#Caribbean Ancestry

[noisycowboyglitter]

Antigua St Vincent Mix Butterfly: A Unique Blend of Tradition and Fashion

The Antigua St Vincent Mix Butterfly is a captivating blend of two distinct Caribbean butterfly species, combining the unique characteristics of butterflies native to Antigua and St Vincent. This

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hypothetical hybrid showcases the vibrant biodiversity of the Caribbean islands and the potential for cross-island pollination.

This imaginary butterfly boasts a striking appearance, with wings that display a mesmerizing fusion of colors and patterns. The upper wings might feature the bold, tropical hues typical of Antiguan butterflies, while the lower wings could exhibit the intricate designs found on St Vincent's native species. This results in a visually stunning insect that captures the essence of both islands' natural beauty.

The Antigua St Vincent Mix Butterfly would likely demonstrate remarkable adaptability, thriving in various Caribbean ecosystems. Its diet might consist of nectar from flowers native to both islands, making it an important pollinator for a wide range of plant species.

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Lepidopterists and nature enthusiasts would be particularly intrigued by this unique butterfly, as it would represent a fascinating subject for study in terms of genetics, adaptation, and island ecology. Its existence could potentially shed light on the interconnectedness of Caribbean ecosystems and the effects of climate change on insect populations in the region.

While this mixed butterfly is purely fictional, it serves as an intriguing concept that highlights the rich biodiversity of the Caribbean and the potential for unexpected natural hybridization in island environments. It also underscores the importance of conservation efforts to protect the unique flora and fauna of these tropical paradises.

Antiguan and Vincentian roots represent the rich cultural heritage of two distinct Caribbean nations: Antigua and Barbuda, and Saint Vincent and the Grenadines. These roots are deeply intertwined with the islands' histories, shaped by indigenous Arawak and Carib peoples, European colonization, and African influences brought by the slave trade.

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Both cultures share similarities in their vibrant music, with calypso and soca rhythms pulsing through their traditions. Their cuisines feature local ingredients like breadfruit, saltfish, and tropical fruits, creating unique flavors that reflect their island environments.

Antiguan and Vincentian roots also encompass a strong sense of community, resilience in the face of historical adversity, and a connection to the natural beauty of their islands. While each nation maintains its distinct identity, their shared Caribbean heritage creates a bond that transcends national borders.

Butterfly gifts for her offer a delightful array of options that capture feminine charm and natural beauty. These might include elegant butterfly-themed jewelry such as necklaces, earrings, or bracelets. Home décor items like butterfly-patterned throw pillows, wall art, or delicate wind chimes can add a touch of whimsy to her living space. For fashion enthusiasts, butterfly-adorned scarves, handbags, or hair

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accessories make stylish presents. Other thoughtful options include butterfly-inspired garden ornaments, stationery sets, or fragrant candles, all celebrating the grace and symbolism of these enchanting creatures.

[thereviewlisttv]

Exploring African Lineage & Diasporic Roots with 5 Questions

Join us as we dive deep into the rich tapestry of African ancestry and the powerful stories of the African diaspora. In this video, we explore personal connections to heritage, cultural traditions, and the emotions that arise when reflecting on our ancestors’ journeys. Whether you’re tracing your family tree or simply curious about the impact of diasporic experiences on identity, this…

[manicato]

Daka Taíno y estoy aquí.

I was the blogger Triguenaista/Inaruri who was stalked and harrassed for 10+ years, while homeless, by Keyla Rivera and her anti-indigenous group “This-is-not-taino". Keyla Rivera, of Florida and Orocovis, PR, a white Puerto Rican, was mostly responsible for this racist behavior.

Since in the last ten years, I have CONTINUED to see my name thrown around as a "validated pretendian/fraud" because of the now-exposed Keyla's behavior- We're just going to need to address it. And since I was doxxed by them, and my full name has been shared with you all, I'm going to go ahead and show you some documents that that hate-group wasn't willing to show.

Let's start with a family tree- ya?

Avelino, was born into slavery in Puerto Rico, approximately 1865, in Arecibo Puerto Rico. To the best of my knowledge (and factoring in the DNA test), he was Afro-Taíno, with strong Nigerian/Western Bantu roots. As noted on the last published Registro Central de Esclavos of 1872 (page 3, 9th person recorded), he was a natural-born Puerto Rican (Natural de Oto Rico).

 After abolition in 1873, like many others, Avelino was forced to continue working for 3 to 5 more years. Do Barbara Balseiro (the indicated slave owner) had a working relationship with Felix Marengo y Poggi, and was known to send slaves to work at his plantations.

Through research (1910 census), I found that Maria Baerga y Rivera De Quiñones was a "Mulatto" housekeeper for the Felix Marengo y Poggi in the 1910’s. It is likely that this is where Avelino met her daughter Maria Quiñones Baerga and developed a relationship.

They had son Felix (recorded as negro on census documents, until adulthood/WW2, where he is then recorded as blanco/brown toned (on his Draft card), who married Carmen Martinez.

This is Carmen’s Acta de Nacimiento which indicates race as “Mestiza”, clearly indicating not only direct Taíno heritage/ancestry, but a connection to an existing community as that was the only circumstance in which this term was legally used in PR when they started to write Taínos out of the country. It was and is currently illegal to list someone's race/ethnicity in PR as indigenous. Mestiza and Trigeño is the ONLY exceptions for those with concrete connections.

A Close-up:

On the naciemnto form above her mother is cited as “Vincenta/Vincenda”, from/born in Jayuya. There is a note about her grandparents in part 3. “Ambos de raza mestiza”, Ajiubro Martinez and Juana Martinez from Morovis.

According to family oral history, Carmen Martinez came from a community/family that took care of the Caguana Indigenous Ceremonial site of Utuado before the Instituto de Cultura Puertorriqueña took over with formal protections in 1955.

There may be a relationship between her and one of the 60 Puerto Rican indigenous children taken to the Carlisle Indian School in 1901. Three Martinez children were enrolled there, Provindentia, Levia, and Miguel. My best-informed guess is Provindentia Martinez may be my 2nd great-grandmother as “Vincenta” could be a derivative of the name. If it was Provendentia, she would have been the right age to have a child, settling down in PR after traveling to NY for a few years after her time at the Carlisle School, as recorded in their records. Until better clarification can be obtained, this is just speculation.

Carmen would make and maintain small bohio-like structures in the backyard of the family Utuado home (many were destroyed after Hurricane George, and the rest after Hurricane Maria), to house Semisakis and Opias.

My grandfather, Luis Alfonso Quiñones Sr. was extremely proud and vocal of our rich Taíno heritage and culture. He made sure that we knew our roots and how precious our indigenous ancestry is, and taught us all he could remember.

In terms of direct lineage, my direct Taíno lineage can be traced from my 2nd great-grandfather Avelino, my great-grandmother Carmen Martinez (whom I had the honor of knowing and having a relationship with as a child living in Puerto Rico), and my own grandfather Luis Alfonso Quiñones Sr (who I grew up with).

If "cultural connection"/"growing up in a continuously connected family" was your issue with my indigenous status- clearly I did and have the documentation to show my family's continuous connection.

If it's blood quantum/documented indigenous status- I'm between 3/8th and 7/16th according to my DNA. With the documents I have here, if Tainos were a federally recognized tribe in the US, by the BIA standards, I'd be eligible for enrollment.

And this is all without discussing how history and the laws affect lineage recording or the "Whitening of PR". My family's oral history should have been believed to start with, but now the documentation can be found online. You have your "proof" on the two points yall bring up the most.

So you see why the younger me couldn't figure out why everyone just believed the lies being told? How even now that this hate group was exposed, I don't get why I am the scapegoat for people trying to make a point. Like, I wasn't and am not an educator, nor was I trying to make money in any way (and I was homeless- I needed money and yet DID NOT ASK). I was literally just existing on this hell site and became a target. But yall handed over your cash really quick to this hate group, validated them, and were so shocked when they ended up being frauds and provided yall with NOTHING.

You all believed a white puertorrican that BIPOC's could not be trusted to be indigenous (look at the list, it is EXCLUSIVELY Black and Brown peoples and anyone who stood up for them. It wasn't a "frauds list" until after we all left the platform. That was added AFTERWARDS. And yes, some of us are STILL friends because we were here for the community, not cash or fame). You continue to keep that belief every time you defend it. In the end, ya'll are just being racist and need to stop hurting an already small af community.

Taínos exists. We are here. We are NOT recognized by the US gov't yet. To imply our self-determination takes away from indigenous people is to fundamentally not understand what it is to be indigenous. And, it implies you see the indigenous status as money and not actually living people with complex needs and issues.

I'm glad the rest of the internet has unlearned what this group put into the world about Taínos, but now I'mma need yall on here to minimally stop throwing my name around. Stop it. I am exactly who I have been telling you all I am, whether you accept that or not is NOT my problem. I have the documentation, which is more than can be said about anyone yall have believed in the past.

At least I know who my people are, grew up knowing, and can live happily knowing there are people who disagree in our community because we aren't a monolithic group. Yall just need to treat us as humans.

For those reading for the history of it all- I'm glad to help. If you're trying to figure out your family's documentation- I got great info on how to find the information and who to contact. If you're looking for cultural resources- tainolibrary is LITERALLY the best source and it's free (Note: I have no affiliation with them. I genuinely believe they are a healthy and safe resource for those seeking reconnection/validation).

For those realizing they fucked up in believing my stalker- I accept my apologies in cash.

[quornesha]

Caribbean Dove Prophecy And Symbolism

The Following Channel is from higher powers, Divine, the ancestral plane and is prophetic through Quornesha S. Lemon|

Whether the Carribbean Dove appears in dreams, visions, waking life or synchronicities, it is a sign and message that I see more storms against the enemy and people alike. More authority rising to destroy. I see death angels. I see the weapons of war descending upon the enemy. I see reapers walking. I see manifold blessings upon you but the enemy destroyed in 100 different ways. There will be death and destruction to multiply. I see a 10 year period of death against enemies. loss is coming to the enemy and all destruction they have planned for you bringing the enemy to nothing. They will beg and seek help and help will not come. I see more planes crashing, no survivors.

More floods are coming. I am shown people needing boats and I see small canoes carrying people to safety but the enemies will drown and be destroyed by water. I see major destruction. I see wolves coming attacking the enemy and people. The wolves are coming out of the woodworks. No chosen will be haunted by wolves. The chosen will not be harmed. A plethora of deaths. A major setback is being overcome. Victory non negotiable. The enemy and the people he has tricked is in trouble for insurance fraud. 'innocent" people are about to go down with the enemy in a scheme/plan to fraud through insurance. I am shown destruction of 300 in a day! There will be more plane crashes. The divine is resuming devastation through plane crashes. There will be many people and enemies to die in plane crashes. I see planes with no survivors. Multiple ones. Chaos is about to erupt. 

I am shown many waters, rise against people and enemies. The divine says, tell the people, and the enemies, that I am coming. Devastating collisions are coming with boats. I see boats/ships colliding into walls. There will be a plethora of deaths and head injuries in regards to these collisions. I am shown, shark attacks at the same time. There will be people and enemies alike being destroyed amidst this chaos. There will be boats without survivors. There are a plethora of death angels/reapers on boats and walking in the water, awaiting this devastation to take place. There will be a plethora of funerals and deaths to follow these events. The Chosen ones will walk away unscathed. Judgement is being rendered to the enemy. The people are being warned to listen to their intuition. Even if you have your plans, know that God’s plans prevail. So, if there’s a feeling of doubt, do not board these planes or boats. This is your prophetic warning. Death is coming to visit the enemy and the people who will not heed these warnings.

The Doves are about to cry. There will be days of mourning to follow, I am shown search and rescue. I am shown, the devil destroyed, he will meet his demise and every demon will be ordered into submission to the highest will of God. Commencing phase 14 of the let my People go Prophecy. There will be planes and boats exploding shortly after take off. I see a boat filled with scientists, everyone on board, deceased. There will be death and destruction of 300. The enemy has been sending you chaos and heartache but nothing the enemy does is working. I see the enemy brought to nothing, lower than the earth. Their plans against you and your family will boomerang back to the enemy. You are so bold, continue to be. I see war against the head of the enemy. There will be destruction against the weapons the enemy forms. I see heart failure, and failure to the sight of the enemy. The enemy will depart from you in 11 different directions.

The hand of the wicked will be cut off and the memory of them will be no more upon the earth. There will be more deaths to high political figures. I see more lungs collapsing and viral infections that destroy kidneys. The destroyer is coming and unleashing apocolyptic level weapons. Weapons the enemy never thought existed. I see doors to planes flinging wide open. There will be evil to rise against all enemies, by the end of this month, destruction by fire will creep upon the enemy by suprise.

The Ancestors are rising and they walk amongst us. There will be wicked ones, descending directly into the underworld. I see an increase to deaths and death angels assigned to the families of these enemies. A huge hurricane is coming and I see 3 cities meeting destruction at once. The Caribbean Dove is a prophecy that you will conquer each and every weapon the enemy has assigned to you and you will rule realms. In the realm of the spirit and in the natural you are a warrior a master key. You have divine power against all principalities and powers. Your authority has just grown and you are healing your lineage from all negativity that has come against your bloodline. No evil, no weapon, no enemy forged against you shall ever prosper. You are about to become much stronger and precise in the spirit. With beyond 100% accuracy. You and your family will be safe. A Sunrise is imminent and good things are coming.

This message isn't, obviously resonant with all whose paths it crosses, as perhaps you may encounter someone of this vernacular, mastery or skill. Therefore, it is a sign from the universe that you're meant to work with such a person.

Need further clarity or your own queries answered? Book your own reading as my schedule is full and I do not guarantee a reply on social media regarding this post.

If this is not you, then it is time to get clear to rejoin your tribe or the rest of the world of infinite beings. It's time to bring your light to the forefront. However, if you aren't able to invoke, heal or otherwise on your own, call on the assistance of shamans, healers, intuitive people, etc. to assist you. This synchronicity can possibly have specific meanings for you, it's time to get insight. 

The Gift that Quornesha Has can never be duplicated, She is a Shaman, Writer, Healer,  And Teacher with incredible prophetic/healing gifts. Please do not infringe upon her rights as the author. You are not permitted to reuse, nor are you to sale as you wish. This information has been made available to you for the purpose of introduction and demonstration. All rights reserved. If you'd like to use this in a magazine, online publication, or other, please ask for permission first. Legal actions will be taken if you proceed to impose. Be blessed, bless others and be at peace on your journey. What you do is coming back on you. Make sure that it is good, and all is well within you, through you and around you.  The source sees all and knows what you think it does not.

[wolfertinger666]

I'm still thinking about sinners and like it made me remember that me and my family have west Caribbean ancestry/we are the descendents of the slaves there. while thinking too hard about that stuff can make me sad, it also fills me with joy seeing how much black culture from all over still is prevalent and even managed to adapt itself into modern times while staying relevant and popular.

I've also seen a picture of my super great relative who was alive during the last few years of southern slavery in America. she looked extremely bitter and it does scare me a bit, but I hope she is resting well knowing her family is still here, black n proud.

[chixkencxrry]

What Does Yesterday Whisper to The New Day's Sun

Summary: You are on the hunt for your family's history. This takes you from Mississippi to Louisiana, where you meet a man who unravels you. An AU where Smoke also became a vampire. Smoke x Reader.

Warnings/AN: UNEDITED, NOT PROOFED. SMUT. If it isn’t obvious from my lack of ability to write metropolitan, I am not American nor North American-based. Everything comes from Google and books/movies. As such, I do apologise for inaccuracies in describing Charlotte or New York. I am borrowing from the fact that in the Caribbean, we can only trace our Black ancestry as far back as someone can tell it. Only our immediate elders have papers or have even begun to keep records. If I am erring in assuming the same for AA, I apologise and hope it doesn’t ruin your fanfiction!

You feel the shiver of the night on your skin; chill and damp, like a storm was coming.

            The Louisiana air was rife with humidity, the sounds of the saxophone player in the bar besides your hotel echoes like a distinct cricket. Your fingers grip the lapel of your coat as you tighten it – looking out of the smudge window, you see a long-haired white boy bum a cigarette light off a brother with a fro thick as an ixora bushes outside your grandmother’s house.

            “Looking for someone?” asks a young woman, not a bartender or waitress. Another patron who seems to have noticed your easy watching. She’s dark-haired and pretty with big, brown eyes.

            “No.”

            She lingers, lean over the back of the booth across from you. “Awfully pretty to be so alone.”

            “I’m not alone.” You lie, lighting a cigarette. Your red painted lips suck on the stick and blow the smoke beside you. “Are you?”

            “Nah.” She drawls, smiling. “You remind me of someone.”

            “You local?” you ask, peeked.

            “Been that way for a while.”

            “I’m looking for my people. Got some family from here and the Delta.”

            “Really?” she grins; smile wide and teeth bright. “What’s your last name?”

            You squint, but you’re on your third Merlot and finished a second Whiskey Sour not that long ago so your lips are loose. “Landry. I have a long-lost aunt that disappeared in Mississippi a few decades back. She went by Cormier though. Annie Cormier then Moore. I’m doing research on her for my masters in Cultural Studies out in New York.”

            The woman doesn’t say anything. You’re not sure, but you’re certain you saw her eyes grow misty – even for a moment. She plasters on that odd smile again. “Isn’t that something!”

            “Yeah.” You finish your drink and smile at her. “You have a nice night, alright?”

            “Oh, you’re going already? We just got to talking.” She says with no small intensity.

            You slid out the booth, standing. “I’m good on the drinks. Gonna close off before I get reckless.”

            “Now that ain’t no fun. You gotta be reckless once and a while. I’m Mary.”

            “You here alone?”

            You give your name, eyes catching the bartender’s figure moving across the counter. You pick up your jacket and knot it at your waist. “I’ll see you some other time, Mary.”

            “I’ll catch you.”

            The sentence stings like a promise against your back – haunting you as step into the Louisiana air. Charlotte was a lively city. Music pouring out from everywhere, food as good as any kind of sin. Soon as you turn your head; there was a homeyness to it too. One that Brooklyn didn’t have, that country flair to the city that you were sure you’d miss when you left.

            You turn back to the bar; Annie’s, sprawled across the neon sign, hanging like ripened apple. There’s an iron wrought balcony beneath it, a man stands, leaning over – with a fat cigar in his hand. You can’t see his face clearly, but you feel his eyes on you. Unnerving you in a look.

A shiver runs through you, like a river full of life, and you keep on ahead trying to forget that man and his gaze. When you hit the door of your apartment, you find yourself racing to the flat, keys trembling in your hand. You breathe air into your palms and rub them, crafting warmth.

            You burn cinnamon that night, all around the flat, and dust salt on the door.

            The next night, though fear pushes your heart to your ribcage, you return to the bar. This time, when you see Mary, you go straight to her and ask her to dance with you. She smiles at you; like you’ve been expected and pulls you onto the dancefloor.

            The heat of the club burns against your skin, bodies on bodies on bodies, she smells like the root of a peppermint. You think you can feel her on your soul when your bodies press together. Screaming Jay Hawkins echoes from the stage, crooning mean into the air. The muggy heat presses upon you, sealing you closer. You don’t stop though – hips rolling over her, hands reaching behind her.

            “Come ‘long, baby.” She murmurs, turning you around and pulling you through the crowd. Her hand is cool in your own. Ice in a flesh sack.

            Mary takes you through the crowd, cutting until you met double doors – a circle emblem at the centre, like the roots of a big oak tree.

            “Where are we going?” You ask over the sound of the holler at the end of Put A Spell on Me. “You got a secret red room back here?”

            Mary laughs. “Child, if you only knew.”

            The hairs on the back of your hand stand out and you pull from her hand, but she holds you tighter, brown eyes staring you down fierce. You tug again, narrowing back your gaze at her. “I need to take a piss.”

            “There’s a bathroom back here. You scared of me or something?”

            “You ain’t nothing to be scared of.” You say, mimicking her accent.

            She laughs. “Then why you trembling like that. Looking like a rabbit ‘bout to be slaughtered.”

            You roll your eyes about to speak, but a deep vibrato rings behind you.

            “Why you don’t leave that girl alone, Mary.”

            Turning your face, you catch the look of a young man – about Mary’s age, with deep brown eyes and full, well-shaped lips. He was tall and seem to be of a stern nature. It wasn’t his good looks that took you though; rather, it was his familiarity. You feel tender just thinking of it.

            “We just having fun, Smoke. No harm, no foul.” Mary insists.

            Your eyes bounce between the two and you clear your throat. “Think I need a drink.”

            “You do that, darlin’.” Smoke says, dragging a cigarette between his lips and puffing white into the air.

            Brushing pass him, you try not to inhale the tobacco, but you do. You take in his scent too. Eucalyptus and whiskey; like a fire was under him, burning up something furious. Just walking by you feel the heat, dragging you in like a hearth. You’ll be warmed by me, it seems to whisper, you’ll be safe with me.

            You look up and catch his gaze on you, its softness stifling.

            This time when you ran from the bar, you did not glance back at it though you feel that stare all the same.

***

            You go back during the day, knocking on the door to see staff cleaning it out. You seem to have barely made it in time before they closed up. A man scrubs the entrance with high-scented water, he speaks in deep Cajun, “Sis, you gon’ get yo’self in trouble askin’ ‘em sort of ques’ions.”

            “All I’m asking is a name. Who owns it?”

            “All I know is my cheque clears.”

            When they weren’t any help, you head down to city hall. This sort of thing was public record after all. You sift through records and civil servants who want to be less than helpful, to find the name of a famous blues singer – who was about fifty years old and currently touring Japan according to the papers. Sammie Moore.

            It is the first clue you’ve had in two weeks.

            After you’d been to the Delta, gathering what you could from registries and whoever was still alive to even remember Annie, you’d taken the bus to Charlotte. The history on black folks on paper was limited; if existent at all.

            You go through decades of newspapers; find one stray article that Sammie had given when he was a young man in his twenties, interviewed by a short-lived coloured papers. The Ohio Tribune, titles the article “Bluesman of the Century: Barely a Quarter Century”.

…the son of sharecroppers, the seed of a preacher. You sing about the complex relationship you had with your father a lot. What does your Daddy think of you all the way out of that plantation – selling out arena worldwide?

I figure, if he was still alive, he might have hated it.

Did your family outside of him encourage?

My cousins. Gave me the guitar I play with. Annie, my cousin’s wife loved it too. She would ask me to sing whenever I could.

You read on, searching for a name or names. Only to find nicknames – Smoke and Stack. What the fuck could you do with that? You rub your eyes. You were hoping to see Annie’s husband’s name, so that could be a connection. Elijah – Elijah Moore. The name on the tattered journal you’d found while rummaging that abandoned shack in Mississippi. Elijah. Elijah. The man shared the same face as this Smoke fella. But the Smoke Sammie spoke of, an older cousin, could be kin to the Smoke you met? His father maybe? But Smoke looked so much like Elijah.

You sigh. A headache was coming on. You were twisting yourself something ugly.

Could it be another Annie? Sammie and her were from the same community, that much you had gathered. Maybe you could write the archive there, ask them to send a copy of the list of residents to you? If they even had it.

You sigh, head hurting even more from all the questions. The more you uncover, the less you seem to find. Turning your gaze to the window, you see the twilight of the fallen day. Night coming slowly. You could go back to that club. Make sure that Smoke probably had no connection to Annie; but could you risk it? Sammie Moore owns the club, and this mysterious man who was the carbon copy of your great-aunt’s husband was no small coincidence.

Tapping your fingers on the table, you hum. It was about the time that even if the club couldn’t open – that could be there, preparing for opening. Grabbing your bag, you run out, hoping not to miss the bus.

The bar – as you suspected is partially opened. The front is all locked up but the back is spawled, with two workers sharing a cigarette and chatting. They pause, staring at you as you approach.

A lie slips easily; “Mary asked to see me.”

They part in a second and let you in, telling you she’s in the back room. But you don’t go there. You enter the bar, which looks different brightly lit. Clean and aired out. Sitting at a booth, is Smoke and a man who is identical to him. He’s dressed in white shirt and a dark blue suit. The man, in a black to what he’s wearing. The man looks at you in the strange way Mary had before he grins; white teeth glittering by golden grills. They’re a handsome pair; sitting there like two haunts.

“Good evening.” You greet. “If I could speak with you, Smoke.”

“Good evening.” The new man drawls, chuckling. “Girl sound like Dracula. Good evening. Who the fuck are you?”

“I didn’t speak to you.” You say at the same time Smoke says. “Shut the fuck up, Stack.”

Stack whistles, raising his hands. “Well damn.”

“I’m doing some research on the area, well a woman from this area. She’s kin to me, though deceased.” You stammer, going right up to their table. You empty your bag, spreading the photographs, files, and copied data sheets. “Annie Cormier. I’m doing my paper on Hoodoo and its connections to black womanhood. Rather, Black American womanhood and the efforts to drown it.” You pluck the copy of her photograph out, the one with her husband. You look up at them; Stack looking like he was longing to be anywhere else but there and Smoke looking like he might combust. “You look just like him. It’s like a doppelganger. If you’re related to the Moores from there – like Sammie Moore, you could help me find out more about her. I gotta know her. Gotta understand her.”

For a moment, the twins look at the paper. Like it was something sacred and holy. Smoke’s fingers reach for it then pull back. Like it might burn him up. He turns his face away, looking to the wall, as though something might be summoned from it.

“Sorry, darlin’. No clue what this about.” Stack starts, pushing your paper away. “Best of luck. Feel free to come back later and drink some vodka. Straight from Russia. Real pure shit.”

“I don’t want no fucking vodka. I’m just looking for some answers.”

“Ain’t no answers here for you little girl.” Smoke snaps. “You bes’ get to getting befo’ you find yourself in trouble.”

“You planning on doing something to me for asking a few questions?” You dare.

Smoke stands, towering over you by a good few inches. Though, you were sure if you stretched – you could punch him in his fucking throat real smooth. “I can promise you, you won’t like the answers.”

The threat slams into you with a force, fear making your knees buckle but you never dropped your gaze. “I’m not going to be bullied out of this. You aren’t going to stop me from searching.”

“Yeah, well, you keep searching lil’ girl. You gon’ find some shit you never wished you did.” Stack says, placing a cigarette between his lips. He takes along, deep pull.

“I’m a grown ass woman, nigga.” You cuss with a sneer, huffing you pack up your papers and spin out of the room. “Fuck y’all for not helping me. Fucking gangstas.”

A low, humoured whistle follows you as you leave. Anger burning in your chest. You make it all the way to your bus stop before you cool down. Your hands tremble as you hold your bag. Your frustration seeping out like the flood of a broken dam. Those motherfuckers. You steel yourself; they wouldn’t be done with you yet. There was no chance of you leaving now; not when you’d gotten so close.

Why else would they be so adamant you left them alone? They knew what it was. They had to know something about Annie. You weren’t a fool. You might be impulsive – but not foolish. They hadn’t seen the last of you. You’d be there every night until your research months died out. They’d be sick of you. Or they’d kill you.

Knowing your history was worth it.

***

            At 3AM, a rapping at your apartment door wakes you up. You tumble out of bed, tripping over books scattered about your bedroom and hitting a broken typewriter at your ankle. Your blurred vision doesn’t help; sleep addled, you open the door without peeking and find yourself startled at the sight before you.

            “Mary?” You say, rubbing the cold from your eye. “How the fuck did you find where I was living?”

            “You sure as fuck pissed Smoke off.” She says instead of answering you. “I think I might have some answers for you.”

            “Yeah?” You whisper; awake. “Well get in then, girl.”

            Mary takes a seat on your couch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She goes into her bag – a broad designer thing that looks good even in the dim, yellow light of the apartment. You feel self-conscious all of a sudden, shy. “What do you know about Annie?”

            “I know she disappeared, along with tens of other poor black people one night. She had a husband who’d abandoned her after the death of her infant. She was known as a witch doctor of sorts in her area and was the sister of my Grandmother. Annie was around thirty-three when she died, though we’re not sure cause my Grandmother isn’t even sure how old she is.”

            “And did your Grandmother share much of the practice with you?”

            “No. She’d converted to Catholicism when she married my Pops, didn’t want to lose him.”

            “Ain’t that some shit.”

            “Ain’t it.”

            The two of you chatter amongst each other, Mary tells you the twins have kin in the Delta. Roots deep as the Earth’s core. The way she tells stories about Annie, you feel as though she were there. You set your recorder up half-way through the first one. While she speaks, you try to cross check with the limited information you have on Annie and the oral history passed down on Hoodoo, on the roots within your blood.

            There is something about what she says that strikes you as true, like she knew Annie.

            “It’s getting late.” She says, looking out your window, the view of the city obstructed by another apartment building.

            You chuckle. “You mean early. Do you want breakfast? I make a mean cup of coffee.”

            “Come by the bar tonight.” She says, moving faster than you’d ever seen her. “The twins will be more willing to talk. I promise.”

            “Alright.”

            You sleep for most of the day and make notes in the afternoon. Mary had given you information smartly – part here, part there. She teases you and leaves you hanging. There was no choice in going to the bar tonight.

            You picked your hair out, nice and wide. Glossed your lips and curled your lashes. You wore thigh high boots with a sensible heels for kicking – just in case those gangstas tried to bully you again. A mini-dress that skirted your bum complimented it, the purple looking royal against your skin as your thighs shun.

            When you arrived at the bar, barely a foot in, your purse clutched at your side, Mary greets you. Dark hair curled in big Farrah Fawcet style curls. She gives you a fleeting look, smirking. “You look damn good, girl.”

            Shyness fills you up, warming your cheeks with her tone. “Do they have the time to answer my questions?”

            “They don’t.” She corrects, leading you away from the crowded floor. “Smoke will have everything you need. It’s his area of expertise.”

            “He related to her? Or got kin in it?”

            Mary doesn’t answer you, just leading you closer and further down the back of the club. The same path Smoke had blocked you from entering. This time, she made no pause or gave no look-backs. She opens the door with a key that had been tucked into her bosom and puts you in front of her. “Door opens from inside. You go straight up that staircase, the first door belongs to Smoke. You don’t gotta knock, just open. He knows your coming.”

            You follow her instructions, trying not to flinch at the sound of the door slamming shut behind you. The stairs creak as you walk up them. Bleach and pine sol fill your nose, like they clean here constantly, like it was some sterile hell.

            Fighting against your natural instinct, you open the door and find Smoke pulling on a cigarette, face the opened balcony door of his office. His silhouette looks drawn out of a dirty magazine; broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs. He turns his face to you, smoke clouding his head. Then he steps forward, outing the cigarette on the iron flooring of his balcony before he came in. The yellow light casting an attractive glow on his face.

            He was a good-looking man. Too bad y’all might be cousins.

            “I want to apologise for chasin’ ya out here the other day.” He murmurs, sitting on the side of his desk. “Family is a touchy subject. Annie is a touchy subject.”

            “You talk like you knew her.”

            He smiles, though it looks sad and forced. “I knew her well enough.”

            “I don’t want no trouble. I’m just looking for my history, sir.”

            “Sir.” He chuckles, looking at you like he was searching for something in your face. “Got manners like someone from the Delta. Tell me again how Annie is related to you.”

            “She’s my grandmother’s sister. My Gran was her little sister, her name was –”

            “Marie.” He says. “Annie was twelve years older than her and would write her once a month.”

            “Yeah…” you murmur. “Are you Annie’s grandson? You look just like that picture of her husband and her. I knew it couldn’t be coincidence.”

“Nah.” He drawls. “I’m Moore but ain’t kin to her. Too good of a woman for me to have come from her. Too pure a soul.”

“No such thing as a pure soul.” You correct. ��I have a few of her documents, like her marriage license and birth certificate. Mary gave me a lot of good data but I still feel as though I need parts of her. Like I’m getting surface level shit.”

He hums, the front of his expensive shoe pushes at the chair in front of him. You take the hint and sit down. “I’m not a practitioner but I know a few things. I don’t have the sensitivity people say she had but I know when my ancestors are speaking to me. They keep sending me here. To you. You have to have some sort of information about her that I can’t get elsewhere.”

“Yo’ gut telling you that?”

“Yes.”

Smoke shakes his head.

He goes behind his desk and removes a paint, one of sunrise across the Mississippi. The face of a safe stares back and you, and he unlocks with his back blocking your gaze. From it, he lays a chest on his desk. When he opens it, there’s a plethora of notes, sketches of herbs and plants, wax coated bottles and letters. You don’t even have to ask to know its all Annie.

When your hand touches the box. Filled with authentic things that holds her spirit, held by her hands. You feel your vision darken and you collapse; hums ringing in your ear.

***

            Smoke doesn’t make you feel bad for fainting. In fact, when you awake you’re startled by the look of fear in his eye. Though he discounts it, saying he didn’t want a lawsuit or anything. You sit up, sipping the water he had one of the waitresses bring up for you.

            “Can I take these back to my apartment? I just wanna go through them. I’ll go to the library and make copies.”

            “We got a copy machine in the office. These,” he presses a ringed index finger on one of the few photographs. “Don’t leave here.”

            “How often can I come then? Can I stay till you close?”

            Smoke narrows his eyes. “You can stay till we close. You can come tomorrow then after you’ll have to call.”

            “The club number?” You ask, removing your purse and taking out your notepad and pen. You stand over the chest and start to go through it. You find a letter addressed to someone named Elijah, her husband.

            “Take mine.” A card slides over the letter and you pocket it.

            “I’m grateful for this.” You say, for the third time. “You don’t know what it means to have this in my hand.”

            Smoke hums. You find he tries not to say more than he has to.

            You stick around until the music from the bar is done. Till your boots feel too tight and chafe, till your belly roars in hunger as you feast upon the information laid out to you. Annie had been meticulous. Her knowledge of herbal medicine was something special; not even in the most detailed of interviews garnered this.

            A pang of loss stings you; had you not found your way here, all of this ancestral knowledge would’ve been lost. The roots, gone.

            “This should be in a museum.” You mutter, half-way through her notecard on herbal treatment for chickenpox scars. “A history tucked away in a box.”

            “It ain’t history if you lived it. It’s part of you.”

            “Well, I haven’t lived it. Millions of black people haven’t. Millions of us don’t have someone who kept records, or who told us these parts.” You bemoan. You set the notecard down and put your pen and notepad back up. “I’ll be here tomorrow ‘round six. Is that okay?”

            Smoke waves his hand. “Just put my shit back in the box.”

             On instinct you roll your eyes. Jackass.

            That evening, Smoke is who greets you. Looking sharp in a blue jeans, colourful waistcoat that was finely made, and a long-sleeved shirt. You hated when a man knew he was good-looking. Smoke doesn’t say anything, walking you up to his office and taking a seat on the balcony while you took notes.

            You’re a few hours into reading her letters to her husband, Elijah. When the door opens to reveal his twin. Stack glances at you briefly before looking straight at Smoke.

            “Nigga, we got a problem.”

            “Can’t you see I’m busy.”

            “It’s urgent.” Stack stresses on the last word, the toothpick between his teeth threatening to snap. Smoke curses low and stomps out, but not before issuing a warning to you. “Don’t take none of my shit.”

            “I don’t steal.” Not that the thought hadn’t crossed your mind.

            You set that letter down and pluck another one. This one is one of the later dates. Post-war, many years. This one wasn’t written by Annie, rather, her husband. Elijah writes with flourish to her, his chicken scratch promising betterment through schemes. Yet there is an earnest, mature affection there. A love divine.

            Your heart aches for him, you wonder if he panicked when she disappeared. If he mourned. Setting it back, you go to her notes – wishing for a reprieve from sentiment. There’s a cluster of notes based on all kinds of spirits; haints, wendigos, vampires, she had them by the dozens. You buzz with curiosity, slipping the notes into your bag.

            Smoke wouldn’t notice it missing. Right?

             When he comes back, looking more frazzled than you’d ever see him, you continue reading and note-taking until its time for you to leave. One of his staff brings up some copies you’d asked for, and you pocket them, leaving.

            “I’ll call around six to make sure I can still come?”

            Smoke nods and turns his face, looking out the balcony with no small amount of longing.

            Yesterday’s routine of sleeping and note neatening repeats, settling on a dull rhythm. You unravel yourself in the daylight, lingering over what was taken from you. No. Hidden. You watch the sun set slowly over the horizon of Charlotte. Beneath your apartment, you smell the crawfish stew your neighbour seems to cook every night for dinner. The only thing she seems to know to cook; at first it had sickened you but now it was delightful cause you know it meant you hadn’t disappeared behind your research, behind the maybes and ifs of histories.

            Hungry gnaws at your stomach and for the first time of the day, you get up to get some food. You set a pot on the stove to boil, adding some stray noodles. You begin the clean the studio apartment, picking up the clothing you’d stripped off that morning. You pick up your purse and rummage for garbage, finding Smoke’s business card.

            Annie’s, the front says in simple script and below the bar’s landline. You flip the back and see his scrawl. You stare at the number for a moment. Then two.

            Then you go to your coffee table, which doubles as desk, and pick up the last letter you’d read. From Elijah to Annie. You stare at it. Really, truly stare.

            Dropping them, you lock your front door and windows. Toss salt at them and hang cloves of garlic. You curse. You swear. You cry.

            The handwriting was identical. Hauntingly. Like you’d copied it.

            “What the fuck,” you mutter, going through copies of Annie’s notes. There was a bath recipe for clarity of mind. Maybe that would help. Yeah, that would fix you up. You had almost everything in your kitchen. Rosemary, cinnamon, and white candles. That was simple enough. Even you could try it.

            You fill your bathtub of warm water, soak the rosemary, sprinkle cinnamon. You light white candles; seven as written. When you’re done, you wonder what the fuck is wrong with you? This wasn’t just basic protection work, you were doing a bath. A full-fledged one that might have serious consequences.

            Filled up with fear, you sink yourself in, dunking your head and staying as still as you could. When you open your eyes; crimson greets you and a story that makes your skin crawl.

***

            “I just thought you were passionate about this topic,” your Professor says as you sit across from her, back in New York are weeks out-of-state.

            You shake your head. “It was a fool’s errand. I was in over my head. I think this new research will yield better data.”

            “But you were getting good, honest to God data before.” She grouses. “We need more black stories. We need African American history written by African American scholars.”

            “This will still be African American scholarship.” You remind, folding your hands.

She sighs, raising her hands. “Listen, you’re ahead of the curve. I’ll give you a week to just think about this and make a decision. How about that?”

Frustrated, you nod and leave her office. The campus trees have lost their greenery, brown and yellow coating the flooring. It was fall. The days had gotten darker and you – jumpier. You’d ran from Louisiana so fast you were sure you left skid marks in your tracks. You took a month off from classes and returned with a new research proposal and a reverence for leaving the past where it belonged. What you’d seen when you went under water changed you. Whether it was for the better or worse, you had yet to decide.

You find yourself back home, in your grandmother's brownstone she’d left you in her passing. Her Catholic mementos collecting dust on every shelf. Slivered cross hanging above her mantle. It feels hollow.

At around seven, your doorbell rings.

Thinking it was pizza, you go straight to it without looking out. The ten dollar bill you hold drops and so does your heart. Standing at your stoop, hands in the wool trench coat, was Smoke – his eyes crimson in the yellow stoop light.

“Hello Little Girl.”

You slam the door shut and press your back to it, eyes closed. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

“Don’t be rude.” He says curtly, muffled through the door. “I’d hate to start knocking off yo’ neighbours. I think Imma start with that old lady across the road. Miss Shirley? Then, I’ll go to the family…”

You open it again.

“I don’t want any trouble.” You start. “I haven’t said a thing. I haven’t done shit to you and your brother.”

Smoke tsks. “Liar.”

“I’m not –”

“You stole from me.”

“She’s my family.”

“She was my wife.”

You shiver. You hadn’t expected him to outright admit it. Admit to being a monster. “I have it in a security deposit box. I got to have time – I can only get it in the day.”

“I’ll be here tomorrow evening then. Seven sharp.”

Smoke disappears as easily as his namesake, dusting in the air with the unnaturalness of his nature. You close the door and scrub your face. Your appetite disappears. In the following day, you take everything out of your box and prepare and wait.

When Smoke appears again, you toe the box out and jump back when he takes it. He takes his time inspecting it. The notes you’d stolen are in his hand. The box is tossed into your home.

His gaze rolls over you, he licks his teeth. “Was never gon’ kill you.”

You believe him. “You still one scary motherfucker.”

“You remind me too much of her.” He admits. “I’m gon’ be here for a few months. If you wanna learn ‘bout her, ‘bout your family, I can tell ya.”

“Where are you staying?”

He smirks. “Nah, little girl. You gon’ have to find me.”

***

Smoke looks like he’s waiting on you when you step into the foyer of the Cortez. He’s in the lounge, reading a newspaper with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Not one of those rolled ones you notice he smoked back in Charlotte, but a premade one with the brown tip.

When you enter his eyes look up, drawing over you from head to toe. From your knitted hat to thigh-high black boots. Smoke doesn’t say anything but stands at your entry, hand behind his back as you walk over to him.

“I didn’t think vampires stayed at hotels.”

He quirks a brow. “Where the fuck you think we stay?”

“Graveyards and mausoleums.”

His lips tremble but he doesn’t smile. The two of you find an alcove in the hotel’s restaurant, secluded. You order a malt and he orders a whiskey.

“You can still eat and drink?”

He hums.

You let a moment pass. “Was she allergic to shrimp?”

His brows furrow. “Made her vomit.”

You smile. “Me too. Hate the smell of catfish too.”

“Nah. She loved that. Made the best fried catfish in the county.”

“I read that she cooked.” You say, rubbing your forearms. “How did she die?”

Smoke blinks, clearing emotion from his throat. “The vampire that made me…tried to make her but she didn’t want it.”

You’d read their love, their care. Why wouldn’t she want that forever? “She kill herself?”

“I killed her.”

“Oh.”

The waitress brings your drinks. You take your malt, suddenly wishing you’d taken whiskey instead. “How long had she practiced Hoodoo?”

“Long as I knew her.”

“Did she tell you who taught her?”

He sips his whiskey. “Her Ma. Your Granny told you any stories ‘bout her? Annie told me she was mad as a hare but gifted. Did some bad root and it turned her over.”

You scoff. “My Granny didn’t talk about her Ma. She was ashamed of her. Of Hoodoo and her roots.”

“That’s a shame.”

“I think she was ashamed my Grandfather would leave her. See her as lesser.”

“That ain’t love.”

“Nah.”

“But is survival.”

You shake your head. “Yeah. It was.”

The two of you sit and talk, casual and cool, until the bar closes and Smoke invites you up to his room. You sit by the window and listen to him tell you all he knows. You ask if you can come back – if you can return tomorrow, the day after and the day after that. He lets you. By some miracle. You keep coming back for weeks. Until you memorise cinnamon on his skin. The two of you seem to listen to other, and hear, and wonder and want.

Smoke isn’t the kind of man who screams that he wants you. Or anyone. From his letters, you gleaned that he was the kind to observe you and consider how you might want him. How you might like to spoken to, listened to, kissed, touched, known. His style was to know you. To know you, then romance you. Though, you didn’t want to assume that’s what he was doing.

Maybe he was just being kind.

Maybe you were letting your want of him get ahead of yourself. You know you got dumb when you got wanting something. Oh. You did want him. You wanted him so much that you let Monica – a friend from your political science class talk you into going out with a group of other classmates to a party in Greenwich.

You wanted him so much you were going to will yourself to forget him.

The club was an abandoned factory about two bus rides from your brownstone. The air was filled with weed and good music pouring out of the walls. You could see long-haired fellas sorting lines of power off perky breasts. You turn your head and see Monica with a group of your classmates, giggling behind a bottle of beer. The two of you make four and she calls you over. Removing your jacket, you reveal the black tights, thigh-high heels and mini red dress you’d worn with long sleeves to your knuckles. The dress was snug and made you look like you stepped off of Jet Magazine; it was the ideal mood-lifter for tonight.

“Looking sexy, baby!” she hollers, pulling you into the group. You recognise some face but greet everyone with a smile.

Drinks begin to slowly come out, the drunker you all got, the easier conversation and dancing got. Diana Ross’ voice fills the air and you couldn’t help but drag Monica out, dancing with her to the hymn of love. Your hands went in the air as your hips roll in the air.

Hands that were too large to be hers settled on your waist; you ignored the shiver of want running down your spine and danced. You close your head, leaning against your new partner. When the song changes and he spins you to face him you open your eyes and gasp to see Smoke.

You try to move but he holds you close, settling his thigh between your legs, your skirt riding and he made you grind on his thigh. You open your mouth to say something but words fail you. Instead, you let him control the dance. Your hands on his shoulders as your hips roll against his thigh and his hands slide under your dress.

Smoke and you move like two slippery things, stuck to each other and synchronised as you moved. The song changes and you move from his leg, turning your back to him and dancing against him. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the way his hands seem to need to be on you; touching you, feeling you, as though you might slither away.

Monica calls your name; ripping through your moment. And when you turn, Smoke is gone.

You get home at around 3AM, feet sore as you stumble into your apartment. But you find energy to make it to your couch. All your layers too warm. Too much. You peel them off, huffing at the inconvenience of being clothes. When the layers are on the carpet, you try to mimic Smokes hands on your skin, try to imagine that club as your fingers find purchase between your thighs.

You try to think of his hands forcing your legs wider; index pressing onto your clit as he made circles on it, preparing you for him. You close your eyes so you can see his face; his red eyes and full lips. His want. His need. When you come on your fingers, you swear you hear his voice, growling your name in the wind.

There isn’t a next meeting because you don’t schedule it. Shame fills you at the sight of his name. At the sight of Annie’s name. You feel like you’ve betrayed her. Like you’re some low, evil slut.

Instead, for the next month you focus on your new research and get out ten chapters, though your Professor only starts making notes on their first two. Academia, you bemoan, a fickle bitch.

One night, when you’ve been cramming late at the library, you climb your stoop half-aware and find him sitting there. No cigarette in hand. Just his hat and his gaze straight; holding you in place.

“Hello.” You whisper, fiddling with your key.

“Hello.”

“I thought you left.”

“Did ya’ want me to?”

“No.” You climb up and open the door, looking behind you. “Come inside, Elijah.”

Your home feels different with him in it. You’re conscious of its smallness. Of his largeness. Of the Catholic figurines. Your half-opened books on every counter. You scramble to clean it but stop, feeling silly. Removing your coat, you hang it up and leave your bag on the ground beside your couch.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” he asks in his sweet, deep drawl.

You almost laugh. “God, no.”

“Why didn’t you come back?”

“I felt bad.”

Smoke’s eyebrows raise.

“Fuck. You didn’t make me feel bad. I felt bad because of Annie.”

A look of realisation crosses his face, then understanding. He nods. “Annie was the best of women. I understand. But she’s also dead. Been dead for forty years. Ain’t no guilt there.”

“I didn’t want to force you either. Make you feel like you had to.”

At that, Smoke looks almost dying of laughter. He steps forward, grabbing your neck and kisses you deeply. His lips soft and mouth melting onto your own. His tongue, thick, cloying into you.

Your back hit the wall and the buttons of your dress pop was his hands travelled further. Your hands fell to his belt buckle, undoing it blindly so you could slip behind the waistband of his briefs to tug his member.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, pulling his lips back for a moment, the word soft on your mouth when your lips reconnected. His hands went behind your back, unhooking your bra and rubbing along your skin till he cupped your buttocks.

You released him to let the bra slide, pulling away and pushing him against the wall. Fluttering your lashes at him, you tug his pants and boxers down, sinking to your knees. “Put your hands on the wall.”

Smoke obeys, watching you with desire-tinged eyes. You run your tongue along his length, opening your mouth along its base, over the long vein, spit coating. Your hand circles, tugging from root to base. You put your mouth on the tip, sucking.

Above you, you hear his honeyed voice muttering, moaning.

Beneath him, you command him. You make his knees buckle and made him murmur madness. For a moment you go groin deep and pull back, then again, then again, then again. A muffled, ‘Fuck’, dances in the air.

When you pull him from your mouth, you kiss his tip softly and tug at him faster, firmer. “Are you close?”

Smoke can’t speak but it isn’t hard to guess. You smile. Big bad vampire reduced to this by your mouth. How powerful you felt.

You keep tugging him, giving a languid lick to his sack, putting your mouth on it, sucking it. It doesn’t take long for his to coat your hand. Ensuring your gazes are met, you lick the sensitive tip and the essence on your hands, shivering at the salt in it.

Smoke bends to your level and lifts you up, unto his hips and walks with you until he plants you on the dining table. You hold a breath as he kisses you once more, before forcing you on your back, his mouth on your centre. His lips suctioning on your button for a moment before he licks you from the base of your slit to your nub, lathering you with his drool. It made you tingle, nerves alit by the saliva.

As if sensing your gaze, his red eyes flash up; dangerous.

That thick tongue that had licked your throat divided inside your, swirling around your cove, lapping at the growing dampness, lips pressing against your own as he moved against you, rubbing you along his mouth. Smoke doesn’t raise his head. He drags up onto your clit, kissing, sucking until you ride his face to completion.

You kiss. The taste of the others on your tongue, and mixing with the other. Hands everywhere and no enough places. It’s maddening. You feel a hunger you never have before; a need as if in this touch you would find air – salvation – damnation.

The blunt velvet of his member presses against your trembling centre, he kisses you softly, closed mouth, as if asking for permission. You stretch forward, biting his lip and slipping your tongue for a taste his mouth again.

Yes.

When he enters, you yelp into his mouth, wide and long, he burns for a moment before the giddiness of being filled thrills you. His hips nestle close to you, his breathe cool as it fans on your face. Smoke’s voice drops real low, he says, “You’re beautiful.”

            Words don’t get to fall from your lips before he starts, building slow and holding you close, hips rolling against your own. He takes his time, like the sun isn’t rising to kill him, like you aren’t aging, like the two of you have forever.

            It’s so delicious, it sends you screaming under him. Hips rolling back and nails digging into his skin like sliver.

            “Been thinking about this pussy since I saw you,” he admits, teeth nipping the swell of your breast. “Feels like heaven. Like I came home.”

            “You feel good,” you whimper. “You taking such good care of me, baby. God. You’re so sexy.”

            “You want me, baby?” He teases, raising on of your legs over his shoulders. The depth of the new angle makes you mewl like a cat in heat. “Fuck, you do. Got me deep in this.”

            The two of you lose your power for words and keep going until you become jello from a shuddering climax, and he stiffens in you, flooding you. When you part, you hold each other close and stare at your ceiling. Cooling down in the other’s hold.

            His thumb strokes your shoulder, wiping at the cooling sweat.

            “When do you go back to Louisiana?” You ask, taking the risk to ruin the moment. His thumb doesn’t stop, his cold body pressing close to you doesn’t try to inch away.

            “We leaving there. Been too long. They gon’ notice us not aging.”

            You hum, kissing his chest. “Where are you going next?”

            “Been thinkin’ of setting a place up down in Harlem.”

            You wonder if he hears your heart speeding up in excitement. “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

“That’s good.” You whisper, the sounds of rain starting upon your roof, rolling louder into a storm. “That’s real good.”

Though he leaves before sunrise, you know when the sunsets in the evening, he’ll be in your house again, dragging that honey voice with each step.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

I love your writing tips 🫶🫶🫶tysm.....I wanted to ask how you write a black character

Writing Notes: Black Characters

What terms to use? Terms used to refer to racial and ethnic groups continue to change over time.

One reason for this is simply personal preference; preferred designations are as varied as the people they name.

Another reason is that designations can become dated over time and may hold negative connotations.

When describing racial and ethnic groups, be appropriately specific and sensitive to issues of labeling.

Race - physical differences that groups and cultures consider socially significant. For example, people might identify their race as Aboriginal, African American or Black, Asian, European American or White, Native American, Native Hawaiian or Pacific Islander, Māori, or some other race. 

Ethnicity - shared cultural characteristics such as language, ancestry, practices, and beliefs. For example, people might identify as Latino or another ethnicity.

Be clear about whether you are referring to a racial group or to an ethnic group.

Race is a social construct that is not universal, so one must be careful not to impose racial labels on ethnic groups.

Whenever possible, use the racial and/or ethnic terms that your participants themselves use. Be sure that the racial and ethnic categories you use are as clear and specific as possible.

For example, instead of categorizing participants as Asian American or Hispanic American, you could use more specific labels that identify their nation or region of origin, such as Japanese American or Cuban American.

Use commonly accepted designations (e.g., census categories) while being sensitive to participants’ preferred designation.

People of African origin. When writing about people of African ancestry, several factors inform the appropriate terms to use. People of African descent have widely varied cultural backgrounds, family histories, and family experiences.

Some will be from Caribbean islands, Latin America, various regions in the United States, countries in Africa, or elsewhere.

Some American people of African ancestry prefer “Black,” and others prefer “African American”; both terms are acceptable.

However, “African American” should not be used as an umbrella term for people of African ancestry worldwide because it obscures other ethnicities or national origins, such as Nigerian, Kenyan, Jamaican, or Bahamian; in these cases use “Black.”

The terms “Negro” and “Afro-American” are outdated; therefore, their use is generally inappropriate.

Example of bias-free language. Description of African American or Black people.

Problematic: "We interviewed 25 Afro-American people living in rural Louisiana."

Preferred: "We interviewed 25 Black people living in rural Louisiana." or "We interviewed 25 African Americans living in rural Louisiana."

Comment: “Afro-American” and “Negro” have become dated; therefore, usage of these terms generally is inappropriate. Specify region or nation of origin when possible to avoid the impression that all people of African descent have the same cultural background, family history, or family experiences. Note that “Black” is appropriate rather than “African American” to describe people of African descent from various national origins (e.g., Haitian, Nigerian).

How to Write Characters of Color Without Using Stereotypes

Creating characters that belong to a different racial group than you are can be down-right difficult.

You don't want to rely on stereotypes to describe them that can be offensive, harmful, or cliche.

In response to that apprehension, authors often avoid it; they take the easy way out and you don't describe them at all, but is that what's best?

Example. A basic and rudimentary physical descriptions of primary or secondary black characters:

she had chocolate brown skin and big, round eyes

By itself, there is nothing wrong with this description.

It's not necessary for every character to have a full, detailed description.

It's only problematic when this description is compared to the description of a primary or secondary white character:

his brown hair was in a military crew cut and he had icy blue eyes and pale skin

The white character is described more richly and the reader can form a picture in their mind, the black character's description is incomplete in comparison, therefore, the reader is forced to fill in the gaps.

Tips for writing deep character descriptions:

Find a picture of a real person who looks similar to your character (you may need more than one person) and use that as your guide.

Free write. Write out every single detail of the description. Whatever is in your mind just write it out.

Edit. Trim it down so it is more concise and note the words that you feel are stereotypical. Use a thesaurus to exchange those words for others.

You don't have to avoid all racial description. Yes it's ok for your black character to have an afro (some black people have afros).

Here's where the hard work comes in:

Remember that real person you were basing your character description on? Imagine reading your description to that person aloud. Try it. Pretend like that person is in front of you and read your description.

If you wouldn't feel comfortable saying it to that person's face then it shouldn't be on your page.

Finally, be creative and if it doesn't feel right keep editing and ask for help.

3 Warning Signs you can use for your work to determine if you should “avoid that Black character.” As in, rethink, reimagine, and rewrite.

If most of their scenes involve them giving a pep talk because they understand the main character or MC’s struggles better than anyone else due to their “unique” identity, you should avoid that Black character.

If the character has an aggressive, angry, or hypersexual* personality that constantly has to be tempered or simmered down, usually by a fairer-skinned, ‘morally superior’ individual, you should avoid that Black character.

If the character is either (A) the MC’s moral compass because they are especially good or (B) so morally corrupt that they eventually lead to their own demise, you should avoid that Black character.

*On top of Black characters often being depicted as hypersexual, there is a related issue that is almost the inverse of this: Black characters being hypersexualized, or turned into something to be observed and objectified. Sexual thoughts and actions are thrust upon them even if they are doing nothing to provoke it. In this way, their mere existence is turned into something sexual just because they are a Black person in a Black body. Descriptions associated with their body will—for absolutely no perceivable reason—begin to be described with animalistic language. For example, let’s say, in a book, that every other character smiled or smirked. But then when it gets to the Black character, it’s suddenly, “He grinned wide with his canines showing.”

In media, Black characters seem to live at the extremes of the moral spectrum.

They either live on a holy pedestal or are so far in the trenches of depravity that, at some point in the book, they have to be “put down like an animal” for the greater good of the world (which is so harmful).

In other cases, the MC has to cut all ties with them, showing that the MC has “risen above” their lowliness and corruption (usually in the form of breaking out of an abusive friendship or relationship, breaking a drug addiction, leaving ‘the hood,’ cutting ties with a gang, choosing peace over revenge, etc.).

Regardless of which extreme the Black character exists at, both serve the function of dehumanizing the character. They are pushed into the margins of humanity, either morally above or below the common person. Either way, they have reached a place beyond humanity, somewhere that is usually painted in these cases as hard to sympathize or empathize with. It often makes them two-dimensional and rigid.

Consider the moral compass Black character who will, more often than not, preach forgiveness and love at the most inappropriate times, and is ready to help wash the MC clean of their sins or warn them about what lies ahead on the “dark path” if they so choose it. And for the morally corrupt Black character, they typically spit every negative stereotype about the Black community back into readers’ faces without context, compassion, or tenderness, which is uncomfortable and heartbreaking.

Ultimately, tread carefully—carefully—in your pursuit of diverse voices in your work. If you do not take this venture with deep consideration and caution, you will run into trouble achieving the rich representation you’re aiming for in your writing. However, just caring about having better representation is important in itself.

Representation is a powerful tool that can inspire communities and amplify the voices of marginalized groups across the globe.

Reading is a tool that allows us to expand our minds and explore the world through written word. When we see ourselves represented correctly in texts, it gives us the space to imagine our futures, learn new things about ourselves, and challenge how we view the world around us.

When we see characters like ourselves become the hero of their own stories, it can give us the power to find that courage and bravery within ourselves.

But just like healthy representation can make our dreams and sense of self flourish, inaccurate or incomplete representation can limit our imaginations and impair our ability to know where and with whom we may belong.

Black people have been excluded from and misrepresented in retellings of history for centuries.

Due to hateful societies and racist conditions throughout time, much of Black history has been forgotten, denied, or stolen.

Because of this, traditional methods of research may not always show the full picture.

Sometimes, a story can capture the truth better than a graph.

Alternative Ways to Write Characters and Plots

Write multiple characters from the same group, so there isn’t one token representative. Additionally, people are often friends with those whom they can relate to. So for instance, rather than having a single gay character in a group of straight characters, a friend group might be made up of multiple LGBTQ+ individuals.

Write BIPOC characters who have agency, complexity, and the ability to fight their own battles. Instead of having a white character advocate for, speak for, and fight for people of color, give characters of color the opportunity to speak and advocate for themselves.

Give BIPOC and LGBTQ+ individuals their own character arcs, with their own goals and desires, rather than making their entire lives revolve around white and straight characters.

Run your book by a sensitivity reader. Sensitivity readers will read unpublished manuscripts and give feedback on cultural inaccuracies, biases, and stereotypes.

Don’t make your villain the sole BIPOC person in the entire story. Similarly, don’t make your villain the sole gay character or sole disabled character.

Don’t kill every BIPOC, LGBTQ+, or disabled character. This sends the message that these characters—and by extension real-life people who are members of these groups— are unimportant.

Overall, make sure that your characters are complex, realistic individuals who are not defined by stereotype.

Should white people write about people of color? "If you’re thinking about writing outside your culture and you’re afraid to get it wrong, be honest with yourself. Ask yourself why you want to do it. That’s where you start." (author Malinda Lo).

It takes much more consideration than omitting obvious, familiar stereotypes. Instead of focusing on the fact that you need to ensure that your audience knows the character is not white, focus on their inner lives.

Think of their humanity beyond the constrictions of race as a complete signifier, not as the driving force behind the character’s existence, but a puzzle piece.

If you’re not ready to acknowledge and confront your white privilege, it will certainly cloud the creation of your character.

If you are a white writer and you wish to inhabit the consciousness of a POC, do not base their narrative around noble suffering. Sometimes it’s the seemingly mundane details that make a character feel alive.

When whiteness is the standard in literature, “Otherness” becomes defined by easily available tropes and cliches. When race is involved, many writers cling to the mantra “write what you know.”

More excerpts from Malinda Lo's answer:

Anyone who wants to write outside of their culture has to remember this: Books are personal, and one person’s reaction does not mean that everybody is going to react the same way. In fact, it’s likely that every single reader will have a different reaction.

This doesn’t mean that it’s okay to blithely write whatever the hell you want about a culture that isn’t yours. Writers who are writing outside of their culture do have to work extra hard to research that culture, because they have much farther to go to get to the kind of instinctual knowledge of it that allows someone to hear my Chinese name and feel that it sounds poetic.

Writing outside your culture is a complicated endeavor that requires extensive research, being aware of your own biases and limitations, and a commitment to delving deeply into the story. However, writing any fiction requires this. There are no shortcuts to writing fiction truthfully and well. There really aren’t. The writer must put in the time so that they become confident in their decisions, and there are a million and one decisions to make when writing a novel.

If you’re a white writer who wants to write about a culture not your own, go for it. There’s no reason you shouldn’t do it. Some people will prefer that you don’t, but those people don’t speak for everyone. On the other hand, if you’re terrified of writing outside your culture, you don’t have to. There’s not necessarily any reason for you to do something that makes you that uncomfortable. I believe that writing is a personal thing, and you should write what you personally want to write.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Thank you for your lovely words. I'm not exactly the best person for this question, so here are some references I found for you. Learned a lot from these as well, so thanks for the request. Hope this helps with your writing!

[starrmarr]

With family members who never learned to read or write and had no birth certificates as a direct consequence of slavery and sharecropping thereafter, I realized I’m never going to find out about my genealogy unless I did an ancestry test. It is with great pride that I can affirm the overwhelming predominance of Sub-Saharan African ancestry present in my DNA, despite all the white washing and coon chip politics typically present in the Caribbean. Ain’t no such thing as “half Black”, at least not for me. I have never been one to call myself mixed or biracial, anyway, even if I exist as an obviously light-skinned, “what’s your ethnicity” looking ass shawty, lol. I just always knew Africa prevails and overrides everything else, every time. The rest was completely obliterated, diluted, weakened. Let us not be strangers to ourselves.

This is a big deal to me, idgaf. We’re the ones.

[incognitopolls]

Indigenous here is a political designation which describes a people groups relationship with colonialism - ie. Saami people are an indigenous group but Finnish/Swedish/Norwegian/Russian people are not, even though they are both genetically from the same countries- because of the groups different relationships with colonialism.

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[ghostsprobably]

Winx Rewrite Character Nationalities!

Here's my winx redesigns and the earth equivalent nationalities/ethnicities I envision them as!

(featuring lots of random people from google images)

Bloom: Self Insert lol (white person from long island, earth)

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Stella: Moroccan! She is very tan because she spends so much time soaking up the sun, but if she went a long time indoors her skin would lighten a bit.

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Flora: Mexican Indigenous! She also spends quite a lot of time outside tending to the Garden

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Tecna: Irish, and she does not get any sun lol (i like the idea that she has an accent bc Faragonda has one and she's spent so much time with her)

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Musa: Chinese of course

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Aisha: Barbadian! She's from an island nation, so I always imagined her being from somewhere in the Caribbean. rn I have her voice claim as Ayo Edebiri so Barbados felt right!

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Icy: Russian, it's cold there

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Darcy: Her family moved around a lot to get away from their connection to Liliss so her ancestry is quite diverse, but I think she would identify as Pakistani, as that is where her more recent family is from.

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Stormy: South African, Zulu! Her family has a very strong appreciation for their ancestry and wikipedia says "Zulu" means heaven or weather, which I think is fun.

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I'll be back later with the guys!

[scramratz]

Have you ever had Puerto Rican food or other Caribbean foods?

Also I’m currently 17 months on T. Been a wonderful time.

Not really. My mom didn't lean into that side of our ancestry much. Grew up with some influence on my puerto rican side (hundreds of tíos and tías) but for the most part, it was black southern culture and the food that came along with it

[fatehbaz]

In fact, far more Asian workers moved to the Americas in the 19th century to make sugar than to build the transcontinental railroad [...]. [T]housands of Chinese migrants were recruited to work [...] on Louisiana’s sugar plantations after the Civil War. [...] Recruited and reviled as "coolies," their presence in sugar production helped justify racial exclusion after the abolition of slavery.

In places where sugar cane is grown, such as Mauritius, Fiji, Hawaii, Guyana, Trinidad and Suriname, there is usually a sizable population of Asians who can trace their ancestry to India, China, Japan, Korea, the Philippines, Indonesia and elsewhere. They are descendants of sugar plantation workers, whose migration and labor embodied the limitations and contradictions of chattel slavery’s slow death in the 19th century. [...]

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Mass consumption of sugar in industrializing Europe and North America rested on mass production of sugar by enslaved Africans in the colonies. The whip, the market, and the law institutionalized slavery across the Americas, including in the U.S. When the Haitian Revolution erupted in 1791 and Napoleon Bonaparte’s mission to reclaim Saint-Domingue, France’s most prized colony, failed, slaveholding regimes around the world grew alarmed. In response to a series of slave rebellions in its own sugar colonies, especially in Jamaica, the British Empire formally abolished slavery in the 1830s. British emancipation included a payment of £20 million to slave owners, an immense sum of money that British taxpayers made loan payments on until 2015.

Importing indentured labor from Asia emerged as a potential way to maintain the British Empire’s sugar plantation system.

In 1838 John Gladstone, father of future prime minister William E. Gladstone, arranged for the shipment of 396 South Asian workers, bound to five years of indentured labor, to his sugar estates in British Guiana. The experiment with “Gladstone coolies,” as those workers came to be known, inaugurated [...] “a new system of [...] [indentured servitude],” which would endure for nearly a century. [...]

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Bonaparte [...] agreed to sell France's claims [...] to the U.S. [...] in 1803, in [...] the Louisiana Purchase. Plantation owners who escaped Saint-Domingue [Haiti] with their enslaved workers helped establish a booming sugar industry in southern Louisiana. On huge plantations surrounding New Orleans, home of the largest slave market in the antebellum South, sugar production took off in the first half of the 19th century. By 1853, Louisiana was producing nearly 25% of all exportable sugar in the world. [...] On the eve of the Civil War, Louisiana’s sugar industry was valued at US$200 million. More than half of that figure represented the valuation of the ownership of human beings – Black people who did the backbreaking labor [...]. By the war’s end, approximately $193 million of the sugar industry’s prewar value had vanished.

Desperate to regain power and authority after the war, Louisiana’s wealthiest planters studied and learned from their Caribbean counterparts. They, too, looked to Asian workers for their salvation, fantasizing that so-called “coolies” [...].

Thousands of Chinese workers landed in Louisiana between 1866 and 1870, recruited from the Caribbean, China and California. Bound to multiyear contracts, they symbolized Louisiana planters’ racial hope [...].

To great fanfare, Louisiana’s wealthiest planters spent thousands of dollars to recruit gangs of Chinese workers. When 140 Chinese laborers arrived on Millaudon plantation near New Orleans on July 4, 1870, at a cost of about $10,000 in recruitment fees, the New Orleans Times reported that they were “young, athletic, intelligent, sober and cleanly” and superior to “the vast majority of our African population.” [...] But [...] [w]hen they heard that other workers earned more, they demanded the same. When planters refused, they ran away. The Chinese recruits, the Planters’ Banner observed in 1871, were “fond of changing about, run away worse than [Black people], and … leave as soon as anybody offers them higher wages.”

When Congress debated excluding the Chinese from the United States in 1882, Rep. Horace F. Page of California argued that the United States could not allow the entry of “millions of cooly slaves and serfs.” That racial reasoning would justify a long series of anti-Asian laws and policies on immigration and naturalization for nearly a century.

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All text above by: Moon-Ho Jung. "Making sugar, making 'coolies': Chinese laborers toiled alongside Black workers on 19th-century Louisiana plantations". The Conversation. 13 January 2022. [All bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[thisbrilliantsky]

When I was ten and visiting my abuelo in Utuado, he took my sisters and I to a recreated Taíno village. He had Taíno ancestry through his mother, and he wanted us to know something about his heritage. Papi Papi’s dark brown skin looked golden under the sun, and the tour guide gave me eucalyptus leaves to chew for my car sickness. They tasted bitter, green and medicinal. At some point my sisters and I were given necklaces. Each was a simple black cord upon which a clay pendant of a sun was clasped, a calm smile carved into its face. Theirs were each deep blue; mine was a pale, yellowy green. The tour guide told us the huts’ doorways were built low not because the Taíno were short, but so that any enemy entering the home would be at a momentary disadvantage. He mimed hitting someone on the head with a frying pan and we all laughed.  I wore my necklace every day for almost two years. I liked how its smooth face and rounded edges felt between my fingers. I liked its peaceful smile. Then somehow without my noticing it, the clasp broke. It’s gone. In college, I learned that Columbus wrote to the Spanish King and Queen that the Taíno were “wondrously timorous,” “artless and generous.” He noted that they had no weapons at all and would give the Spanish anything they asked for without expecting payment; therefore, he promised the Spanish Crown “slaves as many as they shall order to be shipped.” The day we discussed the massacres and the rapes and the tortures in class, I felt ill. Of particular interest to the class was how the Spanish had demanded a gold tax from each Taíno person, and if they failed to bring it, their hands were cut off. Thousands died slow, painful deaths this way. I couldn’t get a word out. I sat there like a stone as my classmates tsked over the issue of the statues of Columbus all over the country. I knew what had happened. I had known beforehand. But this was the first time I realized that was my family. I left the classroom shaking. For centuries, everyone assumed the ten million Taíno who were alive in 1493 were completely wiped out. Now we know that is not the case. Sixty years after the murderer arrived, there were five hundred Taíno left. Today, thousands of people from the Caribbean can trace their ancestry to those last five hundred souls. I wish I still had my clay sun.

—excerpt from my lyric essay, Clay Sun: A Collection

[ladiablesse]

it like genuinely pisses me off the way libs will assert that white latinos aren’t actually white lol. those florida cubans are WHITE. they are directly descended from SPANIARDS. ethnically they are latino but racially they are WHITE. and their whiteness is important to note bc cuba has one of the largest black populations in latin america but that demographic largely isn’t reflected within cuban american communities bc they didn’t leave the island in droves like the white ones did during castros regime. and while yes there are lots of self hating dominicans that are in denial about their african ancestry, there are also white dominicans descended from spaniards who subscribed to white supremacist blanqueamiento ideology and contributed to the ethnic cleansing of black dominicans and haitians during trujillos regime. those dominicans are in fact WHITE. it’s so aggy the way these massive generalizations only serve to completely overshadow the complex racial hierarchies present in latam/the caribbean

[cosmiccoquette]

Foundational Black American

(FBA)

Foundational Black American (FBA) is not an organization, a movement, or group.

Foundational Black American is a LINEAGE.

What is a lineage? A lineal descent from an ancestor; ancestry or pedigree.

Who are we (Black Americans) direct, lineal descendants of?

“Foundational Black Americans are the descendants of the Black people who survived one the greatest atrocities in recorded history-American slavery.

FBA are the descendants of the Black people who built the United States from scratch.

But this history did not start in 1619. The history of FBA started almost 100 years earlier.”

“The first documented foreign settlers in the New World of North America were the enslaved Black people who were brought over by Spanish colonizer Lucas Vázquez de Ayllón in 1526.

Shortly after Ayllón and the 600 other Spaniard's arrival to the area that would later become the South Carolina/Georgia coast, the enslaved Black captives launched a successful revolt, forcing the few

remaining Spanish enslavers to ultimately retreat from the area, back towards the Caribbean.

The liberated Black people amalgamated into the local Native American society, and this was a new historic chapter in what would ultimately become the culture of Foundational Black Americans.

Since 1526, the culture of Foundational Black Americans has been that of building, resisting, perseverance, and fighting for justice. FBA are exceptional people and we recognize, celebrate and give honor to that lineage.”

A Foundational Black American is any person classified as Black, who can trace their bloodline lineage back to the American system of slavery.

To be designated as a FBA, at least one parent must come from a non-immigrant background in The United States of America.

If a person's matrilineal and patrilineal lineage traces back to slavery in the Caribbean, then they are not considered a Foundational Black American.

[paintingpuff]

The Villain of Sinners: An Analysis

Okay, I’ve just watched Sinners for the third time and I just want to point out one little fun thing with the villain of the movie. Spoilers below. 

One of my favorite tropes involving villains is that they take what is seemingly the most direct approach to their goal, usually causing it to be unethical in some way, and do not realize that said “straightforward” approach actually makes their goal much harder to achieve. 

It’s a great trope, but can be difficult to execute. I’m sure many people can point to stories where the villain has an interesting motivation, but the violence and murder feels tacked on to make their motives artificially “bad.” But I’d like to point to Remmick as a great execution on this idea! 

Though his motivations are hard to fully parse until the very end, they’re actually quite simple and understandable: he wishes to reconnect with his ancient Irish culture, which is now inaccessible to him due to colonization and displacement. 

Thus Sammie seems like a very obvious route to that desire, with his mystical ability to call up spirits of the past. However, it is cruel in many ways. Not only does the conversion of one to a vampire require killing him, but for Sammie’s magic to work for Remmick is that his ancestry is literally erased and replaced with Remmick’s. We see this happen during the Rocky Road to Dublin scene, where all the vampires only dance to ONE culture: Remmick’s.

I love how this scene at first feels like a crowd coming together and having fun until you realize this is just because they’re all under Remmick’s control. This is the supernatural equivalent of a man with no friends making a bunch of sockpuppet accounts to leave comments on his posts. 

However, there is another reason that to become a vampire is considered a terrible fate by most of the cast: as Annie says, the body’s soul is trapped in the body and “cannot rejoin their ancestors.” 

Fortunately, if the vampire is killed with either a stake or the sunlight, their soul is freed and can reunite with them. 

Do you see the irony?

Remmick wishes to rejoin with his ancestors more than anything, so much so he’s willing to slaughter people for it. Yet the chance to be with them has risen every day for the centuries he’s lived, and he’s never taken it. 

It all plays out with another great addition to the “villain’s counterproductive plan” trope: only when the villain is defeated do they actually attain their goal. His soul is freed from the earth thanks to Smoke and Sammie. 

(Another great example of this off the top of my head is Barbossa in Pirates of the Caribbean)

I like to think that Remmick realizes where he’s going as the sun rises - his face is hard to read with all the monstrous changes, but just before he rises in a pillar of flame, you can hear the faintest sounds of an irish fiddle.