platitude people try to lie to themselves with. Dally’s skin, while pale in life, is now so white it’s waxy, seeming even more stark against the contrast of his shirt. Johnny’s unnatural stillness is so unlike his constant fidgeting it’s almost startling, and his face so peaceful is eerie. Jumpy, gentle, fierce Johnny Cade never looked so calm in life as he does in death, and the realization is a whole new kind of sickening.

A presence at his shoulder is the only thing that keeps a tear or two leaking out. When Darry looks over, the blonde girl from earlier is standing quietly a half pace behind him, her sunken eyes fixed on Dally with such sorrow it’s hard for him to look at. 

“You knew him.” Darry says. It isn’t a question.

“I did,” The girl agrees, “or at least I used to.”

When he was alive, even after years in Oklahoma, Dally’s voice always kept a burr of the yankee accent but this girl is full Brooklyn, and the oddness of it to his country bred ears almost has Darry laughing, despite the seriousness of the situation. Luckily, the girl doesn’t seem to notice, her eyes still locked on Dallas, for all she’s conversing with him.

“How?” Darry wonders. “How did you know him, I mean?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.” Not anymore, at least. Not that it had mattered before, but he’d always been curious about Dallas, the only one of their gang whose background was a true mystery.

Silence reigns for a minute. Darry watches a wasp buzz around the flowers on top of Dally’s casket. 

“He’s- he was- my brother,” the girl admits, voice breaking, and Darry can’t keep the shock off his face. He’d thought, based on the resemblance, that she might be a cousin or something, but a sister? 

“My baby brother,” the girl repeats, almost to herself, and Darry’s heart clenches. It isn’t just the bone deep anguish comprised in those three words, it’s the way they force Soda and Pony to the forefront of his mind. Sure, Dally wasn’t anything like either of his hard headed, stupid, secretly sweet brothers, and it’s clear whatever relationship Dally had with his sister isn’t anything like how Darry’s own is with his, but this girl has still lost her baby brother. Darry had got a taste of what it was like to lose Ponyboy for a week, and it nearly killed him. He’d been lucky enough to get Pony back. Dally’s sister will never get him back.

“I..I’m sorry,” Darry chokes, “I didn't know. I would’ve tried to invite you or let you plan stuff, I-”

“Don’t.” She cuts him off, and for a second its Dallas glaring at him. Then he blinks and her glare has faded, and he can breathe again, “You did the right thing. There’s a reason he left New York. He wouldn’t have wanted me anywhere near the planning of this.”

She doesn’t say he wouldn’t have wanted her there. Darry figures it might be implied anyway.

They lapse into silence again. The air in the chapel smells like incense and cleaning chemicals, a stiff, heavy, artificial mixture that seems like a strangely fitting smog over the day.

“He wasn’t always like that, y’know?” Dally’s sister bursts out, like she’d been trying desperately not to say it and been unable to keep silent anyway.

“Like what?”

“Like..he wasn’t always the way he was when he left. The way he was when he found you guys. He didn’t always hate everything.” 

Darry tries to picture it, a Dallas Winston who wasn’t jaded and callous to the point of cruelty sometimes, a Dallas who lived instead of just surviving. Try as he might, he can’t quite manage it.

“What was he like? Before?”

“Quiet,” The barest trace of a smile tugs at her chapped lips. “Smart. Kind, before he forgot how to be.”

“He didn’t forget,” Darry tells her, thinking of the million and one ways Dally had helped out the gang, refusing any and all thanks for it, “he just wished he could have. But he was still kind. In his own way.”

“Well that’s something, I guess,” the half smile fades and she sighs, gazing down at Dally’s still face with so much regret Darry could drown in it. “He deserved better.”

“They both did.”

“Before he left I mean. He deserved a chance, and I…I couldn’t give it to him. Not since that first hit.”

“Oh,” For a second Darry thinks she means an actual physical hit- then he realizes, “oh.”

He’s never been good with words, and right now is no exception. He doesn’t have a clue what to say. Luckily, she just gives him a sardonic grin and keeps talking.

“I was ten when Dally was born. His mom left when he was like, two, and our dad is a fucking asshole, so I kind of raised him. I had to. But I was ten. I didn’t know what I was doing, and he always wanted to know.”

She shakes her head ruefully. 

“‘Raya,’ he asked me once, ‘how come everyone else has a mom and I don’t?’ I didn’t know what to tell him. Then it was ‘Raya, how come Joey’s dad never hurts him like dad hurts us?’ and ‘Raya, what’s in dad’s cigs that make them worse than yours?’ and on and on until he stopped asking because I never had a good answer. Then he started going out by himself, and getting mixed up with the wrong people and then it was too late. He was, what, seven? maybe? the first time he got jumped, and he wasn’t even the littlest kid in our neighborhood it happened to. He never really had a chance. And then I went to that party, and-and I-I couldn’t…and he left. And he never came back.”

“Sorry,” she sniffs, wiping her eyes, “I didn’t mean- I just- I think you were good for him. Better than I was. You and your friends. I saw the pictures of you in the paper, after the fire and the shooting and everything, and there was one…he was in it, with this one,” she nods to Johnny, “and the other little one, and he was smiling. He didn’t smile much, even when he was real little. I figure anyone who could get him to smile and who bothered to plan a funeral must have been good for him.”

“Sounds to me like you did the best you could,” Darry tells her, because hell, he does the best he can and fucks it up, and so does Tim Shepard, and so does every older sibling who has ever had to be a parent when they themselves were still a child, “I think you were good for him as much as you could be.”

“Maybe,” Raya says, “maybe not. It doesn’t matter now anyway.” 

“It matters,” Darry says, because he’s seen too little love to not know how important even the imperfect kind can be, “you loved him, so it still matters.”

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say. Her lips purse, causing her sharp cheekbones to stick out even further.

“I need a smoke,” is all she says, casting one last look at Dally’s still face before turning on her heel and stalking out the door without looking back.

Darry doesn’t follow her, even though it feels like maybe he should. He’ll see her when they end up at the graveyard and if he doesn’t, well, he’ll have known she’d said her piece. 

He turns back to the caskets, taking in one unloved boy and a boy who wasn’t loved enough. Boys he’d loved like his own family. Boys he’d let down, no matter how hard he tried not to.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it isn’t enough and it never will be but what else is there to say? “I tried.”

He stays there until the funeral director comes, shutting the coffin lids, locking two more of Darry’s family away from the world that never treated them right.

He squares his shoulders. Takes a deep breath. This day isn’t over, and his surviving family still needs him. 

Darry Curtis goes back to trying his best.

[germiyahu]

I loved your post on affordable Judaica

Synagogues will have Shabbat siddurs, for everything else there's debit MasterCard a bunch of different, free, siddur apps. They have apps for the megillot, too, which I download ahead of each chag/fast for easy access. There's even an easy online page for funeral rites.

Fancy Kiddush cups tend to have either an annoying plastic insert or leave a metallic taste in your mouth. Lots of people I know have moved on to these stylized glass/crystal cups. Much less expensive, dishwasher safe, and equally beautiful.

also, if you sidle up to Israeli Tumblr or Facebook, you'll probably be able to find someone willing to mail you stuff and/or someone travelling who's able to bring you stuff. Judaica here is like shampoo—there's the fancy boutique stuff, but there's also supermarket brand things (literally; we bought our Hanukkiah in the supermarket) that are perfectly nice and perfectly affordable, but naturally don't ship overseas.

It can very well be considered צדקה to donate Judaica, so if you genuinely can't afford anything, and if you genuinely have nothing appropriate to use (though one of my classmates uses a ceramic mug he and his wife made on their honeymoon so the limit on what's appropriate is pretty far off in the distance), there is no shame in asking people for help.

You're not commanded to buy Yair Emanuel polished brass Tree of Life Shabbat candlesticks... you're commanded to beautify the Shabbat table. It's not about money, it's about what you find beautiful. What you find meaningful. I would recommend saving for a more expensive item, at least one, if you plan on starting a family, so that you have something to pass on to your kids. But at the end of the day, what's more valuable? A Kiddush cup made of real silver or real crystal, or the story behind your chintzy little ceramic mug that your grandchildren will be telling stories about?

At the very least, a benefit of being involved in a Jewish Community is you will inevitably interact with people of older generations, which I think a lot of Gen Z is just not really doing these days? These people have tons of experience and can give advice, for what to get and how to find it and how to budget for it.

Also a Shabbat siddur can get you through weekdays, depending on your level of observance. Especially considering most shuls don't even have weekday services, so the prayers you do at home are going to be similar, and the main difference from what I can tell is the Shabbat siddur has more in it, so it's a process of cutting out things you don't need on the weekdays. Again it depends on your stream and level of observance. But you are going to need a Machzor.

[tomatoluvr69]

Helene floods diary/blog entry 10/11/2024.

Mentions of severe disaster, death/child death, burials/funerals, and of course a splash of deep illness and ed. TLDR it’s very very hard here but I’m more or less ok.

Hi everyone :-)

Greetings from [Appalachian town absolutely shattered by Hurricane Helene floods]. Slowly crawling my way out of the indescribable wreckage. No idea when I’ll be back to work, but received word that every one of my students survived the storm, which is a huge, profound relief. I’ve changed my post-storm efforts from direct mutual aid stuff to burial. Lowered a stranger into her grave and then filled it in manually. No family could be present. There are more next week. Every single day is so hard. Drove with a friend who lives in [one of the hardest hit towns— this place is GONE.] to mourn and get some supplies— he was stranded in his home without information or ability to cook hot meals for over a week. I used to live on the outskirts of that town— I really cannot sum into words how disturbing it is to the core of a person to see places you know so well in utter, severe destruction, soldiers crawling throughout. It’s like trying to describe the color purple to a worm or something. These floods have changed me. Yesterday I went to drop off a load of hazard protection gear in Marshall, NC, where signs read, “WARNING: MUD IS TOXIC. May cause: Disease, Fatigue, Dysentery, Headaches, Lung Infections, Staph Infections. Please Decontaminate Before Going To Kitchen Or Eating.” And on our way back home through downtown (google the downtown, seriously. These are places I went in the before times, visiting with friends, buying groceries, going to friends’ gigs at a now-obliterated bar called Mal’s) we forgot to roll the windows up, until a cloud of dust hit our eyes and lungs. Feeling okay so far, but god only knows.

But my work at the ecoburial sanctuary feels like a respite. There are just a couple people at each burial, proxies for the decedent’s loved ones who can’t come in because of the severely damaged infrastructure and lack of places to stay. The entire city has been without water for over two weeks now. Power is an unreliable commodity, as is internet and phone service. I feel honored to have this opportunity, and grateful for a way to be useful— I was struggling with the executive functioning necessary to carry out my supply runs, to budget the donations and read the lists, then sort and organize drop offs. My brain is genuinely impaired from what I’ve seen. But I see the community at work and trust the people in my network to continue that work. To lower caskets and shovel earth feels better. On Wednesday, the day of my first burial, I went the entire day without the gaping, gnawing dread, sorrow, fear, and stress that’s been my constant companion.

There are learning centers cropping up around the city, schools still being out indefinitely, and the school I work for will likely establish one over the next few weeks in an outlying town that gains water service— likely a few makeshift classrooms in a disused church or fire hall, something like that. And I’ll rejoin as soon as I can, many of the staff having young children they’ve had to evacuate. I work at the elementary level, and I miss my students, I want to provide the stability of a familiar face, but I also sort of can’t fathom returning to work. To bury people is wordless, your body knows what to do. There is no thought required. I can let the boundless grief and sorrow pool within me, and ease it with every thrust of the shovel. It’s getting cool here in the mountains, but the days are still warm enough— crisp October skies, autumn foliage, all that stuff. A gorgeous time to be buried. I would do it every day for a year if I could. But life here is making awkward, creaking lurches towards normalcy, and schools are vital. So I’m soaking in this strange, sacred interlude while I can, laying a stranger’s flood-bloated remains to rest, lowering my head to the mourner’s Kaddish or Nicene creed, grieving tremendously.

Furthermore, the outpouring of support is drying up. You see disaster relief convoys leaving, meal distros shuttering, October rent coming due in full. You get screamed at in traffic, your roommate’s car gets rear-ended by an internet cable repair truck, in the midst of his mourning a family of four. Now comes phase two: the community is still shattered, but you’re expected to function as normal. And you cannot even shower or defecate at home. No one cares anymore what’s happening to Western NC/Eastern TN, and I understand, as I understood when a mass shooting killed 11 at a synagogue three blocks from my childhood home while I was away in NC, as I understand with guilt each time a distant tragedy lands and is forgotten— no one has the bandwidth for everything. It’s simply not possible. But it is surreal to stumble around a shattered world and know that you’re in an island. I already have given up trying to relay what things are like to people outside Helene. Maybe one day. But there aren’t really words for such a visceral trauma. The things I’ve seen will be with me, cluttering my dreams and thoughts, until I die myself. I’m uninterested in making myself heard. I’m alright and I’m not. What I can do for right now is try to feed myself and my community, try to make sure I visit a toilet at least every other day, and show up to the graveyard. I really will be okay. But it’s so surreal, and terrible. Please, for the love of god, if you can help it, never ever live next to a river, and don’t cross floodwaters. The homes, the family members, and the friends people here have lost. It’s unfathomable. I’m gonna try to track down a shower today. All you can really do is move forward. I feel like I’ve finally passed the stage where I was catatonic for hours at a time, which feels nice. I’ve been there before even pre-flood, but it’s so much harder to crawl back from when the things you need, like hygiene, sleep, routine, hydration, and healthy foods are all intermittently accessible and tremendously hard to acquire. But I’m trying now, which is something; I have the goal of two meals a day, two jugs potable water, two showers a week. I’m doing okay again. I’m in financial ruin, it’s really fucking hard. And my ED troubles are back with a vengeance— again, all the measures I have to combat this stuff are prohibitively difficult. I may have to finally cave and go to a grocery distro myself, just to get some healthy foods. Even though grocery stores are open, I am genuinely too traumatized to handle them right now. When im not proactive, which is often, im freezing cold and faint, hyperconvinced all foods are poison. There are times when I could get a hot meal at one of the distribution sites but I cannot eat it because of how triggering and uncertain it feels.

So it’s hard to take care of myself. But I don’t know that layering my trauma of my involuntary hospitalization from my teenage years over my flood trauma and food trauma is possible. And even then there’s no real way to get help right now. All the health centers are either closed or booked out indefinitely. So what, I’m gonna drive to Charlotte for care? Or get telehealth when there’s no place to even do a video call? It is what it is but hey, it’s not great. But I’m ok. Got some fruit and bread, made some rice. I have to remind myself I’m very sick, of course I can struggle with this flood more than, say, my well roommate out chainsawing roads in Swannanoa every day. But every meal really is such a struggle. I got a banana outside a church earlier while I was trying to find a water truck and now my next task is get some dinner. A normal person in my circumstances would be fully equipped to eat healthily by this point, we can refrigerate and cook now. But I’m unwell and it’s hard. But maybe I will let my friend pick up some stuff soon, some bananas and tofu and milk. It’s also hard because we have to use our extremely hard-gotten potable water to wash cooking dishes, so it’s hard to like batch cook a huge batch of dal which is what I usually do when I’m struggling to feed myself, because it means having to do another big water run a lot sooner. But this is a chronic condition and I know its contours, I’ll be ok, even though it’s severely challenging. I have got to work on invalidating myself less, and telling myself my chronic condition isn’t worthy of aid. But the guilt is too overpowering to take advantage of it. So many people lost their entire homes. And even though I’m in dire straits financially and have invisible disabilities and illnesses, I still can’t let myself receive help. But I have hard days and easier ones and if I’m proactive I know how to turn them into easier days. It’s just hard. It’s so much easier to lie in my bed and watch the light on the wall shift for hours. So I fall into that trap sometimes. Especially now that temperatures are falling into the forties and fifties at times, and my window got shattered, and I can’t eat so I’m cold all the time, it’s just so much more comfortable to lie in bed and then I get trapped lol.

All that sounds very grim but really, I’m okay. Part of me still really acutely yearns to get out of WNC for awhile but I don’t think I could be cut off from my community right now, and the closest person in my life is enduring tremendous grief (four people, drowned! Two boys under ten! Bodies found all the way in Tennessee!) and I cannot conscionably leave him, even if I’m struggling to manage my illness here, even if he’d urge me to go, I wouldn’t want that. We tried for a couple days in Durham and it was profoundly terrible in its own way.

So I’ll go back to the cemetery, and then I’ll go back to work at school, whenever that may be. And one day the shower and the toilet will be back, and the grocery stores will have safe foods I can eat. And I’m very acutely aware of all the people, especially in Gaza and Sudan and displaced by imperial interests from which I benefit, who will not regain that stability— my disaster is, at least, the whim of nature, theirs is manmade. I’ve been carrying the trauma of destruction & feeling grief for Gaza in an even deeper way. WNC will pull through, if deeply scarred— i at least have that consolation. It almost feels as if I’ve endured nothing at all. I’m incredibly aware that the water truck I can go to is provided by the same government bankrolling unfathomable death and despair of people in an even more brutally shattered world. The scale of trauma is just beyond imagination. My fury has only increased.

I hope everyone on here is well— I’ve really loved having this space over the past few years, it is such a tremendous mental respite even in antediluvian times, and I am anxiously awaiting having power and internet restored so I can regain that sense of normalcy as well. I fucking miss scrolling, yall. I’m at a Buddhist monk’s house to download some forms I have to fill out and wanted to blog a bit. Please everyone have a really nice hot shower for me and watch a good movie, have a glass of wine with a hot dinner. And give a few bucks to relief efforts in Gaza. WNC will rebuild, Gaza cannot. Much love, your favorite natural disaster survivor ❤️

[contentloadingandstuff]

🎉Celebrating Hu Tao's birthday!

No fifteenth of July can go without a party with Director Hu. Be it a small one with just you and her closest friends, or a larger event for everyone to enjoy, there’s always something planned. 

When it comes to the guests, Hu Tao isn’t very restrictive - the more the merrier! Not only does the fun increase with each person, but so does the gift pile…

Since Wangsheng is the main provider of funerary services in Liyue, Hu Tao can’t complain when it comes to the budget. She doesn’t have a lot of personal expenses, so she will have plenty saved up. 

Organizing a party using money earned on death? It’s quite dark indeed, but Hu Tao would just shrug if you’d mention this. That’s life, she’d reply. 

When it comes to the place… If you weren’t there for a second opinion, Hu Tao would see nothing wrong with throwing the celebration inside the funeral parlor. Considering that such a place would likely kill the mood (and be horrible for her business' reputation), Hu Tao would choose to go for a big campfire in the great outdoors. That removes the locale’s expenditure, and lets her invite more people to the event. Fresh air is also a plus.

A compulsory guest would be Xiangling, not only because she’s a great friend of Director Hu, but also because she will gladly be the chef for the event (as long as she gets to experiment with the dishes a little).

Hu Tao’s mind is just bursting with ideas. How about a rap or a poetry battle? The winner gets ice cream, and the loser has to eat Jeyun Chillies raw - the higher their spot on the leaderboard, the more of them they have to endure. Poor Chongyun…

Twister! Whipping up a playing field consisting of a bamboo mat with a colored cloth on top is no biggie for her. Hu Tao will gladly find out - who is the most flexible of her friends? Maybe she’ll get to learn something about your capabilities even, hehe.

She always liked a good archery competition. And maybe some javelin throwing as well? Javelins… That gives her an idea - spear fishing! Or just fishing in general if that turns out too challenging, boring or direct for the guests. 

And when the night falls, ghost stories! Throughout the year she had come up with plenty of new and thrilling tales, and she just can’t wait to share them. It has been a long time since she saw Xiangling squeal in fright after all.

If those prove to be not exciting enough, Hu Tao will take it to the next step - a ghost hunt. She’ll set things up with her befriended, playful, ethereal pals, of course. She wouldn’t want to get anybody hurt - wild spirits tend to be unpredictable, and, although rarely, very violent. 

When Hu Tao, the notorious thrill seeker, finds herself with people who want to go “off-road” with the paranormal, she will not find the strength to refuse. With her spear firmly in hand, she will lead her team into the darkest of corners, looking for a good scare. Maybe that will finally make you jump - it’s hard to scare you. No fun. 

Whatever the attractions may be, they for sure won’t be boring. Not when it’s Director Hu’s birthday!

Thanks for reading!

[the1orlylover]

The Mad One's Sacrifice

Coming soon....

On old well trodden country roads, funeral parlors, low budget motels and run down dive bars some magic still lives and breathes... If you believe it.

Description: Mad Sweeney the ever unwilling errand boy bound in services to Wednesday has been sent out once again. His goal... advance Wednesday's war with the new gods at any cost. That is until he is corralled into a side quest by Annie. A quiet unassuming girl with a long family history of tragedy. Together they'll embark on a journey that brings them both face to face with their fates, and what it means to truly believe.

Rating: M

Authors note: I've literally been working on this story for YEARS. Inspiration has struck again and I am hoping -fingers crossed- to post the first chapter soon.

All the usual, none of these characters (aside from the OC's) are mine, I don't own anything....

I'm also not a professional writer, and I have a weakness for run on sentences. If grammar mistakes throw you off... please don't read this. I'm sure I've fucked something up. I'm doing this for fun, and to hopefully inspire me to finish something I've worked on for.... umm too long. Don't read if you don't want to. This will not be TOO cannon to either the book or show... so you are warned.

[globalindeed]

Important Factors to Remember While Planning a Funeral Event

Funeral homes are responsible for organising a grand funeral for a loved one who has just passed away. For this, they offer a wide range of funeral services that they can deliver only when they have the necessary details related to your family and the deceased. These details make funeral services very easy to compile and customise, and here are the details of the most important information they want.

PERSONAL INFORMATION ABOUT THE DECEASED

Experts from top funeral parlours require initial details to prepare the funeral package to your budget. This information includes the full name of the deceased, the middle name, date of birth, and the date of passing away. Other details are also required, such as the occupation, place of birth, marital status and number of children.

FUNERAL DIRECTORS

This information and the contact details of the local funeral director are the second pieces of information needed to make funeral arrangements. The funeral director from the chosen funeral parlour is responsible for organising all the elements of the event, including transportation for the loved one, guidance and support to the family, and arrangements to streamline the process.

ALL-INCLUSIVE FUNERAL SERVICES

A significant role of funeral parlour professionals is to help you choose from different funeral styles. After discussing your preferences and desires related to the funeral event, they will arrange funeral packages based on your budget. These professionals will explain and ensure that the funeral service you choose is all-inclusive and reflects the true character and personality of your family and the deceased.

DETERMINE THE VENUE

The funeral director will also help you choose the venue. In most cases, the venue selection depends on the type and size of the service. For example, a traditional funeral service can be organised in a chapel or a church. At the same time, some other venue can be chosen if you have decided on a grand ceremony that has a special meaning and you want to pay tribute to your loved one.

These professionals will also arrange funeral music readings and prayers for the event. They understand that they are the perfect way to say goodbye and pay special tribute to the deceased while providing comfort and support to family and friends.

[simplecremationusa]

Cremation Services in Florida are much simpler to arrange than a funeral. But, to make arrangements, you and your family will probably need to make at least a few visits to and from a supplier of cremation services. You will therefore need to look for one that is not too far from your house.

[copias-sewer-rat]

THE BLOOD DROPPING FROM THE DARK ROSE IS ALWAYS THE SWEETEST (Cardinal Copia x f/reader)

Flower Shop AU! for Ghost (the band). Copia is still a Cardinal. Just cuteness and a bit of setting for this chapter. Around 2.8K words. I used a name for the female character instead of y/n because I am not the biggest fan of it, hope you don’t mind. ⸸tags: some mockery of Catholicism, mentions of death (but very brief). Do not mind the titles of the chapters, they are songs that I want Ghost to cover at some point ;) ⸸my masterlist⸸ ⸸Read on Ao3⸸ Enjoy!

I - Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps)

The Monday morning sun hit your eyes. Still drowsy from sleep you checked your phone. The alarm was about to go off. Decided to stay under the covers until the last second, you closed your eyes and thought about your plans for the week. There were some big orders for this week, which you were glad for. Being a florist was not always the most rewarding job monetarily, but the fact that you were working on your dream job was more than enough to make up for it.

Wanting to have some resemblance of control over your week, you made a mental list. Twenty bouquets, some for weddings, others just normal displays of random affection between lovers. Seven funeral wreaths, which sometimes broke your heart to make. You remember a very painful wreath that you had to make about a baby who had died because of some sort of medical negligence, you remember how you could not stop crying for the entirety of that night. You also had a couple of wedding preparations that were due in a couple of weeks, but you needed to visit your usual provider just to check some details. 

Remembering you had to visit your provider, your mind wandered to that pretty bizarre event you had to prepare an arrangement for on Friday. You had been visited by a couple of nuns a week ago, they seemed very friendly and cheerful, and although your history with Catholicism was not the best, they were very nice to you. They both also looked gorgeous, wearing some makeup and a tight attire that you had never seen wear to a nun, maybe they were from a branch of the Catholic church that was more permissive on that stuff regarding appearance. However, you could not know, you had been out of it for a few years.

The taller of the two nuns said that your shop had been in the radar of their congregation for some time. They had been waiting to perform some sort of ritual in town to ask for your services and now the time had come. You asked if they were from out of town and that is why it had taken some time to book you. The other sister, a bit older, but still breathtaking, said that they were from town. They just usually toured all over the world giving ceremonies. Now it was the turn of their hometown. You had been living in this quiet little town for a year and a half so you honestly did not know much about specific groups or the community in general, you really did not care about any of it. You were assigned with preparing a ceiling and floor arrangement, wild and unpredictable. The sisters told you that the venue was a bit big and that they were told by their superiors that they preferred something dark, but that it could still be seen in dim light. You had a herculean task before you. Nonetheless, you had always enjoyed a good challenge. While asking for your budget for the project you were answered with a “whatever you may need”. Your mouth was agape at the answer, no need to push the topic further.

Before continuing your train of thought, the phone alarm went off. You jumped out of bed, actually very excited to start your Monday. 

You showered, dressed in a smart but comfortable outfit and prepared your breakfast and coffee to have in your truck. Before even thinking of how the arrangemet would be, you actually needed to see the venue first. The task had been avoided long enough. You picked a black card from your glove compartment which was given to you by the tall sister. It had the name and address of the venue engraved in bright white, the contrast feeling very dramatic and theatrical. Setting your google maps to the location, you put your favorite playlist and drove off towards your destination. After a fifteen minute drive and moments before finishing your rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, you arrived to the venue. You found yourself before a concert venue when you were hoping for a church or an abbey. Maybe the congregation did not want to litter their precious church so they booked an easier place to clean afterwards. The turned off neon sign read ‘The Rat Trap’. Quite a fitting name for a concert venue, no doubt. The name was the same as the card, so you must have been at the correct spot.

Exiting your truck a couple of figures came into view in front of the establishment. They wore metal masks and black outfits. For a second you thought that you had the address wrong, these people did not seem very church-like. You shrugged it off and decided to ask anyway. 

“Good morning. I was looking for a venue in which I am supposed to set some flower arrangements? Is this the correct address?” You spoke, your voice clear and pace slow, trying not to trip over your own words, not wanting to embarrass yourself so early in the morning. The silence was heavy between you three. Maybe that was only your imagination, because they took a step back and opened the metal door behind them. You thanked them with a smile and entered the building. The venue was enormous, but it was weird seeing a concert venue empty and with the lights on. 

You only took two steps in, looking at how busy the place was with more people wearing those silver masks, when suddenly an older woman approached you.

“Good morning, dear. Can I know what business brings you here?” She questioned you, with a bit of poison in her tone. You got the feeling that you had interrupted something. 

“Yes, good morning to you too.” You said, trying to sound as professional as possible. “My name is Claire, I am from Dewdrop, the flower store. My services were booked by a couple of nuns a week ago to make an arrangement at this venue for this Friday.” You said, short and to the point. 

“Ah, yes, that…” The woman said, and you realized that the flowers were definitely not her idea. “Well, I guess there is no turning back now that you showed up. My name is Sister Imperator, you can come to me with any questions.” You were about to interrupt her with one, but she continued speaking. “Nonetheless, all this idea of the flower arrangement is from the Cardinal, so you better speak to him directly about it.” She finished talking and started walking, hoping for you to follow, so you did, not without asking the question that had been bugging you since the very beginning. 

“Sorry, I have a question… What kind of church is this?”

Sister Imperator gave you a quick glance back and a smirk: “Just your typical church.”

You remembered what you had seen until now, the nuns, the people at the entrance and from inside the venue with those weird looking masks as you said to yourself: “Typical church, my ass.” The weird knot in your stomach was not going to prevent you from doing your job, you were more professional than that. You were even curious about those people, hoping to learn about what they stood for and to what dude from above they prayed to. Your step quickened to follow her closer. 

You two said nothing to each other until the sister stopped abruptly before a door, it looked like a dressing room. You were a bit scared about the whole backstage thing, you had been to concerts, but you had never been so lucky as to go there. Sister Imperator knocked with a very curious rhythm, to which you heard a male voice respond with: “Come on in!”

The sister opened the door, but she signed for you to hold. You did as you were told and she entered the room leaving you outside of it on your own. You were nervous, she said that you had to talk to the Cardinal. From your knowledge from when you were a child, being a Cardinal is a pretty good position in the church. Thinking about it, you felt yourself getting smaller and smaller, reliving memories from your childhood that you had not thought about in a very long time. You were considering saying ‘fuck off’ to your professionalism and making a swift escape. There had to be a back door that you could slip through somewhere without no one noticing. As soon as you looked down the hall before you, searching for such a door, the one behind you opened and you knew there was no turning back. You just hoped for your face not to give away your emotions. 

Sister Imperator told you to enter the room, and as you did you were struck with the sight of a man wearing a red cassock and some black eye and lip makeup, which made him look ready for Halloween. You could not stop staring at him, he was like nothing you had seen before, and when he rose from his seat to greet you, you caught yourself being too weird by looking so much and tried to smile warmly. You tried to shake hands with the Cardinal, but he was quicker, grabbing the hand you were extending with his gloved one and kissing the back of it, leaving a bit of lipstick there. Your face got a pink tint to it and your instinct told you to run away. Nonetheless, you decided to push your instinct down at least for now, to see the outcome of this reunion. You could always refuse the job, you just wanted the details of it first. You had not even noticed, but Sister Imperator had left the room and you were now alone with the Cardinal. 

After kissing your hand, the man before you introduced himself as Cardinal Copia, a hint of what you presumed to be Italian in his pronunciation. He said nothing else, waiting for you to introduce yourself, but he forgot to let go of your hand.

“Claire Brown, nice to meet you Cardinal Copia” you tried to make the hold less awkward by gently shaking his hand. Then he seemed to realize his hand was still on yours. 

“Miss Brown, it is a pleasure to meet you at last.” Cardinal Copia said, with sincerity, following your shake. 

“Just call me Claire, please. I don’t like to be addressed by my surname, it makes me feel like I am still in school.” You surprised yourself with your honesty, the Cardinal just laughed at your justification and at this point you were both free of each others’ grasp.

“That is completely fair, Claire.” He said your name, rolling the ‘r’, just as Italians do, and you felt your cheeks tint even more, he did not seem to take notice, and even if he did, he did not mention it. Cardinal Copia gestured to the couch in front of the one he was sitting a few seconds ago and spoke with a smile: “Per favore (please), take a seat. Let us discuss flowers.” And so you did, not breaking eye contact with the Cardinal and giving him a warm smile, he did the same. 

“I have some idea of what you want, but I would like some more details if possible.” You said, taking out a green notepad that you always carried with you and a pencil with a rubber-shaped pigeon on top, a bit worn off because it was an eraser and you need to use it sometimes, even if it pained you so much. The Cardinal took notice of your eraser and chuckled a bit. 

“Fan of pigeons, sì?” He asked, nodding to your pencil. 

“Yes, I think that they are wonderful creatures and very loyal. I love all birds, I have a soft spot for the underdogs in general.” You did not know why at the moment, but the Cardinal’s cheeks flushed a bit at your comment. “About the flowers then… I was told by the two nuns who visited me the other day that you were looking for a ceiling and floor arrangement, is that correct?” You asked. 

“Yes, that is correct. It is a special occasion and I wanted something to commemorate it.” The Cardinal explained to you, but you still had many questions about the whole ordeal.

“And what is the occasion? It will be better for me to know which flowers will be the best and their collocation.” You pushed, trying to get more information. 

“A concert, back in the town that saw us grow to what we are today.” To his answer, you blinked slowly. You were thinking of some kind of mass, not a full on concert.

“I am sorry? I thought you were a congregation or a church of some sort, not a music group.” You looked puzzled, but Cardinal Copia seemed to enjoy your confusion.

“We are actually both. A church and a music group. We are pretty well known in fact.” You could not believe his words, this was some kind of mockery and the Cardinal was just teasing you. 

“Oh, is that so? What kind of music do you play?” You played along, having nothing to lose.

“Mostly heavy metal, but we also make covers of other songs and we also have some ballads.” The Cardinal replied, looking very closely to your reaction and making a dramatic gesture with his hand. 

“That is pretty daring for the Catholic church…” You regretted your words the instant they came out of your mouth. 

To that, the Cardinal smirked. “Who said we were Catholic? We are Satanists, Claire. We serve the one below, not that asshole above.” You were shocked, that actually explained so much. In that moment you noticed the Cardinal’s mismatched gaze, one eye green and the other white. The latter was actually shining a bit and you found yourself entranced by it. “We basically use the group to spread the word of our Lord and to take over the world.” You did not know what to say to that, but deep inside you were glad that they were not Catholic.

“Well, as for this show, I hope I can help you spread your word a bit with my flowers.” You said, sincerely. You had never met a Satanist, but Cardinal Copia seemed like a good person so you wanted to help, and his goals seemed a bit impossible, so you did not mind helping.

“I-I appreciate that, Claire, thank you for your em… kind words.” He stuttered slightly and you felt his confidence slip a bit because of that. You were sure that he had been trying really hard to present himself as a confident person. You felt yourself relating with the man, being a bit of a stutter yourself, so you just smiled and continued asking and taking notes.

The rest of the meeting went pretty well. Cardinal Copia told you that he wanted mostly red, black and white flowers. He also wanted the arrangements to look like an overgrown garden, so it needed plenty of different types of leaves and foliage. He later took you to the stage and pointed to the places where he wanted the decorations to be. It was a pretty big stage and you were thinking of how much money this was going to cost. You raised your concerns to the Cardinal, leaving you with the same answer the sisters had given you a week prior: “Whatever you may need.”

You tried to push your luck a bit. “In that case, I will need your phone number or something of the sort. Just to message you in case of any question or problem that might arise.” The Cardinal raised his eyebrows a bit and his white eye glistened a bit more than it did before. He fidgeted with his pocket, taking out an old smartphone, which you found adorable. He handed it to you and you saved your contact as Claire with a rose emoji and then called yourself to save his contact in your phone as well. He bowed a bit when you gave his phone back to him and you smiled a bit because of it.

After having a clear idea of what you needed to do, the Cardinal escorted you to your car. He was a gentleman and it seemed to be something natural to his person, it was very refreshing to see. Once you were inside your car you observed the Cardinal getting back into the building. As the door was opened for him you remembered the most important question of all, so you rolled your window down. 

“Cardinal! What is the name of your band?!” You shouted, a teething smile escaping your lips. 

Cardinal Copia got scared by your sudden shout and turned towards you a bit violently. However, when he saw your genuine smile, he could not help but laugh and smile back. “Ghost!” He said, and then you knew the name of the band that was going to become the soundtrack for your trip.

____

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That is it for the first chapter. I will probably edit some grammar and stuff later. Please let me know what you think and give me some feedback on how make the fic better (I am a bit rusty). Lots of love, SR🐀

[goth-oatmilk-latte]

sure someone will drag me for coming off as rude or whatever but like...

as a mortician it really grates me when ppl call us predatory or unnecessary. it's expensive to be born, it's expensive to live, it's expensive to die. sorry.

(it also grates me caitlyn doodoohead...sorry doughface...or whatever the fuck her name is exists and perpetuates this as a half ass mortician, bc ppl like her are harmful as all fuck and perpetuate other huge issues. I say half assed bc shes not a licensed embalmer, she says by choice, I honestly fully believe she can't do it. 💅✨️ fans can cry about it, idgaf)

anyway, you're paying for our time, or skill, and our by law required license.

we're still a business that needs to pay employees.

im sorry some of you are too shallow or daft to believe we need money to live and eat, but it is so rude to constantly hear im preying on your grief. I am not. i am providing you with the goods and services you requested and have even provided a LAW REQUIRED price list.

I don't give a flying fuck if you spend $10 or $100,000 on granny's farewell. it's whatever YOU want bc funerals and memorialisation is for the living. I give everyone the same empathy, compassion, and level of service regardless of what their budget allows them to do bc its about their loved one and the grieving process in the end.

also cremation, tree urns, just throw me in the dirt/throw me in the ocean, all also cost money. they're all still services.

hope this helps yall.

[cannebady]

I've seen a lot of commentary going around regarding whether Izzy's death is a "bury your gays" trope, or if it was a cheap plot device for Ed's absolution, and that's not what this post is about.

Another criticism was that the crew, as well as Stede and Ed, didn't really grieve - it was just wham-bam funeral-wedding-inn ma'am, and that is what this post is about.

To be entirely honest, grief is a weird experience. I had a pretty traumatic year recently which involved, among other losses, the death of my parents a handful of months apart. In the immediate aftermath of both incidents, I did not react the way I would've thought. Where I thought there'd be sobbing and unending tears, a lot of time there was just silence, and a lot of staring blankly, and, quite frankly, a lot of just getting on with it.

I think that's the thing people don't tell you about grieving. Your world kind of stops and starts moving slow, but the world around you goes on as normal. While you get a slight reprieve while taking care of services, mostly the world expects you to just kind of carry on. Death makes people uncomfortable, so we're tacitly taught not to talk about it. People don't know what to say, so they say nothing. So you have this whole experience going on in your head where your world is fundamentally different, emptier, than it's ever been but it isn't something we're given the script to talk about.

This is to say that, yeah, the show had some time constraints and budget issues which meant that they may not have been able to do as much as they'd have wanted. However, in the immediate aftermath of a loss like that, it may not look horribly different.

Someone is gone and you're carrying them with you, but there's work to be done, and things to be planned, and things to be celebrated that don't lose their luster because of the loss.

For me, grief was a mad-dash to get things settled before suffering another loss. It wasn't until many months later that it really hit me and the tears started and just wouldn't stop. And grief isn't the same for everyone.

So it may not be that no one cared. It may not be they didn't have time to show it. It may just mean that these characters haven't gotten very far into the grieving process and it'll take time for the more publicized versions of grief to manifest.

I think, instead, that the fact that Ed couldn't have Izzy far from him, even if he was giving up pirating, that the crew, even those like Zheng and Auntie who barely knew Izzy, made time for the funeral despite there being a veritable war going on against them, that everyone passed around the grave marker, are ways to honor a life they'll miss.

The funeral isn't the culmination of grieving, it's merely the first public confirmation of it.

Grieving is lifelong, and it's a testament to the love held for someone who's passed on.

There's no right or wrong way to view it, and this isn't a criticism of anyone who felt that it wasn't handled well (I'm devastated about Izzy and I hate that he was killed, for reference), just an opinion on how grieving culminates in a variety of ways. Perhaps, if we're lucky enough to get a S3, we'll see a bit more of how they're handling the absence of someone they loved, not just the loss.