#granite stone monument grave tombstone

[justhighstone]

[hazelmayn]

CRYPTOLOGY

The Butterfly in honored Dust

Assuredly will lie

But none will pass the Catacomb

So chastened as the Fly –

E. Dickinson

Coming to Terms with the Terms

When dealing with tombs and graven things one can happen upon many evocative terms. What exactly is a sepulcher vs a sarcophagus? Sometimes these things are conflated within the popular tongue. But a true grave-robber knows the difference!

TOMBSTONES & CAIRNS

They are mostly the same. A cairn is an ancient version of what tombstones are today. Yet both retain that they are a grave marker of sorts. Smattered across the earth; they are simply the image-burn of an eons-lived sapience.

Cairns

As simple as a stacked pillar, pile or structure of stones. Beyond this, they are diverse. Some have passage-ways, while others appear as a wall.

Tombstones

Carved headstones. Upright or lain into the earth. They are beautifully made stelae with depictions of art and written epitaphs. Six-feet below, in the earth, lies the resting dead. With all their macabre possessions especially chosen to forever collect dust and grime with the interred.

CEMETERIES & GRAVEYARDS

These two are mostly the same. A plot of land, above the ground, where many cairns or tombstones are laid bare. The one difference being this: Cemeteries exist on their own plots of land, open to all. Graveyards exist on the plot of land surrounding an important structure. Such as an abbey or a manor house.

MAUSOLEUMS, BARROWS & CATACOMBS

These are great cemeteries, cities for the dead. Where the interred rest in chambers and not wrapped in dirt. Cut-off from daylight and fresh air. Sealed away, in the dark and the dust.

Mausoleum

A grand monument and structure to store the venerable interred. Usually above ground as a fortress. More often than not, they are plundered and long ago re-purposed.

Barrow

The Ancient version of a Mausoleum. Usually designed as, or inside of, a hillock. They boast numerous earth hewn passageways as well as false entrances, purposely crafted to confuse the unwary vandal.

Catacomb

Here lies the true tomb-stalker’s delight! They are an underground cemetery with numerous corridors and chambers containing the resting dead. Along with many a lifetime’s trappings, treasures and travesties. They lie in wait, within their complex halls, both pilfered and untouched alike.

TOMBS, CRYPTS, OSSUARIES & OUBLIETTES

These are the diverse chambers and corridors that form the final resting place for the interred. Usually as part of a greater complex within a mausoleum, barrow or catacomb. Here are some of the differences between them:

Tombs

Also known as Sepulchers. They are the singular chambers & rooms where the interred settle into their final resting place. These spaces can be of any size and house any number of resting dead. They are typically entered via an archway or, very rarely, a door of some sort.

Crypts

Possess the same qualities as Tombs with one crucial difference. Crypts, by their nature, are hidden or sealed away. They are exclusively entered via Sealed Stone Doors or Hidden Secret Doors.

Ossuaries

They can be either a Chamber or a Corridor. These are spaces to inter the venerable bones of the nameless dead. Each skeleton, skull and individual bone is placed with care into the architecture itself in reverence.

Oubliette

This is a malevolent place to inter the forgotten dead, forever to oblivion. Often buried alive and locked away in the dark or a maze. Other times a mass grave, thrown to darkness with a forgetful curse. They are often entered from a trapdoor in the ground or a locked and barred door, with no easy way to get back out of.

SARCOPHAGI, COFFINS, LOCULI & GRAVE NICHES

The specifics of how and what contains the resting dead inside of their chambers and hallowed halls.

Sarcophagus

The most ornate and regal way the dead can rest forever. Usually a stone boxed container, covered with a stone slab. Made of limestone or granite, and in rare cases marble. In very rare cases, the container is carved into the likeness of the interred.

Coffin

The same as a sarcophagus except it is made of wood and nails. Usually for the more commoner types of interred. Most often buried in the earth, or lined up in a single chamber.

Loculi

Ornate coffers built and lined into chamber walls. Made of small squared recesses carved into stone. Sealed or locked with square doors of stone or copper. Sometimes embellished with epitaphs or bas relief. Appear as many together, rather than just one or two.

Grave Niches

The lesser version of Loculi. Simple horizontal and rectangular niches carved into stone walls. The dead rest open to the air of the chambers and corridors they are in.

URNS & COLUMBARIUM

Urns are the jars, jugs, ceramics and amphora that contain the ashes of the dead. With a Columbarium being a chamber or corridor containing shallow square coffers specifically carved into the walls in order to display urns.

[thenightlymirror]

Where to begin?

I’m totally fucked.

Of the 14 big monuments we had sitting in the back, some since 2021, we got three done by a local contractor I emailed personally. Then I went into Beast Mode and tried to get the grounds crew to get ready for 5 monuments when the granite company came next. Then, end of day before the delivery, I see that the foundation for the guy who’s been coming in every week, who’s father died two years ago, comes in saying “Listen I don’t want to cause a problem. I would take him to another cemetery if I could, but I can’t. Just please install his tombstone that’s already here.” I have personally issued the paperwork three times, with many pleas. And it’s not done.

I’m furious. I come in the next day, bring it to the GM, the superintendent, who has one of his main guys suspended for the week. My boss stops by and says “Oh, one of the grounds guys walked off today.” Later, in my office, she’s like, “It’s such a shame Bryan isn’t here this week, when we need him the most.” Like she didn’t piss him off and nearly get him to quit and then had to suspend him. Psycho shit. I’m running around like crazy, I find two markers that were never actually ordered because the rubbings were never submitted. I’m in the dirt, in a caved in grave, trying to do a rubbing on a caved in headstone in a caved in grave, of a young daughter’s little bunny rabbits to match for her sister’s tombstone. I get called back because they need the golf cart to cheer up some friends of a cop that got killed. I understand, but I’m just beat red, soaked in sweat, so pissed.

By the end of the day, the foundation is in. I ask the GM about the giant bench that needs to be installed. I haven’t checked that the foundation was installed with my own eyes, because I told the GM that it wasn’t done last week, and then she personally insisted they finished it after. I ask her again if it is done. I realize I don’t believe a word she says. I check. It’s not in. What the holy fuck. I cannot trust a single fucking person at this place.

The delivery never comes.

The next day I come down with some stomach illness and feel like I’ve been hit with a truck. They let me go, my trainer stays. She proceeded to have a horrible fucking day. We have a huge stack of shit to do that has been delayed because we are trying to get all these monuments and other random headstones and bronzes that have been piling behind the garage out. She gets nothing done because she keeps having new pissed off customers yelling at her at the front desk. The delivery truck arrives, insisted the foundation for that bench is there because the GM STILL INSISTS that is that case, treats her like an idiot.

The vendor got 7 monuments in. Not 5, not 4. Seven.

The trainer texts me crying on the way home. I left work at 11am. Hit the bed and slept until 4pm. She texts. I fall back asleep until 1am. I watch 30 minutes of Best in Show, sleep until 6:30.

Back behind the garage, there’s more progress than ever. You can almost see the ground. By deus ex machina, we are doing better than we ever imagined we’d be. I work slowly through the day taking stock. Drive by and sit with the coyote for a while. (I told Buck the coyote was named Junebug, after a friend of mine). I leave at 3:00 because I’m still tired. Wake up at 4am totally refreshed, finally realizing how sick I must have been.

Work through Memorial Day weekend. Only four days off this month.

Today, my trainer is finally back. It’s nice to see her. We plan to see a family in the afternoon who has the stone monument in stock, is still trying to make changes to the design, and also wanted it completed in 3 week. No. They try to cancel but realize they have no where to go, so we’re going to help them design it.

We go out to lunch. I bring my tarot cards. Her reading says that she has a precocious student who is going to inspire her toward a happily ever after. Whatever that means. Mine says that I am dreaming of escaping, either like a thief in the night, or sad, exhausted, and defeated, but in the end I stay, just barely ahead of the pack. She gets a phone call.

She’s gone for a long time on this call. I do another reading for myself, which this time is a lot more optimistic. The King of Pentacles.

She comes back to the table, her face is bright red, covered in tears. “Are you ready to go?”

“Are you okay?”

She can’t tell me what’s wrong. I ask “Did you get promoted?” She laughs. No. She says, “You can’t tell Carlene.” I have no idea what she’s talking about. It occurs to me that maybe they’re moving Carlene somewhere else to attack her boss. No. I tell her, “You know, this job. If you’re this miserable, maybe you should do something else. These days, they all add up.” They’re pulling my trainer out at the end of the week to work on something else. I’ll never be trained. Not really. We just sort of solved their emergency, and now I’m going to be one more memorialist at this location who has no idea what they’re doing.

She feels bad because I’m totally fucked. Her whole job is to coordinate and make us the best there is, and the company just doesn’t give a fuck. They just want to save money. I’m just trying to be like “No, it’s ok. You’ll be gone for a while. I’ll still call. I have Sandra. I’ll be fine.”

I give her 15 minutes in the car to just cry.

I’m getting the room ready to meet this family. She comes in. She says she can’t look at my face without crying. She leaves. The mother comes in, I’m alone, but I talk to her for a while and try to guide her through some process that I barely understand myself. The husband comes in. When the trainer comes in, it’s so obvious she’s fucking devastated. There’s two parents of a dead boy here, and she’s so fucked up.

I take the family outside to look at other monuments and explain the different engraving techniques to them. She gets a call, disappears for a long time. I come back in with the family once we decide on a few things and send her a text that we’re back in the arrangement room.

It goes well. We come up with a proof. I hand her a pillow from the couch and tell her to take off her glasses. I hit her a few times and she hits me back. Back in my office, I ask her if she needs a hug. She says no. She says she just needs to not be a baby. I have five files slapped on my desk at the end of the day for burials that need to be finalized. She’s trying to act happy when she goes, even though she’s still a wreck, which is all the more heartbreaking.

At one point, I am trying to pull up my bank account on my computer to see if I have enough money to walk out on my job, but I pause, and slow down, and get back to work.

[angeliqueshelleyartist]

Further Development Project 1

Of Myth And Notoriety/Lycanmancer

Post #2

My own Game Concept blurb that I will be developing artwork for:

Of Myth and Notoriety  The gods, ever at odds, but sharing a sadistic enjoyment of entertainment, decided to settle their matters through human ends by resurrecting and raising champions. The only criteria was to choose people that had no current renown. The gods chose would-be champions based on affinity, personality and latent talent.   A tragic, lonely death of an absurdly unremarkable character catches the attention of one such god, who resurrects them as an undead; a second, albeit cursed, chance to create a new myth, and attract a notoriety that would rival even the gods'. 

Fitting with the theme of playing as an undead character, respawning has more of a focus. Your character's burial plot can be upgraded over time and increase in complexity and change in appearance as your character makes choices across the alignment chart in-game. For example, a humble tombstone may upgrade into a marble Gothic headstone if lawful good choices are made, or a cursed mausoleum if chaotic evil choices are made and myth and notoriety develop.

An alignment Chart often used as part of D&D game play

I have broken up the above alignment chart to create a style guide for how the grave markers could changed based on game play.

Cultural Influences: Lawful: Gothic Neutral: druidic/nordic/celtic Chaotic: cambodian/indian inspirations for good, aztec but sharp for evil

Shape Language: Evil: Triangle Neutral: Circle Good: Square

Details:

Lawful Good

Headstone Inspiration: Gothic inspired, polished white Marble, gold engraved text, symmetrical, square. Clean, orderly, clinical.

UK Cheshire Aldford St John the Baptist Church churchyard. travelib prime, 2008

Monument inspiration: Tour St Jaques, Paris

Saint-Jacques Tower at sunrise. Benh, 2015

Neutral Good

Headstone: Cairns which can increase in size & detail levels of single standing stone, evolving into a small henge monument with  celtic carvings.

Wistman’s Wood, Sidgreaves, 2018

Monument Inspiration:

Pictish standing stone (number 1) at Aberlemno. Scarf, n/d

Chaotic Good

Headstone: Repaired Kintsugi-style white granite Hindu style goddess with many arms.

Kintsukuroi: A perspective on COVID-19. Hayee, 2020

Lawful Neutral

Headstone: No religious iconography.

Illegible German Monument, South Side Cemetery. 3Dscanstore, 2020

Monument Inspiration: Sir Walter Scott Monument, Edinburgh

Edinburgh’s Gothic Missile. Traveling Savage, (Aelyth Savage), n/d

The National Wallace Monument. Ritebook, 2021

True Neutral

Headstone: All myth is reciprocated by nature, with little to no human elements, epic natural formations with growing wild flowers and stones. E.g. A flowering tree spiraling around standing stones.

The standing stone of Tir Artair. Megalithix, 2013

Chaotic Neutral

Headstone: I would describe the tombstone design to be an irregularly shaped monolith, seemingly suspended at an odd angle with symbols of unpredictability, like swirling patterns or abstract designs. The inscription is cryptic, hinting at the complexity and unpredictability of the person whom the memorial is for..

Lawful Evil

Headstone: Corrupted "Lawful Good".

The Haserot Angel. DocBrownX, 2014

Monument Inspiration:

Gothic Fountains. Ferrebeekeper, 2017

Neutral Evil

Headstone: Circular stone formation, hanging bones, bird wings, moss, lichen, poison puffy mushrooms, thorny vines.

Mystery artist creates elaborate stone artworks. Barrowdale Institute, 2021

Chaotic Evil

Headstone: Grotesque and malformed/monster-human hybrid sculptures/cthulhu

Telmessos. Fethiye, (n/d)

Image References:

3Dscanstore. (2020). Illegible German Monument, South Side Cemetery. [Photograph]. https://pittsburghcemeteries.wordpress.com/2020/12/16/illegible-german-monument-south-side-cemetery/: Pittsburghcemeteries.

Benh, L. (2015). More details Saint-Jacques Tower at sunrise. [Photograph]. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tour_Saint-Jacques#/media/File:Tour_Saint-Jacques_BLS.jpg: Wikipedia.

DocBrownX. (2014). The Haserot Angel. [Photograph]. https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/the-haserot-angel-cleveland-ohio: AtlasObscura.

dungeonsdragons.fandom. (n/d). Alignment. [Online]. dungeonsdragons.fandom.com. Available at: https://dungeonsdragons.fandom.com/wiki/Alignment [Accessed 9 January 2024].

Ferrebeekeper. (2017). Gothic Fountains. [Photograph]. https://ferrebeekeeper.wordpress.com/2017/10/18/gothic-fountains/: Ferrebeekeper.

Fethiye. (n/d). Telmessos. [Photograph]. https://fethiye.goturkiye.com/telmessos: GoTurkiye.

Hayee, F. (2020). Kintsukuroi: A perspective on COVID-19. [Photograph]. https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/kintsukuroi-perspective-covid-19-fawad-hayee-ca: Linkedin.

Megalithix. (2013). The standing stone of Tir Artair. [Photograph]. https://megalithix.wordpress.com/2013/02/17/tir-artair/: Megalithix.

Ritebook. (2021). The National Wallace Monument. [Photograph]. https://www.ritebook.in/2021/06/wallace-monument-scotland.html: Ritebook.

Scarf. (n/d). Pictish standing stone (number 1) at Aberlemno. [Photograph]. https://scarf.scot/national/medieval/5-empowerment/5-2-standing-stones/: Scarf.

Sidgreaves, M. (2018). Wistman’s Wood. [Photograph]. https://dartmoorwalker.co.uk/2018/11/wistmans-wood/: DartmoorWalker.

travelib prime. (2008). UK Cheshire Aldford St John the Baptist Church churchyard.

Traveling Savage. (Aelyth Savage). Edinburgh’s Gothic Missile. [Photograph]. https://www.traveling-savage.com/2011/03/18/picture-this-edinburghs-gothic-missile/: Traveling Savage.

[aorangi-harding-memorials]

Choosing the Perfect Headstone in NZ: Factors to Consider

It's never easy to lose a loved one, and it may be much more challenging to choose the right headstone to honour their memory. It might be difficult to make a life-altering choice in New Zealand due to the sheer variety of possibilities. But don't worry! This article will go through the many types of headstones in New Zealand, why it's important to pick the proper one, and how much money you can expect to spend. You will be able to choose a beautiful and appropriate memorial for your loved one after reading this post. So, let's dive right in!

There is a wide variety of styles and materials from which to choose when purchasing a headstone. Granite or marble are typically used for traditional headstones, and either a flat or raised surface is provided for inscriptions and engravings. These timeless looks are versatile enough to be tailored to your loved one's unique characteristics.

The upright monument, which is raised high off the ground, is yet another common style of grave marker. The level of detail in a vertical monument is entirely up to the individual commissioning it. They have a lot of room for drawings, photos, and inscriptions.

A boulder monument might be a good option if you want something that blends in with the landscape. Because they are carved from natural stones and not polished, these grave markers have a rustic look that is at home in natural landscapes.

In addition to traditional headstones, bronze plaques can be used to mark graves. They have a lower profile than conventional grave markers but nevertheless offer ample space for individualized inscriptions. Choosing a Font for Text

This will be a permanent monument to your loved one, so it's crucial to spend some time considering all of your alternatives before making a final decision about the style of headstone you want.

Selecting a fitting headstone is a meaningful way to remember a loved one. A gravestone memorializes the deceased and stands as a constant reminder of the impact they had on the world. A grave marker should accurately portray the deceased's character, values, and beliefs.

It's important to put some thought into the headstone's layout so that it properly honors the deceased. Some examples of such customization are the addition of religious symbols or a focus on a particular hobby or interest. The words carved into the tombstone should also carry significance and tell something of their life.

The lifespan of the headstone may be ensured not only through personalisation, but also by selecting a material that can withstand the elements. Because of its longevity and low care requirements, granite and marble headstones are frequently chosen.

Choosing a fitting headstone helps mourners to honor the deceased while also guaranteeing that their loved one is recognized for all they accomplished in life. It's a physical token of your affection and an emotional lifeline when words can't communicate how much they mean to you.

Several aspects, including headstone type, material, design, and inscription, must be taken into account while selecting the ideal gravestone in New Zealand. Finding a happy medium between your financial constraints and your desire for a proper memorial for your loved one can be challenging.

Size, material, intricacy of design, and choice of writing may all have a considerable impact on the final price tag of a headstone. Remembering that this is an investment with a long lifespan means that you shouldn't make your decision only on cost.

It might be beneficial to compare prices from many reliable companies before settling. It is also wise to verify with the cemetery administration first to see if there are any restrictions on the sorts of memorials that may be placed on the grounds.

For this reason, it's important to think about how you want your loved one's memory to be represented, how much you want to spend, and whether or not you want to save on quality when choosing a headstone. Keeping these things in mind, as well as doing some preliminary planning and research, can help you locate the most fitting memorial for your cherished loved one.

[silverplumespectre]

 Silver Standard, Volume IV, Number 20, July 20, 1889

[hzxstone]

Black Granite Monument

We're known as one of the most professional Black Granite Monument manufacturers and suppliers in China. If you're going to wholesale high quality Black Granite Monument at competitive price, welcome to get more information from our factory.

HZX STONE specializes in processing Black Granite monuments and other color granite stone grave markers made from black granite that come in a variety of shapes and sizes and incorporate artwork, etchings, engravings, bas relief, and sculpted elements in the design.

Email to hzx@hzxco.com for more details about the granite tombstone

[deadlygoddess85]

Eternal Soul - Serie

- Part 1 - 

Chapter 1 - The Beaconing

Paring: OT8

Words: A lot

Genre: Fantasy with a touch of horror.

Songs suggestion: The Queen of the damned soundtrack and Nothing else matters by Apocalyptica. 

Characters presentation: The Vampires   

Characters Presentation: The Witches

The clacking of her heels resonates in the dark alley, she’s terrified. She’s trying to escape something or someone. Her breathing is fast, it’s hard for her to get the air in. She looks around not sure where she needs to go now. A noise behind her makes her squeal in fear. She looks toward the commotion, nothing. Suddenly, she feels it, the intense pain. First on her neck, then throughout her entire body. She wants to scream; her mouth opens but no words come out. Her head tilted back; she finally sees the cause of her pain. It’s him, the man from the bar. But he is not alone, as another join him. She feels a new pain on her wrist, then another one on her ankle where a smaller figure wraps his arms around.

Her body gets numb. She’s cold now. Her eyes, glossed by tears that won’t fall, look up at the moon as she breath out her last breath. The three men leave her dead body in this dark back alley where no one will find it. It will collapse on the ground in a muffled thud and will be forsaken.

---

Perched on the edge on the roof of the adjacent building, Seonghwa was observing the whole scene in silence. The soft summer breeze blew a small string of his dark hair in front of his piercing blue eyes. The moonlight cast a dim light on his perfect features giving him an ethereal presence. He thanks his decision to wear his dark blue velvety shirt. The long sleeves covering him from the brisk wind of the night. His slender fingers rake his chestnut hair in an attempt to put the rebellious strand back in place but in vain. He sighed slightly irritated. Seonghwa crane his neck, following the three creatures who were walking down the road, unnoticed by the street crowd, until they were out of sight.

“It’s the twelfth victim this week” he stated without moving from his position.

His partner, who was standing behind him, step forward staring at the inanimate body in the alley below them. Hands in his pockets, he stayed silent, feeling for the poor soul who just died tonight. San was one to care about humans more than his fellow brothers. He hated to see them become useless victims for the rival clan. Thanks to his telepathic powers, San was able to read the last thoughts of the dying victims. Thoughts he would always write down in his precious notebook as a sort of tribute. He took the small journal from his jacket’s pocket, the purple cover feeling strangely comforting under his fingertips. He adjusted his glasses on his nose and, taking a small used-up pencil from the same pocket, he started to scribble what he had hear from the dying lady.

“Are you listening San?” Seonghwa asked as he looked over his shoulder.

San finished writing the last words that were trapped in his mind and he finally put the journal back to its original repository.  

“I heard.” He answered bluntly, his purple eyes falling on his squatted partner.

Seonghwa got up from his vantage point and faced San, towering him with his tall figure: “Have you been able to get something out of their thoughts at least?”

The black hair man looked up at his ally. Under the moonlight his illuminated eyes looked like two amethyst. He also had a jawline close to perfection and on his neck, a small trail of freckles that only the most intimate could see. He squinted at the question:

“I couldn’t read. They must have known we were around.”

‘If he wasn’t spending so much time reading humans mind, maybe he could do his job as “The Mind reader” of the clan,’ thought Seonghwa. He considered his younger partner. San was a brave vampire, but his love for humans will be his death one day if he is not more careful. Seonghwa sighed:

“Come on! Let’s go back home and inform the others”

And the two men vanished from the roof without a sound.

The cold breeze of the wind blows through the branches of the trees. An owl hoot into the night. The full moon illuminates everything under its magical light. The cemetery is quiet and empty, the tombstone and monuments are keeping guard in memories of those who passed away.

Sitting alone on the ground, knees to his chest, head low, Wooyoung prays. In front of him, a single tombstone with a small cherub looking down at him with sadness in its eyes. Grave in the ashen stone, a name: “Liana”. The young man sits still, reciting his prayer in the hope one day, it will be answered. In the pit of his stomach he could feel it: The hunger. He hated it. Wooyoung slowly lift his head, tilting it back to face the sky. His green eyes opened to look at the moon and he cursed at his new craving. Then, his gaze fell on the cold stone in front of him. A single tear rolled down his cheek, trailing slowly along his jawline.

“I am longing to be with you my love” his voice is a whisper and yet it echoes down his very soul.

The pain was harrowing. He was damned to spend eternity without the love of his life and he despised his master for that. He never wished to become a vampire, he never asked for it and yet, Hongjoong transformed him. Forcing him to fake his death and hide from everyone he loved, his friends, his family, his love. She committed suicide a few weeks after Wooyoung’s acted death, unable to live her life without him.

The young man shifted position, kneeling in front of the tombstone. He leaned in and pressed his palm on the cold granite. His long fingers traced each letter of his lost love’s name. Another tear rolled down his cheek. He closed his eyes trying to remember her face, but it was fading away from his memory. He couldn’t even retrace the shape of her eyes. He sat on his heels and sob quietly.

Wooyoung stayed like this for another hour or so, then he found the strength to pick himself up. Running his fingers in his golden locks, he gave a last look to his love’s tomb and silently walked out of the cemetery. Once he passed the iron gates, he looked up at the sky. The moon was slowly disappearing in the horizon. Still, the hunger was present in his stomach, but it would have to wait. It was time to go home. Ignoring the ache from his craving, the young man turned left and walked down the street, following the familiar path back to the manor.

“The cold strike him like a million needles piercing his body. He opened his eyes despite the pain. Ice. Cube of ice and water surrounded him. He tried to hold his breath as best as he could, but soon his lungs screamed for oxygen. He battled against the cold water, trying to find something to grip, something that could get him out from under this iced bath. But as he started to feel his lungs filling up with water, someone pulled him out. Dragging him out of the tub. His vision was blurred. Water was spilling from his mouth. He felt his arms being stretch over his head, he slowly looked up. A meat hook, his tied-up hands were suspended on this hook. His feet barely touched the ground. Then nothing. For a second. A minute. Until the snap of a whip is being heard. The awful pain that follows makes him screams and flinch. Once, twice, three and four time, up till he can’t count anymore. The screams are mere whimpers now, as his back is shred to pieces. He is about to lose consciousness and he hears a name: “Pierce”…then the words “rare blood” – “keep him alive” – “kill the others”.”

Yeosang woke up from this vivid vision and sit straight on his bed. Panting heavily. It took him a minute to realize he was still in his room. He touched his back and felt his silky-smooth skin under his satin shirt, he sighed and cursed at himself. He lazily got off his bed and walked to his private bathroom. Leaning down the sink, he splashes some water over his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His hazel eyes analyzing every aspect of his features. He recalled the vision he had. The bathtub. The ice. The meat hooks. The torture. And the name “Pierce”. Yeosang sat at his desk and started to sketch every aspect of his vision with precise details. Once the portrait of this “Pierce” was done, he looked at it concerned:

“Who are you?” he whispered at the man on the paper. He quickly got out of his room with his drawings in hand and walked down to his master’s private quarters.

His steps are light despite the heavy boots he was wearing. His movements, somehow gracious. Some inexperienced eyes would believe he was almost dancing. Yeosang followed the long hallway down to the living room where Mingi was hiding.

A Machiavellian smile on his face, his eyes forming small crescent behind which two mesmerizing orange pupils shines like sun stones. The red-haired vampire, hidden in a corner of the room almost invisible to the eye, waited for the right time. On the floor, in the middle of the room was laying, an almost imperceptible cable, each end attached to a different anchor. It was harmless. Yeosang was dangerously close to the wire, Mingi concentrated on it, stretching it slowly with his mind and…nothing! Yeosang stopped and lazily walked over the wire:

“Good Morning Mingi. Don’t mess around, someone could get hurt” he said without even looking in the young vampire’s direction.

Mingi got out of his hiding place, a surprised expression on his face.

“How?” he pouted.

Yeosang turned to his fellow vampire as he continues to walk backward.

“I have eyes to s…*thud*” There he was, on the floor. His butt hurting by the sudden fall, his drawing scattered everywhere around him. In front of him a misplaced footrest and Mingi contorted by his laugh.

“Hahaha! You should have seen your face” the young vampire said laughing at his victim.

“Mingi.” Yeosang got back on his feet. He brushed the dust from his jeans and shirt. He gathered his drawings, securing them on the coffee table near him then he calmly walked toward the prankster “I’m gonna kill you!”

Before Yeosang could get a hold of him, Mingi disappeared and teleport to the other side of the living room. The tall vampire leaned against the wall behind him, a cocky smile on his face.

“You’d have to catch me first pretty boy!”

Yeosang gave up, throwing his hands in the air. He gathered his papers, gave a last angry look at the young vampire, and stormed out of the living room to meet with the master.

“Are you bothering our dear Yeosang, Mingi?!?” a sweet and kind voice ask. Mingi left his position to walk toward the new incomer. The man was as tall as him, blond hair with darker root showing, beautiful features and piercing yellow eyes. He salutes Yeosang with a small bow and swat Mingi’s in the back of the head to scold him

“How many times have I told you not to bother the other members?” his voice was stern with a fatherly tone. Mingi let out a small groan before massaging the back of his head.

“Sorry Yunho.” He answered, “It just get boring when the others are out.”

Yunho listen to his brother with attention but didn’t answer. He understood that for a man who used to be super active in the past, being indoor almost everyday wasn’t something easy. But he couldn’t just let Mingi roam around town like the others, he was too vulnerable.

It happened about a year ago, while they were raiding a rival clan, Mingi almost got killed. Two rivals ambushed him and almost drank all his blood. Fortunately for Mingi, Yunho was able to get to him before he was dead. It took half a year for the young vampire to be able to walk again. He had never been able to fully recover as a vampire normally do. Till that day, Yunho is working day and night on a way to regenerate vampire’s blood cell quickly. For now, Mingi had to drink a special mix of blood to keep his strength and powers.

Yunho handed a small cup to his brother “Here, it’s time for your daily dosage”

The young vampire took the cup and drank the whole content in one shot. Yunho massage his brother’s neck lovingly and kissed his temple before going back to his lab. Alone once again in the middle of the silent living room, Mingi sat on the couch and sighed. Even if now he had 7 brothers, he never felt so alone in his life. He brought his long hand to his neck where, if you were paying enough attention, you could see the scar of a bite mark. He brushed it with his fingertips, remembering the night of the fight. Mingi hissed, the healed wound was still burning, he cursed, feeling extremely guilty. Angry, Mingi concentrated on a pile of books that was sitting on the coffee table and they went flying across the living room. He laid his long body on the couch and brought his arms under his head before closing his eyes, wishing he were outside with the others.

In the basement of the manor, at the end a long narrow hallway, loud hip-hop music was blasting into a stereo. Muffled behind the song, several thumping could be heard. In the middle of the room, illuminated by a few dim lights, a muscular young man was beating a hanged punching bag. His dark brown hair was sticking to his forehead as his sharp red eyes were concentrated on the un-moving target.

After his workout, Jongho sat on one of the benches in the room. A little veil of sweat was covering his shirtless upper body but somehow, he wasn’t feeling exhausted or out of breath, one thing he still wasn’t used to.

He untied the white bandages that were covering his hands and he massage his knuckles. Since he got transform, they felt bigger, stronger, rougher. He loved the feeling. He walked to the mirror in the room and looked at his reflection on the glass. The small pearls of sweat were slowly gliding down his tone chest muscles. With the faint lights of the place, it almost looked like he was sparkling. He frowned at the sight

“Urgh! I look like one of those Twilight pussies” he took a towel and wiped the sweat away.

The loud ring of his phone took his attention away from his figure. He took the small device in his hands and answered it.

“Yes Sir! I’ll be right up!” he hangs up and took his duffle bag before leaving the improvised gym in a hurry.

---

Sitting on the railing of the balcony, his feet dangling in the air, he was admiring the moon, the stars and the colors changing in the sky as the hours were passing by. The soft breeze of the night, slowly brushing in his silver locks made him hummed in appreciation. His dark brown eyes caught something moving a few miles away from the manors, his eyebrow cocked as he was trying to discern what it was.

His soft pink lips formed a tiny grin when he realized it was a stray cat walking down the street. So, they were not the only creatures of the night – he thought to himself amused.

The door of his room opened, and footsteps approached him. Yeosang stood behind him, his precious drawings in his hands. The silver haired vampire broke the unbearable silence

“I presume you’re not in my room, simply to admire my back!?!!” his voice was soft, almost like a sweet melody.

Yeosang hesitate a moment before moving closer to his master. He handed the drawings to the older vampire and cleared his throat.

“I got a vision Sir!”

At the same time, Jongho who took the time to change into more appropriate clothes walked in the room, as Seonghwa and San appeared in front of them.

The older vampire looked at the drawings attentively “Do you know anything about this man?” he asked Yeosang.

The young man shook his head “No, the only thing I know about him is his name. Pierce!”

“Pierce?!” Seonghwa walked forward and looked at the drawing in his master’s hands.

“Yes! He would be valuable for the other clan. Something to do with his blood” continued Yeosang

Seonghwa scoffed “Lunatics!”

The master drop off the railing on his balcony, he handed the drawing to Seonghwa

“I want you and San to investigate about this Pierce!”

“Understood!” the slender vampire bows to his master taking the drawing in his hand and passing it to San. The black haired vampire folded the drawing and put it in his jacket’s pocket

“On it, Sir!” he responded.

The master walked to Yeosang, he put a hand behind his neck, his long nails slowly dancing on the young vampire’s neck making him shiver at the sensation. The master leaned in and whispered in his ear

“You did good Horacle, keep me updated with any new visions.” To which Yeosang responded with a small nodded.

Seonghwa step forward, his hands in his back “Hongjoong, there was another attack tonight. Three Nightshades. They barely hid their crime.”

Hongjoong considered Seonghwa and San a moment, he sighed, bowing his head with sadness in his eyes

“Another victim?!” He turned to face the city, his delicate frame leaning on the railing of the balcony. He looked at the horizon, the streetlights slowly fading as the sun was about to rise. He remembered those nights, back in his younger vampire days, where he used to keep a victim for days. Treating them with love and care, like they deserved. Humans were not just food to him; they were a precious treasure to keep and cherish.

“Tonight, we’ll roam the streets. Remind the Nightshades this city belongs to us.” His voice was stern but still so soft, he turns back to his brothers “For now, get some rest my dearest, you’ve worked well. We’ll plan our night later”

Seonghwa, Yeosang and San bowed to their master before leaving the luxurious room. Jongho closed the door behind them and stood in front of it, like any bodyguard would do.

Hongjoong took his initial position, on the railing of the balcony, his eyes glued to the sky, he hummed a sweet lullaby as he watched the stars disappeared while the sun rises in the horizon.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

“So this is the beginning of the serie. I hope you enjoy it so far! there’s more to come. Stay tune!!! 

All right reserved to DeadlyGoddess. DO NOT COPY or USE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

[ripleysraven]

January 10, 2021

As I went on the hunt for a few easy letterboxes.  I guess I made a boo boo.  I ended up in the wrong place for this, but what a beautiful place.  Sudbury MA.

This was a great letterbox.  I found it so peaceful and I just sat there and took it all in.  It was an easy find.  

About Mount Wadsworth Cemetery, dates back 1835.

Once the land of Israel Howe Browne (1791-1879), the first land was set aside as a burying ground in 1835 when several of those who were buried in the crowded old burying ground at Sudbury Centre were moved to this location. These included Edwin Howe Browne, son of Israel Howe Browne, and three Richardsons who had died as early as 1833 according to slate markers which have well preserved weeping willow designs. Three tombs were built on the slope of the hill of the original cemetery from 1836 to 1839 made from granite from Nobscot Hill. In 1842 the cemetery was enlarged in a northerly direction for the lot of Jerusha Howe who left money for an elaborate monument to mark her grave. Isaac Browne finally consented to sell additional land for cemetery expansion following the approval of Dr. Goodenough whose land abutted this area. The cemetery is named Wadsworth for Captain Samuel Wadsworth, the leader of a group of 26 colonial soldiers who were massacred by the Indians near this location during King Philip's War in 1676. There was a monument erected in 1852 in remembrance for Capt S. Wadsworth, Capt. Brocklebank and Lieut Sharp in the cemetery. It sits at the end of the road and is surrounded by an elaborate iron fence and a granite post and wood fence. This cemetery sits on 6.36 acres. The earliest death date is 1833.

Then continued on my letterboxing hunt. It was getting pretty late so this would be the last one of the day. This was actually a fun place to find. 

St. Elizabeth Chapel - The historic, little stone chapel of St. Elizabeth of Hungary is located at 440 Concord Road, Sudbury MA. The Chapel was designed and built between 1912 and 1914 by Ralph Adams Cram, the world famous architect of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City and many other churches, as a place of worship for himself, his family, and his neighbors.  For more info: https://st-elizabeths.org/history-chapel.shtml  As interesting as this was, never could find the letterbox. It got dark real quick, and I started to get a little creeped out. Probably had to do with being in presence of old tombstone's.  (If you know what I mean)

[defleurtradingco]

Éclaire de la Lune- Honesty

(Previous: Heartache, Next: Home)

Queens always did turn out to be a bit of a drive from the company location. Not that he minded it. Traffic aside, it was a fairly peaceful drive.

Flushing Cemetery was Fortunato's destination.

He arrived, parked, and sat in the car for several minutes, listening to the city noises. They were distant. Cemeteries were like that, and he could never figure out why.

They were quieter, sometimes peaceful. Even if ghouls did tend to roam about the grounds by nightfall. And even if the entire property was surrounded by the bustling city.

Deep breath…

He got out of the car, wincing at the sunlight. Bright and cheery. A nice day in February. And still chilly. The snow had yet to melt, blanketing the lawn in white and speckling the trees.

For not visiting for almost a little over fourty years, it hadn't changed all that much. Maybe a new section here or there he didn't recall, or it being more crowded in general. With tombstones that is.

With a sigh he put his hands into his coat pockets and began walking.

It was...strange.

He felt cold, but it wasn't as sharp or as biting as he thought it'd be. That was the glamour doing its job. Allowing him to feel anything at all. Heat, cold, hunger, hurt and a whole myriad of other human things.

Just subdued.

As he found the winding path buried under snow that had been pushed aside by visitors, he looked at the stones he passed by.

He never did plan on ending up in a place like this. Death, quite frankly, terrified him. As it did anyone else. Mostly anyone else.

But he was beyond that. Especially now.

Now whether or not it was a curse or a blessing-

The lawn quickly became more elaborate and expensive looking, with upright tombs and large monuments lining the roads, decorated in flowers and pictures and tinsel and all sorts of things leftover from the holidays.

Some remained bare and weathered, which was to be expected.

Fortunato slowed to a stop, furrowing his brows as he came over to one monument covered in snow. He couldn't remember if this was the one.

He reached forward and brushed the snow and loose ice off of the face of the bronze plaque that rested on the granite. It had gone green long ago.

SERGEANT  AMOU IVANOVICH DeFLEUR

1916 - 1951

A brave son, a loving father, a loyal friend.

A DeFleur in all but name.

N.Y.P.D 17th Precinct

His badge number was engraved towards the side.

Sergeant had such an odd ring to it. It sounded far too militaristic for the man. But it was a postmortem promotion.

It was such a sad day. The entire department had been there along with the family. Amou's daughter had just been born the morning of his death, and Kiryak didn't have enough money saved to give his son a proper burial after it all. A situation in which Fortunato was more than willing to foot the bill and then some.

He took care of his brother's wife, took in their child and taught her the ins and outs of the company (begrudgingly) along with his own son.

What a coward that one…

He never would have guessed Amou's daughter Madeline had it in her to run the company. Nor Solaina after her.

The sons turned out to be a disappointment.

Scowling, he let out a low hum. "You see how it is now? You wanted absolutely no part in this company and now you have taken it from me." Despite saying it like that, a part of him was relieved. Relieved in that he didn't have to carry such a burden anymore.

No one answered him.

"...Solaina may be like me in that she… is not very expressive of how she feels. But she is like you in every other way. It is infuriating."

A pair of birds landed on a tombstone nearby, noisily tweeting away.

Fortunato sucked in a breath and rolled his eyes a little. "...No matter… there is no one left to visit you. Not something I would prefer for myself." With a huff of finality he moved on, not looking back.

Amou wasn't who he had come to visit.

On another lawn nearby was a much smaller line of tombstones by a row of trees that had remained full, even in the winter time.

He moved down the aisle until he reached the right one, letting his shoulders drop.

His jaw was so tense. He'd hardly noticed.

KIRYAK IVANOVICH

1890 - 1977

It was so plain.

He told Fortunato over and over that he didn't want anything fancy. He wanted it to be simple.

And simple was what he had got.

If only he had let him buy him something a bit nicer. It looked like the tomb of some peasant. 

Kiryak was more than that.

The cobra shifted his weight uneasily, almost as if he were nervous. Reminiscent of some child who waited anxiously to tell their parent something.

Kiryak was something like a father-figure in the short time he'd stayed with their family. Much warmer certainly than his own father. Much more patient.

And understanding.

"...I cleaned off your son's grave." He said, sounding a touch annoyed and like he'd done Kiryak some great service. "Yours I am surprised to see is not buried in snow like the others."

It was true. Kiryak's gravestone was oddly cleaner than the surrounding ones. Almost as if someone, or something, had kept it maintained.

"Things are so different now. Even from how I remember them to be not twenty or so years ago. Maybe a bit more.

The world is… different."

Now whether or not that was a good thing…

"But I am the same. Solaina says I cannot be anymore. I disagree. Do you have any idea what she decided my new name should be?"

He spoke about the documents, and the ridiculous name, and the new bakery and how it was something different. Somehow, the words came pouring through easily. He never was this talkative with anyone else, though, that could have simply been because he was alone.

He didn't think about it.

"I need to do something different… but I am afraid I don't know how.

You were always better at such things than I ever was." His Russian was more than a bit rusty, but he could get his point across.

And then his head fell blank.

What else to say? There wasn't much. He missed Kiryak terribly but he couldn't bring himself to actually say so. That felt too vulnerable, even if no one was watching or paying him any mind.

...or so he thought.

From behind the stone came a sudden meow.

"Huh?"

And then, following that meow came a chubby white cat with dark brownish gray splotches on its back and over its eye. And two floppy little ears with no tail.

It sat in front of the stone, looking up at the man before meowing again and coming forward to rub on his pant leg.

Fortunato took a step backwards, avoiding the cat all together. "What? Go on, shoo- go!"

The cat did not.

He pulled one hand out of his pocket and waved it away, but that didn't work either.

Maybe that was the signal that his time was up for the day.

"Fine. I will go then."

And again without hesitation, he turned on his heel and began to walk away.

The cat quickly followed and trotted behind him. Fortunato could hear the little sounds of paws in the snow.

Quite honestly, the cat reminded him of the one Kiryak used to keep at his apartment. The same kind of ears, similar coloring, same chubby face and no tail.

What were the odds?

The feline continued to pursue him all the way to his parked car. He got in, waited a moment and saw it sitting in the view of the mirror.

"Hmph." He let a cat chase him away? No one was going to hear about that one.

His thoughts inevitably turned towards his bakery-café however, and with that in mind, he pulled out of the parking spot and drove away.

He took one more look at his rear view mirror for good measure, but the cat was already gone.

[justhighstone]

[sunevial]

The Followers: The Young Priest

My sixth and final installment of my DMP fanfic for @internetremix (or is it?). The Murder God belongs to @miss-goggles and some scenery in the work is inspired by @missvulpix212‘s own DMP fanfic. Enjoy!

The brick walls rose high above the young man’s head, covered in interweaving vines and greenery whose name was just at the edges of his memory. He ran his fingertips over the low bushes and hedges, peering down the the rows of carefully cultivated daisies and roses separated by decorative hostas. While he shouldn’t have been able to see much of anything at all this time of night, the whole garden was lit up in the soft blue glow of moonflowers scattered throughout the otherwise picture perfect rows. One of those mysterious flowers, however, certainly would not be thriving in between the stone steps. Taking the shovel out of the small bag at his side, he carefully uprooted the small pale flower and carried it over to one of the hosta patches.

“You know, it’s never going to bloom as brightly as the others,” a strange female voice echoed, bouncing off the walls and ringing deep within his skull. “It’s already so much smaller and so sickly. Honestly, it would make better fertilizer than anything else at this point.” The young man shivered, nearly dropping the plant in his hands. He didn’t have to turn around to know there was someone standing right behind him. But he kept digging.  

“Maybe, but it’s not the flower’s fault the seed decided to land where it did,” he replied, placing the roots into the damp soil and piling the excess around the base. “Better soil, more light and water, and a little helping hand can make all the difference.” He delicately touched the petals of the pale flower, watching as the stem and leaves perked up, reaching for the skies above until it towered over the resting hostas and shone with a brilliant blue light.

“Oh great, another one with needlessly flowery language, exactly what I needed at this exact moment in time and space,” the woman grumbled. He could feel her eyes on him, gazing over his sweater vest and collared shirt, or rather, maybe it was more accurate to say he could feel her gazing through him instead. She made a small click with her tongue; he didn’t need to see the smirk splitting her face. “Well well well, this is going to be a bit of a problem, now isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am is something wrong?” he slowly asked, carefully standing up and brushing the dirt off of his trousers. He caught a glimpse of a transparent red dress and delicate black heels, still trying to keep his eyes on anything else but the woman. Steady now. Don’t be rash. Play it safe.

“You know, I was going to reassure you and say ‘no, everything’s fine’, but you’re kind of missing a soul there, bud,” she replied, Her gaze moving towards his hair, colored not unlike the very bricks that he just passed by. “And that’s kind of important in the grand scheme of things, you know?”

“Is it though?” the young man asked with a chuckle.

“I mean, if we want this conversation to continue in a more…civil manner, I kind of need a soul,” she replied. A strange yellow light fell to his sides, light that was slowly fading into a deep orange. Before long, the stones were bathed in an eerie blood red. Well. This was…not exactly going how he’d imagined an encounter with the literal incarnation of death and murder would, but all things considered, it wasn’t as bad as he expected it to be. He was still alive; he honestly didn’t think he’d get that far.

“Does it have to be my soul?” he asked, slowly reaching into his bag and pulling out a tightly sealed glass jar. There was a small glowing ball inside, surrounded by ethereal ribbons of colored light and giving off a comforting amount of heat even through the thick glass. Taking in a sharp breath, he whipped around and held out the jar in front of his face. Standing there was a woman he had several inches on, her hair the color of early morning sunlight and her ears ending in dainty tips. A small black star rested on her collarbone, visible through the sheer mesh at the top of her dress. There was a curious smile on her face.

“So you’re a clever one then? You’ve got moxie. I’ll give you that,” she said with a raised eyebrow, reaching out one of her stained hands and pushing the jar down until he was forced to look her in the eyes. “So, what’s your name, kid?”

“Uh…call me…Cole Hector,” he slowly replied. He blinked a few times, wondering if what he was seeing was real. If anything he was seeing was real.

“Cute nickname, almost believable too,” she said with a cackle that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. “And you know about the name rules too, this is just getting better and better.” The smile turned into a wicked smirk. “Okay, smart guy…what’s your story?”

“You tell me. That’s kind what you do, after all,” he replied, returning with a weak smile of his own. He glanced down at the small wisp in his hands, holding the jar more tightly to his chest.

“You’re right, I could tell you about your missing parents. Or your fight to put food on the table. Or your poor sickly sister. Or that right now, you’re about as alone in this world as anyone could possibly be because that little soul in your hands probably could’ve saved her life, but no, she decided to be a martyr and give it to her dearest brother who she loved more than life itself. But that’s just the boring facts that no one really pays attention to anyways,” she said with a dismissive wave of the hand and a glint in her eyes, her words sharper than any dagger in her arsenal.

“They might be boring facts, but that’s the only life I’ve ever known,” the young man said, gripping the small jar hard enough to turn his fingers white. “And that was her choice. Not mine.”

“A little on the defensive side, are we? Did I hit a sore spot? I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” the woman remarked with what could’ve equally been a sarcastic smirk or a genuine smile. She yawned, clicking her heels and turning her back to him in one smooth movement. “Come, walk with me.”

Nearly tripping over the uneven stones, he followed her down a meandering stone path that took them out of the walled gardens and into the iron wrought fences of the cemetery. The marble tombstones had been eaten away by the acidity of the rain, blacked and barely legible after all of these years. Freshly cut flowers were draped over the granite monuments, some of them clearly cut from the rows they had just been walking while others looked to be brought in from outside. Just like the gardens, the whole plot was lit up by dozens upon dozens of moonflowers. He shifted in his shoes, waiting for her to make another of her witty remarks and just say something, anything. The silence pressed down on his shoulders as if the sky was collapsing.

“Why am I here?” he finally asked, though it came out as more of a distressed sputter.

“Because you bought Old Priestess a bus ticket and she liked you enough to dump you here and send me on what I was pretty sure was a wild goose chase up until about, oh, seven minutes ago,” the woman said, casually inspecting one of the grave markers and tracing the name carved into the worn stone.

“No, why am I here?” he asked, setting down the jar on one of the larger monuments and turning to face her. “The other woman, when I told her about the book and about, well, slight curiosity in finding you, she said that she was…looking for a replacement, someone who could be one of your elite…I think she used the word Followers? And if that’s referring who I’m thinking, then…why me? I’m not one of your cultists, I don’t have anything really special to offer except making flowers bloom, I’m not really one for bloodshed to begin with, I’m…nothing compared to them. Why would you, why would they, need me?”

The woman finished tracing the carved name, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Well, you’re right. They don’t need you at all. Their job is to go out into the world and, well, mostly do what they want up until I need them to rally the forces or do something really specific, but between the five of them, they’ve got everything they need to wreak havoc to their heart’s desires,” she said with a smirk. “No, see, honey…I’m the one that needs you.”

“You…what?”

“Tell me, what do you know about my games?”

“Uh…um... there’s usually ten people or more people in a game,” he stammered, ticking off his fingers and trying to keep his voice level. “You have two werewolves, a seer, a witch, a gunslinger, a gardener, and then four regular townsfolk. The werewolves pick a person to die each night, and everyone has to try and figure out who the werewolves are, who’s got the special roles, and who’s just a regular person. The seer can figure out people’s roles, the witch can both save a person and kill a person, and the gunslinger can kill someone if they get killed.”

“What about the gardener?” she asked, plucking one of the moonflowers out of the ground and twirling it between her fingertips.

The young man hesitated for a second. “Well…the gardener doesn’t really…do much of anything from a gameplay standpoint. They just…give people nice things.”   

“Alright, now, I want you to to repeat what you just said, but this time, explain what all of those roles do from a storytelling standpoint,” the woman said, picking off the petals one by one and dropping them to the ground.

“Um…well…” he slowly said, tapping a finger against his chin and furrowing his brow. “Obviously the werewolves are the antagonists of the story. Without them, there’s no conflict and there’s really not much of a story to tell at all. They drive the story along by force, but they’re vulnerable because no matter what game they play, they’re always outnumbered. The seer fulfils the opposing role, given they’re the best chance the townsfolk have at surviving, at the risk of being highly exposed should they say anything. They add suspense because everyone knows they’re there; it’s just a matter of when they’re going to play their hand.”

He started pacing in front of the monument, one eye on the glass jar and the other on the woman. “The witch…well, the witch adds variability, excitement. They can save someone and kill someone, and no one knows how either will get used. Maybe they’ll save themselves, maybe they’ll kill someone innocent, maybe they’ll actually get the right person with a lucky guess. Who knows? As for the gunslinger, they’re…I guess they embody a strange sense of justice? While the other townsfolk are defenseless and can only use their words, they can take matters into their own hands if their life is in danger. There’s nothing they can do to save themselves, nothing they can do to right this wrong, but they sure can take someone with them.”

“And the gardener…the gardener.” The young man faltered, his paces slowing to a halt as the gears that had been whirring in his head skidded to an abrupt halt. “Well, the gardener is…well, I’m not really…sure…”   

“Wow, you actually just took the time to say all of that. Cut out the overly descriptive narration and I might actually be impressed,” the woman said with a chuckle, letting the stripped moonflower stem fall to the earth. With a small huff, she jumped onto the tombstone and let her legs dangle off the side. “Sit down, won’t you? I want to tell you a story.”

“You still really haven’t answered my questio-”

“SIT.”

The young man immediately grabbed the jar, crossed his legs, and dropped to the grass.

“That’s better,” she said with a smug smile, lightly tapping her heels against the stone. “You know, I’ve been running the games for, let’s say, a really long time. And you know, I really enjoy it. Building up the worlds, crafting scenarios, watching it all unfold and seeing my insufferable meatsacks play around. The thing is, after a while, the games started getting boring, and that’s a problem because boring games don’t make for good stories. And there’s no easy fix to that either. More roles meant there wouldn’t be enough townsfolk, and more people mean the games get kinda messy and then I have to do more work. But a townsfolk who just helped build up the atmosphere and make the games feel a little more real? Now, that I could do.”

She tilted her head to the side and grinned, giving him a glimpse of her pointed fangs. “The problem was that I’m sometimes a little too...how should I say…removed from my players and games and, well, there are some details that a mortal eye is better at picking out,” she continued with a casual hand gesture. “So I went and started looking for another Follower and just so happened to meet a nice young man so full of life and so ready not to die. Was a pilot, good man, kind heart. His plane crashed during a battle and instead of pleading for his life, he only asked for me to end the fighting and save his family.”

She snickered, the sound grating on his ears and making him want to dig his eardrums out of his skull. “Well, naturally I thought his compassion could be useful to me and I made him into my Young Priest,” she said, mindlessly tapping the top of the tombstone. “And he was really good at his job. He could build up worlds and mold personalities like he was playing with clay, and he had this spark he put into the players. He made them remember what it was like to be alive, for the games to have stakes and for life and death to mean something. He gave them back their humanity. He gave them hope. And man did it bring the games back to life.”

“But he ended up being more…human than I thought,” the woman said with a sneer that slowly formed into a sly smile and holding out her hand. “But that’s not important. What is important is right now, my games are about to start back up, and if this is going to be as good of a run as I think it’s going to be, I’m going to need my gardener.”

The young man peered into the woman’s eyes, seeing the red and yellow chaos swirl through her irises. He studied at the delicate soul in his hands, feeling the warmth emitting from something that he had sacrificed everything to obtain. He stared at the moonflowers around the cemetery, following their light to the stars above and found five stars he was sure had not been there before.

He stood up and held out the jar.

With a wave of her hand, it flew out of his hands and settled just under her palms. In one motion, she twisted off the top and touched the soul. He watched as it faded into her skin, the stains on her arms seemingly growing darker, though that could have been a trick of the dimming light. She gazed into his eyes, a sadistic grin splitting her face.

“Your name.”

He told her. And felt himself fall.

“You’ve made the correct choice. Just relax. This won’t take long at all,” She said, drawing a strange symbol with Her finger into the air. His body felt like it was made of lead; he could barely even lift his eyes to watch Her movements. “You’re mine now.”

“C…Captain, may I ask a question?”

“Of course, my sweet.”

“My…job is to give the players their humanity…right? To give them…hope in that desolate place they can never escape. Isn’t that…really cruel?”

The Murder God smiled.

“You’ll make a wonderful Young Priest.”   

Blood red light filled his vision. Then a soft blue glow. Then nothing at all.

[theironphoenyx]

How long has it been now? Days? Perhaps weeks?

It doesn't matter for no amount of time can numb the pain. IT seems it happened merely hours ago instead. Harmony sniffs, breaking the relentless silence that hung in the air. Dry grass crunch beneath black boots as she crosses the vast cemetery. Harmony keeps her head low as she silently passes the monuments of marble, granite, and stone. Each one bearing stories of people who were once here. They lived once upon a time before they left. These tombs serve a grim reminder of families torn apart, lovers left behind, and friends heartbroken.

Eyes have dark circles around them, and her eyes are a darker shade of gray. Dark as the storm clouds rolling across the heavens. It seems it will rain once again. Not that it mattered to Harmony. She didn't care if she got caught in the rain and soaked to the bone. She just got here after all. It would be rude to cut a visit so short.

The woman goes on, holding something close to her chest. Soon, she reaches the far corner of the cemetery, pausing before a new grave. It does not have a headstone nor is the grave sealed in a grand mausoleum. Not even a wooden cross stands on this grave. It stands alone, unmarked and forgotten.

Soft lips draw to a thin line and warmth builds up in her eyes. Harmony shakes her head, fighting to hold back the tears. She forces a smile as she approaches the grave. Every step closer is a step closer to the harsh reality. It hurts like a knife. It pierces her heart by each step, but she presses on.

"Hello, Phoenyx. I came back to check on you." Harmony greets and she settles on her knees before loose soil that lines the grave. "I brought you something. I made it myself!" Lithe hands hold out a heart-shaped wreath adorned with red roses. Perhaps not as elegant as tombstone, but it is a marker from her heart. She wanted to leave something with Phoenyx. Just to show he was never unloved and never forgotten.

"I hope you enjoy this wherever you are..." Her voice breaks but she keeps the smile on her face. Then, she looks around and takes a deep breath.

"Funny...The world seems gray now. I don't quite remember what the sun looks like." The world is also empty, and so much colder.

"Sorry! I-I'm sorry! I think I have something in my eye!"

It's been that way since he-

Eyes shut tight, and Harmony embraces herself. Her mind returns to memories of that ugly, horrendous day.

No. Not again! Please, not again!

The woman's body trembles as she remembers seeing that incident. Phoenyx...He was a hero until the end. He lost his life in battle. The flames have died down, the people went on with their lives, and spilled blood washed away, but the sorrow and pain shall always remain.

A soft whimper escapes her, and she curls into herself.

Thunder grumbles from above and rain cascades from the sky. Her form shakes and her hands grip the sides of her head as the memories of that day.

The headline on the screen.

"Hero fought to the death!"

The sound of shattering glass drowned the anchor's voice as he breaks the news. How her body became numb and her heart stopped.

She remembers it clearly. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't wake up from this god-forsaken nightmare.

Harmony can't breathe.

She can't breathe now.

"Why? W-why did y-you have to go?!"

Brace yourself! Don't cry in front of him! Don't you dare cry! Don't-don't...

Harmony heaves before the dam breaks. Tears roll down from reddening eyes, her face twisted in agony. She can't do it. She can't be strong! She should be ashamed but it hurts. The sight before her, the fact that he's gone is too much!

"Phoenyx! Please! P-please come back! Come-come ba-back!" Her pleas fall on deaf ears.

It is such a shame. A life lost to spare a thousand others. A broken heart left behind and never mended. The wails and begging go unanswered and are lost in the storm.

It seems the world forgot about Phoenyx, but it is far from the truth. Harmony loved him. She loved him so but never told him.

If only...If only Harmony could tell him.

.

[hzxstone]

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[jermarmonuments]

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[arts-dance]

The Girl Beneath the Gilding

By SAKI KNAFODEC. 9, 2007

ANDREA GEYER, a German-born artist, would later describe her first encounter with the famous statue as a moment of intimacy between two living beings. It was the spring of 2004, and Ms. Geyer was starting a residency in a studio on the 33rd floor of the Woolworth Building.

As she wrote in her book “Queen of the Artists’ Studios,” published this year, she was looking out her window over City Hall Park when her eyes met “the gaze of a woman” who was “golden” and “balancing delicately on top of a ball at the tip of the Municipal Building.” Ms. Geyer subsequently discovered that the statue, known as Civic Fame, bore the likeness of an artists’ model named Audrey Munson, a long-forgotten New York celebrity whose face and figure continue to grace the contours of statues all around Manhattan.

It was Ms. Munson’s eyes that stared stoically from the marble forms of the Firemen’s Memorial on Riverside Drive, Ms. Munson’s strong body that seemed ready to burst from the granite archway at the foot of the Manhattan Bridge. Altogether, Ms. Munson served as the inspiration for more than 15 statues around the city.

From the peaks of fame in the second decade of the 20th century, her fortunes swiftly tumbled. She spent the last 65 years of her life in a mental hospital and, as though by an ironic oversight of some sculptor god, ended up in an unmarked grave without even a tombstone bearing her name. But now, with the help of a New York arts group called Art in General, Ms. Geyer is raising money to buy a monument for Ms. Munson’s grave, in a cemetery in the upstate New York town of New Haven, near Oswego.

With her strong nose and her confident body, Ms. Munson was celebrated as a personification of the Greek ideal of female beauty. The city she presided over was flooded with new immigrants, and as Ms. Geyer suggested, classical structures like the Manhattan Bridge archway were thought to “communicate to a very diverse group of people these core concepts like justice and peace.”

Ms. Munson’s mystique, however, involved much more than the thoughts her physical appearance evoked. In the 1920s, she wrote a series of 20 articles for The New York American in which she criticized society’s lack of respect for models and challenged the prevailing standards of decency and beauty. “All girls cannot be perfect 36s, with bodies of mystic warmth and plastic marble effect, colored with rose and a dash of flame,” she wrote. “Of course not.”

Ms. Munson is once again the object of an artist’s gaze. Last year, Art in General commissioned Ms. Geyer to commemorate Ms. Munson with not only the book “Queen of the Artists’ Studios” but also a map of New York showing the locations of statues on which Ms. Munson’s image appears. Another book on Ms. Munson, “American Venus” by Diane Rozas and Anita Bourne Gottehrer, was published in 1999.

From the little that is known about her life, it appears that Ms. Munson came to New York from Providence, R.I., as a teenager between 1907 and 1909. Her mother, a Catholic, accompanied her daughter to a photographer’s studio. When the photographer asked Audrey to undress, the elder Munson, who had been supporting herself and her daughter on her meager earnings as a worker in a corset factory, did not object.

At the peak of her career, in the mid-teens, Ms. Munson was a main attraction, so to speak, at socialite balls, and an obsession of yellow journalism. But by the beginning of the next decade, she was living with her mother in the two-road town of Mexico near Oswego.

Her youth was behind her, New York’s Beaux-Arts construction boom was over, and Ms. Munson wrote that “a man prominent in the theatrical world” (she never named names) had decided to ruin her career after she resisted his advances. Nor did it help that a former landlord told the police who had arrested him for murdering his wife that he had done so to marry the beautiful Ms. Munson.

ON the afternoon of May 27, 1922, at her home in Mexico, Audrey Munson swallowed a solution of bichloride of mercury. If she had felt isolated in her little town, it’s not hard to imagine why. “People knew that she had undressed,” Ms. Geyer said.

Ms. Munson was eventually taken to the St. Lawrence State Hospital for the Insane, in nearby Ogdensburg, where she lived from her 40th birthday, on June 8, 1931, until her death in 1996 at age 105.

Ever sensitive to society’s fickle regard for its most glamorized women, Ms. Munson might not have been all that surprised to learn of her body’s ultimate fate.

“What becomes of the artists’ models?” she asked in a column published in 1921. “I am wondering if many of my readers have not stood before a masterpiece of lovely sculpture or a remarkable painting of a young girl, her very abandonment of draperies accentuating rather than diminishing her modesty and purity, and asked themselves the question, ‘Where is she now, this model who was so beautiful?’”

Correction: January 13, 2008  

Because of an editing error, an article on Dec. 9 about Audrey Munson, who was the model or inspiration for more than 15 statues in New York City, misidentified a city near her final home, in the town of Mexico, N.Y., and her grave, in New Haven, N.Y. Both Mexico and New Haven are near the city of Oswego, on Lake Ontario — not near Lake Oswego, which is a city on Oswego Lake in Oregon. A reader pointed out the error in an e-mail message on Jan. 5.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/12/09/nyregion/thecity/09muns.html?_r=2&oref=

*

Blog site devoted to Audrey Munson

New York Times article “The Girl Beneath the Gilding”

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Audrey Munson – Woman in Stone

https://artmodel.wordpress.com/2008/06/08/audrey-munson-woman-in-stone/

*

NYC’s first supermodel died alone in an insane asylum

By Reed Tucker   March 5, 2016

http://nypost.com/2016/03/05/nycs-first-supermodel-died-alone-in-an-insane-asylum/

Books

The Life of One of the 20th Century’s Most Influential Nude Models

by Allison Meier on May 16, 2016

http://hyperallergic.com/292956/the-life-of-one-of-the-20th-centurys-most-influential-nude-models/

*

The Rise and Fall of Audrey Munson, the ‘American Venus’

In ‘The Curse of Beauty,’ journalist James Bone investigates the tragic story behind the most celebrated model of the Gilded Age

http://www.wsj.com/articles/the-rise-and-fall-of-audrey-munson-the-american-venus-1459957249