#black poetess

[jamerasjournal]

[vintage-russia]

Russian poetess Olga Bergholtz (1910-1975)

[black5wan]

my poetry book (work in progress)

did i find my audience? because i am very proud of my poetry & i would like for it to not go unnoticed,

thank you in advance and i hope you enjoy <3

[ladyofthenile]

Yes, I have walked on water

Did you not see? The trail I left behind?

It is inked in blood, footprints of the Nile,

A wayward daughter who turned the river into wine

Lady of the Nile , Nisa

[elfilululuuu]

Today I chose the spell of Lilith. I walked bare in figure, and fierce in soul, beneath the scarlet spikes of a late autumn sun.

— CFL

[owl-wrts]

Even An Electric Shock Does Not Burn The Entire Body As Much As A Person's Recollections Do.

Bijili Ka Jhatka Bhi Rom-Rom Nhi Jalata Jitna Kisi Ke Yaadein

[maxinewisewrites]

for Marvin the cat

We lost him on a Sunday,

the same day we brought

him into our home. Endings

and beginnings most impactful.

But it’s the in-between that

kisses the soul in gratitude.

[venniekocsis]

🆓 My Gift To You 🥳

Hello, my sweet friends. First let me tell you how grateful I am for your presence in this space. I appreciate your time, your attention and your never-ending support. Please accept this free gift as a thank you. Starting today, through Monday 11/27/2023, my latest book, “Keeper of Backwards Men” is FREE for download! Download Here I hope you enjoy this book. It is a culled collection of…

[poetessdivine]

Thinking bout you

I feel regretful.

I feel foolish.

I feel detached

I feel freed.

The cycle is complete.

[anamelessfool]

𝔓𝔞𝔭𝔞 ℭ𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔬 (1907-1983) and fic!

Reign 1942-1954, Satanic Bishop of New York City (1954-1983)

Everybody needs a mentor, especially delusional people like Young Nihil. So enter Papa Camino, a Papa Emeritus who is heavily influenced by Cab Calloway. (And is wearing an actual Schiaparelli silk tie from the 1950s) Notable Ghouls: Phantom, Dewdrop, Cumulus

The Path (AO3 Link)

GEN Young Nihil & OC Papa, Young Nihil & Family 3K Words

Tags: Mentor Figure, Deal With The Devil, Family Angst, 4 Year Old Primo Is In This One, This is Officially the Most Self Indulgent Fic I've Written and Yes I'm Including the Smut, Alternate History, Ghost Scenes from the Void AU, Ministry Lore and Dramaaaaa

1957, New York City: Bishop Camino always got what he wanted. And he wanted to share what he took from life with everyone he thought hungry enough to work for it. He was also a man who today invited Zero, of all the siblings in his care, to a private meeting in his office.

More Art and the Fic Below the Cut!

1957 New York City

Camino was a man who demanded what he wanted, and created for himself what he was denied. After his wildly successful tour as Papa Emeritus of the Satanic Church of the Void, he brought his expertise, his talent, and his cunning to his new post as the Satanic Bishop of New York City.

After the fourth rejection of his application to join the most prestigious gentlemen’s social club in the city (and it was definitely not because he was a Satanic Anti-Pope) Camino decided to run his own club out of the New York Ministry location. The music was hotter, the skirts were shorter and the booze flowed higher than the runoff in the gutters after a rainstorm.

The New York City chapter of the Satanic Church of the Void soon became less a place of organized worship and more the most chaotic and happening nightclub no one dared talk about in the sunshine. No act was denied, no artistic experiment too bizarre— almost twenty-four hours of the day there would be something to see for everyone. At two PM there could be a poetry reading for moody folks in black turtlenecks. At four PM was a 1920s Big Band Revival stint, six to ten PM Camino himself took command as bandleader. Midnight to two AM was reserved for drag shows. Often at three AM some interpretive dancer could be writhing on stage wrapped in tinfoil wailing about his daddy issues. It was vibrant, sometimes exhausting but never ever boring. Just like the Bishop.

And any high society man caught sneaking in would be promptly hogtied and left out in the alley with the rest of the trash.

Camino always got what he wanted. And he wanted to share what he took from life with everyone he thought hungry enough to work for it. He was also a man who today invited Zero, of all the siblings in his care, to a private meeting in his office.

As Zero sat uneasily in a plush armchair he could pick himself out from the posters and photographs covering the wood-paneled walls of the bishop’s office. He was often in the background— a blur holding a guitar, a trombone, hiding behind a mountain of drums. In six years Zero had become an established character in Camino’s church. He had stopped his rail-hopping life and settled in with a pretty blonde poetess, living just outside earshot of the church turned nightclub with a couple of potted plants and a young son. It surprised him how much he enjoyed the ebb and flow of a domestic existence. But then again, living and working in a place of constant change and noise and life and art is like wandering without ever leaving home.

“Brother Zero, I can hear your knees knocking from over here!” Bishop Camino closed the humidor cabinet and returned to his massive desk with a choice cigar. He winked his eye, his human eye. The Infernal Eye, his gift and his curse from his time as Papa, leered into Zero. It was as icy and silvery as the tools Camino used to delicately trim and light his smoke. “You'd know if you were in trouble! Relax, stay a while! How's junior?”

“Oh, swell, just swell,” said Zero, slowly uncurling himself in his seat.

“I got box seats at the Polo Grounds whenever you two want to see a game,” Camino replied. “Owner of the Giants owes me. Funny how many folks owe me, hm?”

“You're more than generous, all the time.” Zero couldn't help but feel a fondness for the man. “You helped me.”

“Alley cats are hungry, feed ‘em. Keeps the rats away. Now…” Camino noticed the smallest mote of dust on his suit, frowned deeply, and brushed it off. Camino never wore formal vestments outside of Mass, preferring instead a red silk suit with razor-sharp shoulders. Firstly because that was his look during his time as Papa Emeritus, and secondly because there was no one in New York City who would dare tell the bishop otherwise.

“Have you ever thought about the path?” He continued. Bishop Camino leaned back in his leather chair, settling in to a languid taste of his Cuban cigar. “I think you have what it takes to be Papa. Believe me, I know.”

Zero’s eyes widened, his mouth stretching open cartoonishly in shock. “You really think that?”

“Claro. Really. You've played in the house band many a time. You know more instruments than most, and catch on so quick. You're more Ghoul than man sometimes,” Camino chuckled. Zero had indeed performed for a few years in Camino's exclusive club for degenerates, and his saxophone playing was described as “a good start” which was a big compliment coming from the Bishop.

“Times are different. Big bands are out. Five pieces are in. More flexible. Digestible. What with television everywhere now.” Camino nodded. “Jazz clubs are gone, thing of the past. I'm not too proud to admit that.”

“Oh, you got more talent in your little finger than most in their whole body!” Zero piped up. “Don't sell yourself short!”

Camino gave him a wry look. “Hermano, I didn't say anything about that. Of course I'm talented. I'm the most talented motherfucker you ever saw. But times are changing. The Church needs fresh blood. And you'd be perfect for it. You got a face for television!”

Zero looked through the wooden blinds of the window, at the lines of taxis dutifully filing past. A limo turned the corner, its black and silver form sleek amongst the herd of yellow and checkerboard. Zero saw the shining sweep of the Rolls-Royce maiden perched on the hood, bowing low with her steel gossamer cloak frozen forever against the wind. A face for television, Zero thought. He never really had a television, or an actual home to plug any sort of luxury into since leaving Milwaukee, but everyone that did had the potential to see him. To hear his music. To see his face.

“That sounds swell, how would I even start?”

Camino grunted a laugh, his teeth gripping his cigar. From his place behind his massive desk he elegantly poured a finger of amber liquid from a crystal decanter into two equally opulent glasses. “Well, you have to let everyone know your intention. Even when you're not saying a word. Especially then. Your whole body must…vibrate…with that desire.”

Zero took a glass from him, nodding eagerly. “I can do that. I can vibrate with desire!”

“Naturally,” said Camino. “I'll put you in touch with Mother Imperator’s assistant, a em…a Sister Rebecca. She'll help me authorize a transfer and you can move to the heart of the Ministry.”

They clinked glasses, and Zero took a sip. It burned across his throat, tore a hole in his belly. He coughed in surprise, making every attempt to choke as politely as possible. “Move? There's somewhere else?”

“Yes, a few hours drive up north,” Camino replied. His perfectly sculpted thin moustache twitched as he frowned. “And how the hell you choking on that, boy? That's a goddamn forty year.”

Zero mumbled an apology, then felt Camino’s strong hand on his chin, jerking his face upwards for inspection. His hand was surprisingly soft, well manicured. The floral scent of hair oil drifted down from his clothing. The older man smirked, his eyes crinkling as thoughts passed through his mind. The Infernal Eye glared down at Zero from its socket in Camino’s skull, its glow removed from this realm, a separate entity also holding judgement towards him. He could have sworn the steely pinprick of a pupil moved independent from the human eye just across the bridge of the jazz singer’s nose. Zero swallowed. “Face for television,” Camino murmured, and with his other hand took a thoughtful sip of his own glass.

Zero stretched his mouth into a submissive smile. “Maybe.”

Camino gave Zero a rough pat, nearly a slap on the side of his face, and stepped away to pick up his cigar again. “Listen here, I sent my successor up to their headquarters, had them start meeting people, gather friends— boom! They're now Papa Emeritus and gaining traction in the charts every day. The trick…is to be underfoot.” Camino let out a satisfied puff of smoke. “Thing about that place is that running the Ministry is the only thing anyone can do up there in that godforsaken wilderness. So if you want something you're front and center!”

“But…moving?” Zero had just finally put roots down after a youth of wandering. He thought of Nance, of little Primo waiting for him back at their apartment. Nance with the baby on her lap as she sat by the plants on the fire escape, her red lips smiling contentedly out at the symphony of asphalt and blaring car horns.

“Fresh air, sunshine, forests and mountains,” said Camino. “Kids love it out there. At least I'm pretty certain they do.”

Camino was met with an awkward silence, and he settled into his chair, the leather offering a tired wheeze. “Yes, the city is difficult to leave,” Camino continued, steepling his fingers. He grinned. “Which is why I came back.” And promptly at midnight a town car would pick him up and drive him back to his home in Queens. “But, I've done my time, and did the work. I'm here to guide now. And I think you need to take bigger risks.”

“Nance loves it here. She was born here.” Zero smiled slightly into the middle space. “Primo was born here.”

“It's not easy raising a child in the city, believe me. My sisters complain enough. And me…well, I became a jazz singer.” He chuckled. “That tells you everything you need to know about that.”

“Could be good for junior,” Zero mused.

“Would be good for his old man too,” Camino replied with a wink. “You just say the word. I'm serious about you.”

Horns blared from outside on the street, followed by shouts and curses. The chauffeur of the Rolls-Royce rolled up up his sleeves and unbuttoned his vest as his cap fell on the sidewalk. Across from him, an equally irate taxi driver wrenched himself from the crumpled yellow door of his taxi. A woman was trapped in the back of the Rolls, hanging out the window and screeching while the rat-like dog in her arms barked. The taxi driver jumped across the hood of the limo and delivered a heavy-fisted crack to the chauffeur’s mug that Zero could hear all the way from his spot by the window. He winced as he unconsciously massaged the same place on his jaw. Camino clapped his hand across Zero’s shoulder, laughing, his lips peeled back over sharp white teeth in a roar of amusement. The Infernal Eye shone. “Fresh air and sunshine, hermano!”

-------

“Fresh air, sunshine, forests and mountains,” said Zero as he and Sister Nance held hands on a park bench and watched their young son totter around the steel playground. “Would be good for junior, yanno?”

“This sounds rehearsed,” Nance snorted, flashing him one of her elfin grins. “What's the deal? Why all of a sudden you want to move?”

Zero shrugged. “No deal. Just…need a change, maybe.”

“Zero, dear. Don't even try to lie to me.”

“Bishop Camino… thinks I should be Papa Emeritus.”

“You?” Nance made a face. “You haven't held a single job for more than a year. And you…want to run this whole thing? You want to be Papa?”

Zero frowned back, a little wounded but willing to fight. “None of those gigs were ever that interesting.”

“And you can't just up and walk away from this one,” Nance said. “No session musician or delivery boy or taxi driver ever had to commit his soul.” She tapped the place under her left eye. “Camino and the others…got a piece of their immortal soul committed to the Void. A chunk of it is just…it's just gone.”

That whitened eye of Camino burned in Zero’s brain once more. The sharp-toothed wicked grin, the bone-chilling tension of that pinprick pupil sliding across him and passing judgement. Zero had a face for television, sure— but Camino…Camino’s visage came from someplace else.

Like any blow he's ever taken, Zero shrugged it all off. “Wasn't using my immortal soul much anyway,” he chuckled.

“Goddamit Zero.” Nance crumpled into a fussy search of her coat for her silver cigarette case. He felt the cold air return to the palm of his now abandoned hand as it rested on the park bench.

Primo zoomed over from across the playground, falling into his mother’s arms. Irving Robert, really, but Primo was a better nickname for him than Uno.

“Push me on the swings?” asked their son, grinning under the hat Nance had knitted for him last week.

Nance cupped his face in her hands, smiling sweetly. “In a few minutes, Primo, your father and I are talking. But I bet you know how to do it yourself. We want to watch.”

“Oh, I can!”

“Good, now run! We're watching!” And Primo spun around and raced over to the swings across the park, leaving them for a few precious moments. Nance lit the cigarette in her mouth and took a drag, sighing on the exhale.

“Feels like the only thing that sticks in your brain are bad ideas, Zero,” Nance muttered. “I'm saying that affectionately.”

“You're one of ‘em,” he teased back, and she shoved him with a little laugh.

“Fine. You want to move to the Ministry Headquarters. Work right under Mother Imperator and Papa Emeritus and their whole shitty retinue.”

“And bring you along, of course,” Zero added in an attempt to reassure her. He was glad that she was even considering his idea now.

“I've been up there,” Nance continued. “Not much to do, so siblings get obsessive. I didn't want to stay long.”

“Obsessive?”

“Mother Imperator…” Nance stifled a laugh. “Absolute bag. A good hundred years old, easy. Refuses to speak anything but Italian. There's two siblings waiting for her to drop dead. Any day now, it feels.”

“Oh really now?” Zero mused, half listening.

“Sister Rebecca, for one. She went right to the top as the Dark Mother's Personal Assistant. Fluent in six languages, Italian especially. Comes from a bloodline of senators and government officials. Family's got mob money. She's next in line, for sure. And then there's…” Nance winced, as if an icy wind passed through her. “Maestra Eunice.”

“Oh, she's important?” Zero had seen her from time to time, conversing with Camino. Her hooded eyes, her deep scowl. He remembered her because he thought it a shame when blondes scowled like that. And Camino always looked queasy after their meetings.

“Leader of the Conclave,” Nance explained. “Old, old Ministry family. She's been shuffled around. She doesn't make too many friends.” Nance smiled crookedly. “And Rebecca would easily cut her throat in her sleep if Eunice doesn't get to Rebecca first. It's no good out there. Too heavy while those two wait for old Imperator to croak. You really want to live in the middle of that?”

“Two broads in a spat,” stated Zero. He figured early on that if there were two women left on the entirety of this Earth they still would think the other was talking behind their back.

“One has the keys to the entire global network of our Church, the other the deepest understanding of the magic that comes from the Void,” said Nance. “These are the two broads no one wants to stand in between.”

“Who says I have to stand between ‘em? I can make my music. And that's all I got to do.”

“There's no budging you, is there.”

“Camino…believes in me.” It was the first sincere thing Zero had said in a long while, and it left his heart with a wrenching whine that was carried through into his voice. It held such a sad little timbre that Nance shifted in her seat to look at him. “He believes in what I do.”

Zero knew few people in his life ever put their faith in him. Teachers thought him stupid. Fellow tramps on the road thought he was easy pickings. Not even his own father had much to do with him; his father, who's only belief was in his own ability to pick winning dogs at the track.

“You got to take risks on what you believe,” Zero added as she continued to contemplate his expression.

“But…moving…”

“Six years is the longest I've been in a single place,” announced Zero. He wanted to add “and loved someone”, but the thought felt intrusive and not at all something Nance wanted to hear. She knew his feet got restless if he sat for too long. She had been good to him, good for him, and he owed her his affection.

Nance grabbed his hand, turning his attention to look into her soft brown eyes. “Robert,” she began quietly, and she only used his real name when she wanted him to really listen. “What about your son? Robert…what about me?”

“I want to live my dream,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. “And my dream includes you. And Primo. I…I promise I'll do right. You know I always try to do right.”

Nance smiled faintly back. “You always try,” she said quietly. “I can't argue with that. I'm happy…you found someone else who believes in you.”

“Mo-om!” Primo called to them both from his place on the swings, his arms and legs dangling as his body lay across the steel seat.

Nance got up and dropped her smoke to the ground, crushing it underfoot. “Just…give me a few days to think about it."

Zero gave her a thin smile as he watched her cross the playground. He felt he had moved the pieces in the way he wanted them, needed them to move. And he was pretty sure of the rules of the game, so how hard would all of this be? Except he felt a queasiness now instead of relief. The feeling of his words being more of a wager than a sign of honesty hung about his shoulders. He had the faint memory of being on the other side of that conversation. And in those moments what he thought was a promise, was really only a way to buy time.

It would be well worth it in the end, he assured himself. Good ideas always are, and Camino had said himself how much of a good idea Zero was. Zero got to his feet, brushing off his knees as his good-natured smile returned to his face. There was nothing to worry about. He always came out on top. He always pulled through, and folks always leant him a helping hand. And of course he'd always support Nance, and Primo. He promised her and so he owed her. What more is a promise than an IOU to someone else?

Funny how many folks owe me, said Camino as his dead eye flashed. Great men are owed. And Zero was ready to be a lender.

My Fic List | My AO3 | More Domestic Fics

Papa Camino & Dewdrop, Phantom Fic

[eluviannaa]

Well overdue and likely a work in progress.

Character Notes

Name Eluvianna Umbralstar, formerly Everheart

Nicknames & Aliases Elu

Voiceclaim Tilda Swinton (Constantine)

Faceclaim Monica Bellucci

Hooks × Themes Cursed Objects, Archaeology, Languages, Dark Rituals, Eldritch and Psychological Horror, Netherlight, Rivals, Kul Tiras, Relic Hunting & Adventure, Shadow Magic, Sinister Connections, Correspondence, and Art RP.

Music Mr Kitty - After Dark, Vangelis - Rachel's Song (Bladerunner), Chelsea Wolfe - 16 Psyche, Gene Loves Jezebel - Desire (Ex Voto)

. ⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂✧

Age mid-20’s, normalized

Date of Birth: Hallow’s End

Birthplace Silvermoon, Quel’Thalas

Current Home Boralus, Kul Tiras

Gender female

Pronouns she/her

Race Ren'dorei, Void Elf

Sexuality bisexual

Height 5’6”

Alignment Moral Gray

Parents Lord Dacian and Lady Tavora Everheart

Relationship Status Single

Languages Thalassian, Common, Shath'Yar, Draconic. Working/Academic: Eredun, Arakkoa, and Ethereal

Companions Feodore (“Feo”), a young mindbender given to her as a gift during her early years in Boralus. Her Archivist's quill, Venedict, a gift from Zarath'anar, an Ethereal merchant she became acquainted with during her time at Netherlight in Dalaran. Keena, her sentient blade and artifact weapon, often kept in her boot.

Occupation & Roles Shadow Priestess, Veilkeeper & Archivist, Shadow Oracle, and Proprietress of Curses & Curios, Second to the First Representative of the Ren'dorei (The Thalassian Embassy).

Hobbies & Interests Writing Shath'Yar poetry, penning a steamy romance serial Dark Desires and Daggerwork under the pen name Gaius Nightshayde, a fondness for Azeroth's tavern bards, Starlight Roses, studying history—Azeroth and beyond, Ethereals (fangirl moments, beware), collecting old books, languages, relic restoration and preservation which can often naturally inspire her own designs for such things as daggers and adornments.

Personality Balances her boundless curiosity with perfect control, the chaos of a risk-taker and the precision of a scholar. A poetess at heart, she courts danger with subtlety and grace, wielding her characteristic wit to turn both business and pleasure into an art form. All tied with a whimsical, yet elegant bow of dark comedy.

Flaws Perfect control is a double-edged blade. Delusion often masquerades as idealism. Or worse—confidence. And yet so rarely reveals its tragic hand.

Appearance Her appearance is now but a haunting echo of the sunlit isles of Quel'Thalas.

Smaller than most of her kin, luminescent pale hair falls in gentle waves across her shoulders, reaching just above the inset of her hips, threading with spectral void tendrils. Violet eyes without iris or pupil are framed in charcoal purple and feathery lashes, beneath arching brows a shade darker than the ghostly pallor of flesh and tress. Her lips are swatched with black and hold a violet sheen.

Fine, delicate Thalassian features typically offer a neutral demeanor, though occasionally fall into playful expressiveness. A lithe elven hourglass frame moves with a caster's grace while carrying a strength forged by years of travel and adventure.

Distinguishing Marks A vertical, lightning-shaped scar runs down her sternum, subtle jagged branches reaching outward. The marking nearly matches her skin, visible only in close company. Those familiar with dark rituals may recognize its mark.

Style A deep chestnut robe plunges in a dramatic blade of pale skin meeting the cinch of a wide leather belt. Its drape parts high at her leg, occasionally revealing a small, ornate dagger, its illuminated blade largely concealed within its sheathe. Soft leather boots lace high above the knee, paired with dark fingerless gloves. A heavy velvet cloak hangs from a silver clasp at her throat, hood often pulled over the face in half shadow. From a lariat chain hangs an indigo pendant—a cracked gem that occasionally offers a faint inner glow, marked by the Sunwell's desecration.

Education & Training Through childhood and adolescence, private tutoring in some Arcane and eventually, rudimentary focus with Priest disciplines. Various Archaeological studies and excursions with her father, a distinguished member of the Reliquary. Independent/personal studies in Shath'Yar and poetry. Netherlight Temple (Shadow), including mentorship under Conclave Archivist and mentalist of note, Ryvora Rowley. Apprenticeship with antiquarian Ozzuel Mooreland and eventual assumption of his business in Boralus, Curses & Curios.

[verseandrhyme]

piano, sender teaches receiver how to play the piano.

on the bench, dorothea shifts just enough to make space for mitama.

gently, she takes her friend's hand, adjusting the fingers before placing them over the correct keys. “my expertise lies more in singing than in playing,” she says brightly. “but i’ve picked up a few things along the way—some tricks, some stories. the latter i’ll save for another time.” one of mitama’s fingers is pressed down onto a key, producing a soft, clear note.

“it’s not about hitting the right note every single time. instead, focus on finding the feel of it. get comfortable with the rhythm.”

dorothea hums the melody, letting the sound float between them for a moment. then, she reaches over to the lower keys, her left hand dancing over the black and white with practiced ease. she plays the sequence again, slow and deliberate, offering it as both a demonstration and encouragement.

“your turn now. if you start to feel frustrated, we can always take a break. music is meant to be enjoyed, after all. if you force it—”

a flicker of something unspoken crosses her features. the songstress pauses, her gaze momentarily drifting as if lost in thought.

“—it becomes something of a performative chore.”

a long exhale. she meets mitama’s eyes once more, and this time, dorothea flashes another smile. "go on, then. the poetess might just surprise us both."

ask meme | accepting!

Her caretakers had made it plain to her from a very young age. Perhaps music is not where your talents lie... A book of poetry had been pushed into her hands, and that was that of the discussion.

And yet, even still, she did always find herself longing to be able to recreate that melody her mother had sung to her.

Dorothea's hands are soft. Mitama carefully notes the position she guides her own hands into. She shifts a bit to settle comfortably, always hovering her fingertips just above the keys. The piano is an imposing instrument. If she should play the wrong note, will it echo for all to hear her failure?

It is hard to think so, when Dorothea's hands guide hers gently. The note that her fingers ply from the piano is singular, but beautiful. Clear and steady. Her instruction makes it all sound so easy, as though it is not a craft people spend their lifetime honing.

As if a girl who cannot even sing her mother's song can make anything worth listening to.

When Dorothea's hands pull away, Mitama's gaze follows to watch as she lays claim over her own section of the instrument. The melody she plays is lower, almost somber, but still beautiful. The poet finds her gaze shifting from hands to face. Does the other student know, she wonders, how her face changes when she concentrates?

A flicker of something then. She has seen that before. The expression Asugi makes when he speaks of his future. The expression Rhajat makes when she speaks of her father. It is gone again before Mitama can pin it down to examine it. She meets Dorothea's gaze and lovely smile and laughs, softly.

Listen a moment / in the chords of melody / can you hear my heart?

Her fingers press the keys slowly. The first few notes fill the air hesitantly. Her fingers shift, and the next notes come slower than they should. Still, she presses. Offbeat, out of time, but the notes still come. The music still comes.

It is not a song. But Mitama thinks it sounds lovely.

[muffincupv]

I think it’s super interesting how the patriarchy is so embedded into our culture that our modern language helps push patriarchal values.

I’ve done a bit of personal research into this topic and thought I would share it here

(Note this was a quick highschool project so it’s not super in-depth but I would love other people’s thoughts on it) sorry this is long :)

I’m currently taking a class in my high school where we are talking about gender, feminism, sexuality, and the patriarchy. Specifically how the patriarchy is imbedded in our day to day lives and how it’s effects intersect with other issues such as racism, homophobia, classism, etc.

I looked into the English language and linguistic relativity.

An Analysis of Sexism in English

In the English lexicon, one of the most obvious evidences of sexism is the affixes which lead to a view of women as a deviation from men. This is commonly seen with suffixes such as -ess or -ette.

Example: Actor “ a person who plays the part of a character in a movie or play”, when attached to a feminine suffix –ess, becomes actress with the meaning of “ woman with profession similar to those of actor”. ← othering of women as if Femininity is inherently not human. Why is actor “a person” while Actress is “A woman” why make the distinction?

Other examples include:

Masculine Feminine

ambassador ambassadress

duke duchess

prince princess

poet poetess

Sometimes adding the suffix -ett or -ess completely changes the meaning and value of the word. (Govenor vs Goveness- one rules a country the other teaches children in their homes).

Why does this matter?

We need to considered how language is intimately tied to behavior, knowledge, and culture. Sapri-Whorf Hypothesis, more commonly known as linguistic relativity is the theory that a person's language changes how they perceive the world around them. Since its conception, this theory has been widely debated. However, most people believe the theory, it's debated how much language impacts our culture, but the idea that it has an impact is backed up by many studies.

Studies include Colour study, how Russian speakers could identify colors faster than English speakers + How German speakers lost that ability after years of speaking English. Note that Russian and German both have more labels for colors, differing them from English speakers.

How has our language accidentally othered femininity?

The acoustic and perceptual bases of judgments of women and men's sexual orientation from read speech.

This studies how people view sexual orientation based on their speech and voice. They found that gay men were easier to identify than lesbians even though they both changed their speech. Men would raise their voice, feminine while women would lower theirs to be more masculine. This shows how femininity is easier to identify because we see it as an “other” so when women show more masculine traits we gloss over it because we see it as more “normal”.

This is only one example that shines light on how we don’t even notice these biases. There are likely hundreds of more that we can't even begin to imagine because it is so ingrained in our day-to-day life, our culture, and our society.

Impact/intersect

Misogyny and Homophobia: Patriarchy, gender policing, and the Male Gaze

It’s hard to tell which came first. Did our black and white language accidentally push an anti feminine belief or has misogyny and the patriarchy impacted our day to day speech? Either way at this point it’s more of a cycle constantly pushing patriarchal values.

Misogyny is not only the act of hating women but hating anything seen as “feminine”. When it comes to homophobia gay men and lesbian women are treated differently. Homosexual men tend to suffer discrimination and abuse because they don’t fit what is considered “manly” This is why people say things like “that's so gay” as an insult. Men not adhering to masculinity or showing more feminine traits are discouraged.

On the other hand, lesbians get more hate due to fetishization and breaking the patriarchy. Many queer women in WLW presenting relationships have experienced comments including “Can I get in on that” or “I can join in if you want a threesome”. Interestingly, “butch” women and others who present more masculine are “treated with fear and contempt for trying to encroach on traditionally male territory and not conforming to normative ideals of female beauty” (Williamson, 7).

Obviously there’s more impacts that have resulted however I just focused on homophobia as an example of intersectionality. If you have any other examples feel free to add on and share them.

Anyways thanks for listening to my rant I just thought it was interesting :)

[valthepoetess]

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Saturna Cloudford (OC) Basic info ✿

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Birth name: Saturna Cloudford Conetti

Nickname: “Sat” – “Poetess”

Rank: First Lieutenant

Other: Paramedic Rescue Leader

Age: 28 y/o

Nationality: American

Date of birth: March 22, 1996

Place of birth: Queens, NY, USA

Eye color: Black

Hair color: Brown

Height: 5'9" / 1.75 cm

Weight: 60kg approx.

RH: A+

Ethnicity: Mixed (American-Italian)

Native language: English

Other(s): Italian, Spanish, French.

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About Saturna:

Saturna is currently a 28-year-old woman, with short, dark wavy hair that is very difficult to deal with, just as her mother told her, "hair reflects personality." She is 5'9'' (1.75 cm) tall, with a usually athletic build, although not very defined. She has quite expressive and dark eyes, a round nose and her upper lip is larger than the lower one (as if they were inverted). Thin and fine eyebrows, and a light brown complexion. Don't forget his tattoos, the most recognizable is a small tattoo of a carnation on his chest (🏵) She also has the logo of her favorite band (Måneskin) tattooed on the back of her neck, and a star design on her lower back.

Scars: She has most of her scars on her arms (with which she protects herself) and knees (with which she falls to the ground many times), a long scar on her abdomen, a circular burn on her right forearm.

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★ Favorite bands: Måneskin, Bikini Kill, GRLwood, Red Hot Chili Peppers.

★ Favorite singers: Doja Cat, Dolly Parton, , Adele, Tyler The Creator.

★ Favorite series: Brooklyn 99th, The Law And Order SVU, Chicago Med, Chicago P.D, The Good Doctor, Sex and the City, WandaVision and Loki.

★ Favorite hobbies: Singing in the shower, dancing whenever she has the opportunity, eating, telling jokes, writing prose or poems, reading (a lot), going for a run.

★ At Columbia (University) she was in a rock band called "Confession", she was the lead vocalist.

★ She knows how to play the acoustic and electric guitar.

★ She knows how to rap fluently (mostly cause ahe always speaks very fast)

★ She loves makeup, and always uses that black makeup around her eyes that simulate a star.

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Personality:

She has always been outgoing and friendly, exuding self-confidence and mostly good humor. She is kind, thoughtful and passionate, determined in everything she does. She considers herself an activist and has quite liberal morals, although politics is not something she likes very much, she is always up for a debate. She loves to talk, and let's say more than usual. She considers herself an atheist, not a believer in any god per se, but she believes that there is some powerful force that governs everything equally, she considers it the universe. She is agile, flexible and good at hand-to-hand combat, quick to think and skilled at making decisions under pressure. Despite her work, or her life in general, what identifies her is her relaxed and unflappable attitude towards things, she is not someone who gets stressed easily, and she has carried that within her since the beginning of her life. (…)

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Draws!

[elfilululuuu]

[seanpultz]

Beetlejuice and Lydia in The Haunted Mansion

We approach the outside of Gracey Mansion, which resembles the Joel Rathbone mansion, a Gothic Revival Pointed-style villa designed by Alexander Jackson (A.J.) Davis, in the upper Hudson River Valley area of Albany, New York.

Lydia: (in awe) Wow, Beetlejuice, this place is…

Beetlejuice: (interrupting) Magnificently macabre?

Lydia: (smiling) Yeah, exactly. It's like something straight out of a storybook.

Beetlejuice: (proudly) It's the Haunted Mansion, kiddo. The crown jewel of creepiness in this neck of the woods. Or, in this case, the middle of a theme park.

Lydia: (giggling) I can't believe we're actually here. It's like stepping into one of your pranks, but on a much grander scale.

Entering the queuing area through a pair of ornate gates, we find ourselves in the mansion's nearly-neglected gardens and grounds. The queuing path leads guests past a knocked over birdbath, a black carriage hearse led by an invisible horse, and finally leads into the awning.

Lydia: (whispers) This place is giving me the creeps, but in the best possible way.

Beetlejuice: (whispers back) Shh, Lydia. Remember, we're supposed to blend in with the other humans. They don't know we're the real deal.

They walk down the path, with Lydia's eyes widening at each spooky sight. Beetlejuice, ever the prankster, pretends to trip over the invisible horse's reins, causing it to "move" the carriage forward with a dramatic creak.

Lydia: (giggles) Beetlejuice, cut it out. That's not funny.

Beetlejuice: (winks) Oh, but it is, my dear Lydia. It's all part of the act.

We are greeted at a gate with several busts of a family that once lived in the mansion that killed each other over inheriting a large fortune. Embossed musical instruments on a crypt that once touched a haunted tune mysteriously plays. Water and bubbles emerge from a crypt belonging to a Captain Culpepper Clyne. Words inexplicably appear upon on a tomb belonging to a poetess named Prudence Pock. Then they reach the servant's entrance where we enter the mansion.

Beetlejuice: (stops in front of the busts) Well, well, well. If it isn't the murderous melody of the Sensitive Siblings. I'd say it's a real family affair here.

Lydia: (rolls her eyes) Beetlejuice, you're not helping with the blending in.

Beetlejuice: (shrugs) Can't help it. The place is practically begging for a good laugh. Besides, these guys are just decorations. They couldn't scare a fly if their lives depended on it.

The busts of the family members seem to scoff at Beetlejuice's remark, their eyes following the duo as they pass. The haunted tune from the embossed musical instruments crescendos, making Lydia jump.

Lydia: (nervously) Okay, maybe you're right. This place is definitely… lively.

Beetlejuice: (snickers) Lively? That's the understatement of the millennium. C'mon, let's not keep the dead waiting.

They approach the servant's entrance, where the words "Welcome Foolish Mortals" are etched above the doorway.

Beetlejuice: (reads the inscription) "Welcome Foolish Mortals"? Oh, they're speaking my language. After you, Lydia.

Lydia: (sighs) If you say so, Mr. Ghost with the Most.

With a dramatic flourish, Beetlejuice opens the door, and they step into the dimly lit, cobweb-covered foyer of the Haunted Mansion. The air is thick with the scent of dust and decay, and a faint organ tune echoes through the halls. Lydia tightens her grip on Beetlejuice's hand, feeling a mix of excitement and apprehension as they begin their journey into the world of the supernatural, surrounded by the very things she's always found fascinating.

We enter the elegant-but-spartan foyer as a distant pipe organ plays a dirge-like version of Grim Grinning Ghosts. Following this hallway, we enter a foyer, which features a fireplace to the left side. There is a picture hanging above the fireplace, which shows a handsome, young man (quite possibly the owner of the mansion).

Lydia: (staring at the picture) Who's that dashing young man? The former owner of the mansion, perhaps?

Beetlejuice: (squinting) Eh, looks like your typical rich stiff to me. Probably had more money than sense.

As they gaze at the portrait, the eyes of the young man in the painting follow them eerily. Suddenly, the lights flicker and a ghostly apparition emerges from the frame.

Lydia: (gasps) Beetlejuice, he's… he's moving!

Beetlejuice: (grinning mischievously) Ah, they've got some tricks up their sleeves here. Not bad for a bunch of amateurs.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): "When hinges creak in doorless chambers. When strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls. Whenever candlelights flicker when the air is deathly still… That is the time when ghosts are present, practicing their terror with ghoulish delight."

Beetlejuice: (clapping his hands) Ah, the Ghost Host. A classic touch. They're really going all out for the ambiance, aren't they?

While this is being said, the picture above the fireplace starts transforming Dorian Gray-style from that of a handsome young man, to that of a rotting corpse.

Lydia: (swallows hard) Uh, Beetlejuice, is that… normal for this place?

Beetlejuice: (nonchalantly) Oh, sure. Just your run-of-the-mill portrait that tells you the backstory of the place while simultaneously giving you the heebie-jeebies. Nothing to worry about.

Once the picture's transformation is complete, one of the walls opens up next to the picture, revealing an octagonal room.

Beetlejuice: (whispers in Lydia's ear) And now, the grand reveal! The doorway to our haunted adventure. After you, my dear.

We enter this octagonal room from the Foyer. Four paintings (A bearded gentleman holding a document, A pretty young lady holding a parasol, An old woman holding a rose and A man in a bowler hat) flanked by candle-wielding gargoyles, hang from the walls in this chamber.

Beetlejuice: (clapping) Bravo! Bravo! The art of the macabre truly lives here. But, let's not get too cozy with the wallpaper, shall we?

Lydia: (nervously smiling) Right, we should keep moving.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): "Welcome, foolish mortals, to the Haunted Mansion. I am your host, your Ghost Host. Our tour begins here in this gallery. Here, where you see paintings of some of our guests as they appeared in their corruptible, mortal state. Kindly step all the way in please, and make room for everyone. There’s no turning back now."

The doors we enter slam shut, The room begins to stretch upwards, the paintings on the walls elongating with it to reveal a comically gruesome end for each subject:

The bearded gentleman holding a document is revealed to be wearing only his undergarments from the waist down and standing atop a lit keg of dynamite.

The pretty young lady holding a parasol is revealed to be balancing on a fraying tightrope above the gaping jaws of an alligator.

The old woman holding a rose is revealed to be sitting atop a tall gravestone, at the bottom of which is a stone bust of her husband George with a hatchet embedded in his head.

The man in a bowler hat is revealed to be sitting on the shoulders of another man who sits on the shoulders of a third man who is waist deep in quicksand.

Lydia: (gulps) Beetlejuice, these paintings… they're… they're changing!

Beetlejuice: (laughing) Ah, the Stretching Room! They really went all out with this one. It's like they knew we were coming.

The walls keep stretching, the portraits' grisly fates unfolding before their eyes. Lydia tries not to giggle, but the absurdity of it all is too much.

Lydia: (between laughs) Beetlejuice, are you sure this is just a theme park ride?

Beetlejuice: (winks) Oh, Lydia. It's all just smoke and mirrors. But if it makes you feel any better, I'll keep an eye out for any real ghosts trying to crash the party.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): "Your cadaverous pallor betrays an aura of foreboding, almost as though you sense a disquieting metamorphosis. Is this haunted room actually stretching? Or is it your imagination — hmm? And consider this dismaying observation, This chamber has no windows and no doors… which offers you this chilling challenge: to find a way out!"

The Ghost Host laughs as our focus is on the ceiling.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): Of course, there's always my way.

The lights go out and lightning flashes above. The ceiling vanishes and gives a view of the mansion's cupola, where the skeletal corpse of the Ghost Host sways from a noose tied to the rafters. After a few seconds, the room becomes pitch black and a dreadful scream is heard, followed by the sound of bones shattering. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the horror ended, and the lights flickered back on. They blinked in the sudden brightness, their eyes adjusting to find that the skeletal corpse was gone, and in its place, a wall had slid open, revealing a hidden passage.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): "Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you prematurely. The real chills come later. Now, as they say, ‘look alive,’ and we’ll continue our little tour. And let’s all stay together, please."

Beetlejuice: (chuckles) Oh, the drama. They're really laying it on thick here. C'mon, let's not keep our spectral host waiting.

Lydia: (swallows) Right, let's get this over with.

They step through the newly-revealed passage, and the walls close behind them with an ominous thud. They find themselves in a dimly lit hallway, surrounded by the sound of creaking floorboards and distant whispers.

We continue onward down a long hallway, leading to a short queue that is used to board the Doom Buggies.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): "And now, a carriage approaches to carry you into the boundless realm of the supernatural. Once on board, remain safely seated with your hands, arms, feet, and legs inside. And watch your children, please."

Lydia: (looking around nervously) Beetlejuice, is it just me, or is this place a little too… realistic?

Beetlejuice: (smiling) Nah, Lyds, it's all part of the experience. But if it makes you feel better, I'm right here.

Lydia: (swallows) Okay. I just don't like the idea of getting stuck in a room with nothing but… (gestures to the eerie portraits) these guys.

Beetlejuice: (laughing) Relax, they're not going to jump out and bite you. Unless you ask them nicely.

As they board the Doom Buggies, Lydia clutches the safety bar tightly, while Beetlejuice floats alongside theirs, his feet not quite touching the ground.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): "Do not pull down on the safety bar, please. I will lower it for you. And heed this warning: the spirits will materialize only if you remain quietly seated at all times."

The safety bar is lowered, locking Beetlejuice and Lydia in their Doom Buggy.

The Doom Buggy enters a rather steep stairwell and pass under a landing where a floating candelabra floats in the darkness. After they pass under, they enter a hallway. To the left are two windows with white sheer drapes; lightning crashes and thunders outside. To the right are four paintings: a woman in a black sheer dress reclining on a daybed, a sloop on choppy waters, a knight on a rearing horse, and a woman in a Greek temple. With each flash of lightning, the paintings become: an anthropomorphic tiger, a ghost ship in a tropical storm, a skeleton knight on a skeleton horse, and Medusa in Greek Ruins.

Beetlejuice: (chuckles) Oh, the joys of lightning. It's like watching a live-action comic book over here.

Lydia: (gripping the safety bar tighter) Beetlejuice, this is supposed to be a ride. Those aren't real paintings, are they?

Beetlejuice: (grinning) Well, technically, no. But they're definitely more entertaining than the usual tourist trap stuff.

The Doom Buggy glides through the hallway, the paintings continuing to change with each flash of lightning. The eerie sounds of the storm outside seem to grow louder, and the tension in the air is palpable.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): "Oh yes, and no flash pictures, please. We spirits are frightfully sensitive to bright lights."

Leaving the hallway, we enter into a rectangular library, which is filled from floor-to-ceiling by shelves lined with hundreds of books. Phantom hands pull books from the shelves. An empty chair rocks gently back and forth, and a ladder slides to and fro as an unseen force searches for a good read. Among the shelves, marble busts glare at us as we move along in the gloom.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): “Our library is well stocked with priceless first editions, only ghost stories, of course, and marble busts of the greatest ghost writers the literary world has ever known."

Beetlejuice: (whispers to Lydia) Psst, Lydia. Check it out. That's probably where they keep all the 'How to Haunt' manuals. Maybe I could borrow a few for some new material.

Lydia: (swallows nervously) Beetlejuice, please. This isn't the time for joking around.

Beetlejuice: (pats her arm reassuringly) It's all in good fun, Lyds. Besides, if there's anything we've learned from the Neitherworld, it's that a little reading can go a long way.

Beetlejuice: (pointing to the marble busts) Hey, look at these guys. They're the heavy-hitters of the spooky literature world. I'd love to throw a dinner party with them. Imagine the conversation!

Lydia: (smiling despite herself) You'd probably scare them to death… or back to life, in their cases.

Beetlejuice: (laughs) That's the spirit, Lydia! But seriously, I think I see Shakespeare's ghostly mug in there. Maybe he'll give us some tips for our next big theatrical adventure.

As they glide through the library, the books on the shelves seem to watch them with unblinking eyes, the pages rustling in the unseen wind. The marble busts appear to lean in closer, their expressions frozen but somehow… curious. Lydia can't help but feel a shiver run down her spine.

Leaving the library, we enter the Music Room. In the room, our heroes find an invisible ghost playing a Rachmaninoff-style arrangement of Grim Grinning Ghosts on the piano. The ghost's shadow can be seen cast upon the floor, while a storm brews outside.

The Doom Buggy rolls into the Music Room, the haunting melody of the piano wafting through the air. The sight of the invisible musician's shadow sends a chill down Lydia's spine.

Lydia: (whispers) Beetlejuice, is that… is that real?

Beetlejuice: (winks) As real as I am, darling. But remember, it's all in good fun.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): "They have all retired here, to the Haunted Mansion. Actually, we have 999 happy haunts here. But there’s room for 1,000. Any volunteers?"

Lydia: (swallows) I… I don't think I'd like to be the 1,000th happy haunt, Beetlejuice.

Beetlejuice: (laughing) Nonsense, Lyds! You'd be the belle of the ball. But don't worry, I've got dibs on you. No other spirit's turning you into a permanent decoration.

Next, we enter the main stairwell of the Mansion. Here in this M.C. Escher-like void the stairs go right-side up, upside-down, sideways, slantways, longways, back ways, front ways, square ways, and any other ways that you can think of. It is on these steps we see the ectoplasmic footprints of the Mansion's ghostly residents.

The Doom Buggy ascends the stairwell, the gravity-defying steps twisting and turning in impossible ways beneath them.

Beetlejuice: (clapping his hands) Now, this is more like it! The Neitherworld's got nothing on these stairs. Watch and learn, Disney.

Lydia: (holds her breath) Beetlejuice, I'm not sure I can handle this.

Beetlejuice: (firmly) Lydia, remember the poem. You're the one who brought us here. Now, let's enjoy the ride.

The ghostly footprints seem to follow them as they climb, the sound of laughter and whispers echoing through the stairwell.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): "Well, if you should decide to join us, final arrangements may be made at the end of the tour. A charming ‘ghostess’ will be on hand to take your application."

In the blackness, glowing, blinking eyes transform into the pattern on the wallpaper.

Beetlejuice: I've heard of walls having ears, but this is nuts.

Lydia: Beetlejuice, do you feel like we're being watched?

The Ghost Host (offscreen): "We find it delightfully unlivable here in this ghostly retreat. Every room has wall-to-wall creeps, and hot and cold running chills."

They pass a second floor passageway that seems to go on forever, lined with doors. A lone candelabra floats in midair halfway down it. Flanking the hallway entrance are a subtly-moving Suit of Armour and an armchair designed to have a "face."

Beetlejuice: (whispers) Shh, Lydia. We've got company. (gestures to the moving armor) This guy looks like he could use a good dusting.

Lydia: (nervous chuckle) I don't think he'd appreciate that.

Beetlejuice: (waving to the armor) How ya doin', Sir Squeaks-a-lot?

The suit of armor's head turns slightly, the visor tilting in their direction, giving off a slightly menacing air.

Lydia: (swallows) Beetlejuice, maybe we should just keep moving.

Beetlejuice: (floating closer) Oh, don't worry, Lyds. I've seen scarier armor in the Middle Ages… and I've given it a good rusting too!

Lydia: (whispers) Beetlejuice, is that… a floating candelabra?

Beetlejuice: (nods) Yep, it sure is. And it looks like it's got the night shift.

Lydia: (swallows) Should we… interact with it?

Beetlejuice: (considers) Nah, let's not bother him. He's just lighting the way for the after-party.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): “Shhh, listen!”

A keening sounding like a banshee is heard.

The keening wail pierces the air, sending a shiver down Lydia's spine. She looks to Beetlejuice for reassurance, but even he seems slightly unnerved by the otherworldly sound.

Lydia: (whispers) Beetlejuice, what was that?

Beetlejuice: (swallows) Ah, just one of the local ghosties letting off some steam. Nothing to worry about.

They ride past an alcove-like conservatory, the space choked with decaying and overgrown plants and vegetation. Outside the huge glass walls is a misty landscape, with only the gnarled limbs of leafless trees visible in the gloom. A raven perches on top of a stand with a withered funeral wreath, and in the center of the chamber is a coffin whose occupant is trying to get out - skeletal hands attempt to push the lid open saying "Let me out! Let me outta here!", which based on the nails sticking through the wood was meant to stay sealed.

Beetlejuice: (sarcastically) Oh, look, it's the neighborhood botanist. I'd say he's got a green thumb, but it looks more like a green… everything.

Lydia: (forces a laugh) That's not funny, Beetlejuice. Poor soul, they're really trapped in there.

Beetlejuice: (floating closer to the glass) Hey, buddy! Need a hand with that? (winks at Lydia) Or should I say, need a hand out of there?

The Ghost Host (offscreen): “All our ghosts have been dying to meet you. This one can hardly contain himself. Unfortunately, they all seem to have trouble getting through."

Their Doom Buggy is then carried backward down an ominous corridor, a series of doors on either side of the car. Growls, screams, maniacal laughter and pleading voices emanate from behind them, as if something is trying to get out. Doors bend, as if they are breathing, knockers clack and rattle, and the walls are adorned with some "family portraits" of corpses.

Beetlejuice: (to the doors) Hey, folks! Mind if we crash your little party?

Lydia: (swallows) Beetlejuice, maybe we should just keep going.

Beetlejuice: (laughing) Oh, don't worry. They're just trying to spook you. They're like the paparazzi of the dead.

At the end of the hall lies a grandfather clock, with its arms spinning wildly backwards and the clock striking 13. A shadow of a clawed hand passes over the face of the clock.

Lydia: (gulps) Thirteen, huh? That's definitely not your average timepiece.

Beetlejuice: (grinning) Nah, it's more like the ghostly equivalent of a cuckoo clock on steroids. And check out that shadow! It's got more flair than I do.

We next enter the shadowy Séance Circle. The buggies travel in a circle facing a large table and high-backed chair in the center of the room (a raven perches on the back of the chair). Above this table floats a crystal ball containing the spirit of Madame Leota, chanting incantations that summon the spirits to appear.

Madam Leota: "Serpents and spiders, tail of a rat, call in the spirits, wherever they’re at!

Beetlejuice: (watches the crystal ball intently) Well, well, if it isn't the infamous Madam Leota. I've heard she puts the 'fun' in 'funeral' around here.

Lydia: (eyes the crystal ball warily) Beetlejuice, she looks pretty serious about her job.

Beetlejuice: (snickers) Oh, she's all show. But hey, if she ever needs an understudy, I've got the whole fortune-telling gig down pat. Watch this.

He pulls out a small, grimy crystal ball from his pocket and holds it up to his face, mimicking Madam Leota's chant. The ball fogs up, and for a moment, an image of a bug-infested sandwich flickers within.

Lydia: (covers her mouth, trying not to laugh) Beetlejuice, that's not exactly comforting.

Beetlejuice: (laughs) Oh, come on, Lyds. You know I've got the gift of gab. Now, if I could just get the gift of actual ghost summoning…

Madam Leota: Rap on a table — it’s time to respond. Send us a message from somewhere beyond…Goblins and ghoulies from last Halloween, awaken the spirits with your tambourine! Creepies and crawlies, toads in a pond, let there be music from regions beyond! Wizards and witches, wherever you dwell, give us a hint, by ringing a bell!"

The Ghost Host (offscreen): "The happy haunts have received your sympathetic vibrations and are beginning to materialize. They’re assembling for a swinging wake, and they’ll be expecting me… I’ll see you all a little later."

Next, we travel along a balcony overlooking the hall. A major party is underway as a multitude of transparent spirits engage in all sorts of revelry. A long dining table covered with decayed floral arrangements and dusty silverware plays host to a birthday feast, and whenever the orange-haired birthday ghost blows out the candles on a birthday cake at the head of the table, the other ghosts seated there vanish, only to reappear when the candles light again; nearby, an old woman disappears and reappears in a rocking chair. Several haunts drift into the hall from a hearse parked in a doorway, while cloaked wraith-like phantoms fly in through the broken windows from a stormy night outside. While a number of ghosts - including the notorious Pickwick - gadabout on the chandeliers above the room, a pair of duelists emerge from their respective paintings on the far wall and take shots at each other, forever reenacting their age-old feud. The open floor whirls with waltzing couples as a ghastly organist plays Grim Grinning Ghosts on a pipe organ, where tiny spirits emerge from the pipes.

Lydia: (excited) Beetlejuice, this is incredible! It's like we're in the middle of a ghostly masquerade ball.

Beetlejuice: (chuckles) And we're the uninvited guests crashing the party. Classic us, Lyds.

The Doom Buggy comes to a halt, allowing them to take in the spectral sight. Beetlejuice leans over the balcony railing, watching the dancing ghosts below with a mix of envy and amusement.

Beetlejuice: (whispers) I've got to hand it to these deadbeats, they know how to throw a bash.

Lydia: (smiling nervously) Just remember, we're here to blend in. No causing trouble, okay?

Beetlejuice: (makes a zipping motion across his lips) Mum's the word. For now. (winks)

Leaving the Grand Hall, we ride through a dark, dusty and cluttered attic, where the sound of a beating heart and a sinister piano rendition of "The Wedding March" can be heard. Among the brick-a-brac are several pieces of wedding paraphernalia and decor, and five different marriage paintings, depicting the same bride but with a different groom in each. As guests watch, the heads of each of the grooms disappear, only to reappear moments later.

Beetlejuice: (points to the disappearing heads) Now that's what I call a real head turner, Lydia! These grooms must've had some serious commitment issues.

Lydia: (laughing) Beetlejuice, that's not funny. They're probably just having a bit of an identity crisis.

After passing the source of the music, a broken-down piano with an invisible pianist (only a shadow of a man cast on the wall and keys), we come face-to-face with the ghost of the bride, Constance Hatchaway.

Constance Hatchaway: “In sickness and in… wealth. You may now kiss the bride. We’ll live happily ever after. Till death do us part. Here comes the bride. As long as we both shall live. For better or for… worse. I do. I did.”

She laughs while, periodically, a spectral hatchet appears in her hands.

Beetlejuice: (whispers to Lydia) Oh boy, looks like we've got ourselves a real bridezilla situation here. Watch your head, Lyds.

Lydia: (swallows) Beetlejuice, don't even think about it. We're just tourists, remember?

Beetlejuice: (grinning mischievously) Sure, sure. But if she asks for a kiss from the groom… (winks)

Lydia: (playfully elbows him) Don't you dare!

We escape from the attic through a window.

Following leaving the Attic window, the Doombuggies move down the balcony outside the house and down a flight of stairs backwards. A raven caws at guests from a tree branch. The shapes of rising spirits can be seen everywhere.

Beetlejuice: (excitedly) Whoa, Lyds! This is the life! Free-falling with style.

Lydia: (grabbing the side of the Doombuggy) Beetlejuice, it's just a ride, remember?

Beetlejuice: (laughing) I know, I know. But c'mon, you've gotta admit, it's pretty exhilarating for a dead guy!

Upon reaching the ground, the graveyard Caretaker can be seen with his dog, the two of them utterly petrified by the sight before them.

Beetlejuice: (waves) Hey there! Don't mind us, we're just here for the ambiance. (to Lydia) And maybe a little bit of inspiration for my next prank.

Lydia: (rolls her eyes) Beetlejuice, you're going to give us away.

Music is all around, while playful spooks pop-up from behind their tombstones. To the left, a group of five phantoms play a flute, a horn, a bagpipe, a harp, and pound on a tombstone to create an unearthly vibe. A King and Queen balance on a see-saw while a Duchess swings from a tree branch while she drinks a cup of tea. In the very back a skeletal wolf is seen howling at the moon.

Beetlejuice: (clapping his hands in time to the music) Now this is what I call a jam session! Lyds, you should see the bands I've had to deal with in the Neitherworld. These guys are like Mozart compared to them.

Lydia: (smiling) It's definitely got a unique sound to it. But maybe don't get too inspired, okay? I don't want to come home to a bagpipe-playing skeleton in our living room.

Beetlejuice: (pouts) But think of the potential for a good scare, Lyds. Plus, they might teach me a few new tunes.

Lydia: (firmly) Beetlejuice, no. Remember, we're here to enjoy the ride, not to recruit new band members for your next prank.

Beetlejuice: (sighs) Fine, fine. But if they ask for an autograph, I'm not saying no. (winks)

On the other side of the path, five Singing Busts come into view, bearing very vividly lit, expressive faces as they sing:

♪ When the crypt doors creak ♪ ♪ And the tombstones quake ♪ ♪ Spooks come out for a singing wake ♪ ♪ Happy haunts materialize ♪ ♪ And begin to vocalize ♪ ♪ Grim grinning ghosts come out to socialize ♪ ♪ Now don't close your eyes ♪ ♪ And don't try to hide ♪ ♪ Or a silly spook may sit by your side ♪ ♪ Shrouded in a daft disguise ♪ ♪ They pretend to terrorize ♪ ♪ Grim grinning ghosts come out to socialize ♪ ♪ As the moon climbs high o'er dead oak tree ♪ ♪ Spooks arrive for the midnight spree ♪ ♪ Creepy creeps with eerie eyes ♪ ♪ Start to shriek and harmonize ♪ ♪ Grim grinning ghosts come out socialize ♪ ♪ When you hear the knell of a requiem bell ♪ ♪ Weird glows gleam where spirits dwell ♪ ♪ Restles bones etherealize ♪ ♪ Rise as spooks of every size ♪

Lydia: (clapping along to the Singing Busts) That's pretty catchy. Maybe we could use this tune for your next ghostly gig.

Beetlejuice: (beams) Why, Lydia Deetz, you're a genius! We'll have the Neitherworld singing along in no time! (suddenly stops) Uh-oh, it looks like the party's about to get real.

Other ghosts materialize, gathering around a hearse and drinking tea. A Mummy sits in his sarcophagus, trying to make contact with an elderly spirit who is just too deaf to understand him. Two "Phantoms of the Opera" blast their ghostly voices into the night. A Beheaded Knight, his Executioner, and his Prisoner all sing as a trio, while the poor ghost behind them tombs himself up. Our hero's Doom buggy enters the Mausoleum at the end of the Graveyard sequence where they are immediately "greeted" by the Raven who caws at guests while perching on the door to the Mausoleum.

Beetlejuice: (nods to the Raven) Hey, buddy. What's the scoop on the afterlife around here? You guys throwing a party for the living?

Raven: (caws)

Lydia: (whispers) Beetlejuice, I don't think he's much of a conversationalist.

Beetlejuice: (shrugs) That's cool, I can relate. Sometimes, all I want to do is squawk at the moon too.

As the Doom Buggies enter the Mausoleum, the coolness of the tombs envelops them. The walls are lined with cobwebs and the air is thick with the scent of ancient dust.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): "Ah, there you are! And just in time… there’s a little matter I forgot to mention. Beware of Hitchhiking Ghosts!"

We pass by three hitchhiking spirits; a Traveler, a Skeleton and a Prisoner.

Their Doom Buggy passes by a wall of mirrors showing that the Hitchhikers are sitting in the vehicles along with Beetlejuice and Lydia.

Lydia: (laughing nervously) Beetlejuice, is this really necessary? I don't think we need to be giving anyone else a ride home tonight.

Beetlejuice: (grinning) Oh, come on, Lyds. Live a little! It's not every day you get to carpool with the undead.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): "They have selected you to fill our quota, and they’ll haunt you until you return!"

A very small being only around the size of a doll. She wears a white satin dress with a long, non-transparent hood, often mistaken for a veil, of the same material. She has visible long blue hair and glowing pale blue skin. stands atop the ledge of the crypt holding a bouquet of dead flowers. She is Little Leota, the Ghostess.

Little Leota: “Hurry back. Hurry back. Be sure to bring your death certificate, if you decide to join us. Make final arrangements now! We've been dying… to have you…".

Beetlejuice: (laughing) Oh, Little Leota, always the charmer. But sorry, no can do on that death certificate. I'm a bit attached to this old corpse of mine.

Lydia: (playfully hits Beetlejuice's arm) That's not nice. Besides, she's just part of the show.

Beetlejuice: (grinning) Maybe for you, but for me, every day's a show. And speaking of shows, check this out. (He starts to whistle a tune, and a pair of skeletal hands emerge from the ground, playing a banjo and a guitar) How about we join the band for a number?

Lydia: (eyes widen) Beetlejuice, no! We're supposed to be tourists, remember?

Beetlejuice: (holds up his hands) Alright, alright. But you know I can't resist a good jam session.

The Ghost Host (offscreen): "Now I will raise the safety bar, and a ghost will follow you home!"

The safety bar is risen and Beetlejuice and Lydia disembarks the Doom Buggy. As they head for the exit, we hear the ghosts sing this following passage:

♪ If you would like to join our jamboree ♪ ♪ There's a simple rule that's compulsory ♪ ♪ Mortals pay a token fee ♪ ♪ Rest in peace, the haunting's free ♪ ♪ So hurry back, we would like your company ♪

As they exit the Mausoleum, Beetlejuice nudges Lydia.

Beetlejuice: (whispers) So, what do you say, Lyds? Did we get our spooky fix for the night?

Lydia: (smiling) I think so, Beetlejuice. But I have to admit, it was a lot tamer than I expected.

Beetlejuice: (chuckles) Tamer? This is the Outerworld, kiddo. They have to keep it PG for the humans. But hey, if you want a real scare, I can show you some of my personal haunts in the Neitherworld.

Lydia: (raises an eyebrow) Maybe some other time. I think I've had enough excitement for one night.

Beetlejuice: (pouts) Suit yourself. But don't say I didn't offer you the full experience.

They make their way out of the Haunted Mansion, the ghostly laughter echoing behind them as they step back into the lively Magic Kingdom.

Lydia: (looks around) You know, it's weird. After being in there, the real world seems so…ordinary.

Beetlejuice: (smirks) That's because you've got me, Lydia. I'm the ultimate escape from the mundane.

The two friends stroll down Main Street, USA, the castle's lights reflecting in their eyes as the nightly fireworks display begins, painting the sky with a riot of color.