#Abandoned and Neglected Cemeteries

[hiddurmitzvah]

Here is the Art Of Abandoned Jewish Cemeteries of Hungary Zine that we worked on last year, its finally finished and ready for you to order and read it. We did a lot of research and work into this lovely little piece and we totally love it!!

You can order it here through Etsy, only a few in stock now!

Couple of words, why is it important to us, and in general: We created this zine with goals in mind – our one aim was to present and preserve at least a small part of the very rich cultural and and artistic values that we can find in the jewish cemeteries of Hungary. Our goal is to introduce the reader to the fascinating and interesting world of symbols of the jewish cemeteries, and also to preserve the memories of the former rural jewish communities of the country through this zine.

The zine’s aim also to raise attention to the state of jewish cemeteries in Hungary (and in Eastern- Europe in general). Today in Hungary there are approximately 1600 jewish cemeteries, most of them, according to some estimates close to 1200 of them are abandoned, neglected cemeteries. Due to the Holocaust and the extermination of the rural hungarian jewry, these cemeteries remained without owner and caretaker, and slowly they are going towards destruction. In many cases, these cemeteries are the only remained build heritage or sight that left of the once thriving rural, hungarian jewish communities.  A lot should be done in order to save this unique and important heritage – and this zine is only a small step in that direction. 

Also please check out the Behance page of the zine:)

[kny-tai]

Santa Cruz, Manila

Part 01 : The Cemeteries

Amidst the vibrant chaos of urban life in Manila, one can discover a solemn sanctuary that whispers tales of the past - the old cemeteries of Santa Cruz. As a district veiled in both melancholy and forgotten grace. Its old cemeteries, like missing chapters of a novel, exude a sense of neglect and abandonment.

In this corner of Santa Cruz, the once-pristine graves, now weathered and crumbling, bear witness to lives left untended and memories lost to time's relentless passage. Here, amidst the faded epitaphs and mossy stones, the echoes of forgotten souls whisper, the weight of unspoken stories hangs heavy in the air, yearning for the solace of remembrance.

Image above: Manila North Cemetery

Image below: Manila Chinese Cemetery

The old cemeteries of Santa Cruz are veritable archives of the human experience, where the past's timeless beauty reveals itself amidst gravestones and mausoleums. Here, Manila's history finds a poignant resting place, etched in the city's collective memory of life and death.

“For the forgotten dead, both heroes and nobles, Lacrimosa Santa Cruz, by their tombs she trembles.”

Part 02 : From “Congratulations” to “Condolence”

Santa Cruz, like a faithful companion throughout the journey from birth to death, whispers its sentiments through the language of flowers - a silent communication that speaks volumes.

In the northern expanse of this district, a somber path unfolds, lined with hospitals and medical establishments that gradually give way to the solemnity of cemeteries.

This slender district, resembling an aisle, gracefully escorts you along its hallow avenue, accompanying you until the very end, akin to a devoted guide on this transformative passage of life.

Part 03 : Fuente de Vida

At the southern part of Santa Cruz, where the bustling streets converge in a symphony of chaos and vitality, stands the Carriedo Fountain in Plaza Santa Cruz. Here, amidst the cacophony of hurried footsteps and blaring horns, a testament to vigor and life emerges, defying the somber ambiance that envelops the district's northern realms of cemeteries and hospitals.

The fountain becomes an audacious centerpiece, its cascading waters dance with fervor, a metaphorical rebellion against the relentless flow of time. Its grandeur is a stark contrast to the humble dwellings and makeshift stalls that populate the vibrant streets nearby, mirroring the chaotic rhythm of the surrounding urban theater.

Amidst the unapologetic raucous and vivacious surroundings, the Carriedo Fountain stands tall, a testament to the indomitable human spirit that thrives even in the most tumultuous of circumstances.

[7ndipity]

"Play with Me"

Wil-o-whisp/ghost Jimin x reader

Summary: "Wil-o-whisp is spirit in celtic lore that appears as a blue or white light. Many legends tell of them leading unwary travelers astray. Others say that they are lost, wandering souls in search of resting places"

Warnings: paranormal/horror themes, angst, some swearing, hurt/injuries, character death, lmk if I missed anything

A/N: This turned out much sadder than I originally planned, Idk what happened. Sorry

Spooktober m.list

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

It was late in the evening as you slowly made your way home, your jacket pulled tight around you against the cold wind that bit at you and sent leaves skittering in every direction across the pavement.

You paused as you passed the old cemetery, noting that a few more headstones had fallen over, whether from neglect or with the aid of vandals you weren't sure. Poor, lonely souls, you thought to yourself.

As you stood, a flicker of movement out the corner of your eye drew your attention. Weaving it's way through the headstones, was a small blue-ish light; you would've mistaken it for a firefly, were it not October. It danced about among the graves before moving off into the woods that enclosed the back third of the graveyard.

Against your own common sense, you followed after strange light through the trees, trailing back by a few yards as you tried to figure out just what it was you were looking at. Whatever it was, it appeared to be aware of your presence, seeming to linger and wait when you stumbled or fell too far behind.

After several minutes of walking, you were surprised to come across a large, dilapidated old house. It must have been quite beautiful in its prime, but now it had been left to the elements, ivy crawling up it's faded exterior, as if trying to hide it from prying eyes. What had once been neatly manicured gardens were now an overgrown jungle of hedges and rose bushes. How long had it sat abandoned in these woods, it's only visitors the wildlife that passed through?

As you gazed up at the house, you realized that the strange light was now nowhere to be seen. Frustrated, you considered turning back when you spotted the shining blue glow again, flitting past a window inside the house. Your mind made up for you, you cautiously approached the tall oak front door.

Trying the knob, you were surprised to find it unlocked and quietly let yourself in.

You found yourself in a large, elegant entryway; cobwebbed chandelier hanging in the center of the room, plush rugs covered the floors and muffled your steps as you crept forward. Off the left side, you could see into a large dining room, table and chairs still waiting. To the right, there was a spacious library with armchairs and sofas scattered about the room. The centerpiece though, was the ornately carved staircase that wound it's way to the second floor.

"Hey"

Your head jerked up at the sound from the library. Was someone else here? You could see no signs of disturbance or footprints in the dust other than your own.

You peaked into the library cautiously before entering, but there was no one to be seen.

You wandered about the room, examining various books and ornaments on the shelves. A large fireplace took up a sizeable part of one wall, an antique mirror hanging over it reflecting the space back at you like a bleak portrait. Moonlight streamed through the windows, casting shadows of the trees outside as eerie humanoid shapes on the wall, their limbs long and twisted, dipping and swaying as they danced with the wind.

"Play with me."

You jumped, that was very clearly a voice, you had no doubt this time, sounding much closer than before. You scanned about the room uneasily, trying to spot where someone might possibly be hiding.

"Hello?" You called uncertaintly.

"Shh!" A voice right by your ear hissed. You whirled around with a gasp just in time to see the light darting away down the hall, faint silvery laughter echoing after it.

Sized by a sudden determination much stonger than any fear you had held up until that moment, you quickly chased after it, wanting to know just what the hell that thing was.

Room after room, you searched, catching only glimpses of it before it would zip away down another hall or through another door.

As you rounded the stairs, your foot caught on the edge of a rug, causing you to topple into a china cabinet and fall against a door which swung open, nearly sending you down a flight of stairs.

Panic flooded you and choked a scream in you throat, only to be yanked back suddenly by a pair of unknown hands and tumbling to the floor.

Breathing heavily, you looked up to see who had been your unexpected savior, finding yourself face to face with a young man about your age. Tousled hair, dark eyes and delicate features, he looked almost as if he'd stepped out of a renaissance painting, right down to the flowy shirt. He also seemed nearly as startled as you were, eyeing you with alarm.

"Are you okay?" He asked, anxiously scanning you for injuries.

You nodded, dazed, but as his eyes landed on your hands, he frowned.

"You're hurt." He said with a sad pout.

"What?" You looked down, finding your hands littered with a surprising number of cuts and scratches.

"I'll get some bandages." He said, getting to his feet, making sure to frimly close the door you'd fallen against.

"Wh-who are you?" You asked shakily.

"Jimin." He said simply.

"What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing." He gave a small grin. "But first, let's get you patched up, those look pretty bad."

They actually didn't hurt at all, but you accepted his offer anyway, letting him lead you into the library before he went to find some bandages.

"You seem to know your way around this place pretty well." You commented as he returned and sat down in front of you.

He chuckled. "It's my family's old house. I come here sometimes when I'm lonely or bored. What about you? Do you frequently practice breaking and entering?" He gave you a sly look.

"I didn't break in, the door was open." You retorted.

"That doesn't explain why you were here in the first place." He persisted.

"I...saw this light." You said finally.

"Me?" He offered. You shook you head.

"No, this was... I don't know, it looked... it was different." How could you explain what you had seen without sounding like you were crazy?

The logical part of your brain was starting to work again as you realized you should probably be more worried about your current situation. You were in a strange house in the middle of nowhere with some guy you knew nothing about. But Jimin seemed far from a threat as he gently tended to your wounds. You felt surprisingly calm watching his careful fingers as he wrapped a particularly bad gash on your wrist.

You were so lost in your thoughts, you almost missed him asking you a question until you noticed him looking at you questioningly.

"What?"

"Your name?" He tried again.

"Right! Sorry," Your felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as you fumbled your words. "Y/n, my name's y/n."

Y/n." He repeated thoughtfully. Why did everything sound so much nicer when he said it. His voice made your name sound so light and pretty, like music.

"Well, y/n, I'm almost positive that what you saw was just me, but if you want, we can look around to be sure." He said, finishing up and offering you his hand. You took it.

"Ok."

He smiled brightly. "Alright then. Everyone, this way please, the tour is about to begin." He said, putting on his best tour guide voice and making you laugh.

You wandered through the old house with Jimin as he showed you around, telling you about the history of the house and sharing stories about his family's time there.

You tried to keep a lookout for any sign of the strange light you'd seen, but found nothing.

You found yourself not really minding anymore though, quite enjoying your time with Jimin. He had such a warm and friendly personality, inquiring about your life and interests, and his voice had such a soothing quality to it, you felt completely at ease around him.

"Where's that one lead?" You asked as you passed the door you'd knocked into earlier.

He looked up but glanced away quickly.

"That's the cellar." He took you hand abruptly, leading you away from the door in question. "We shouldn't go down there, it's dangerous." He explained briskly. "On to the kitchen!"

You eventually returned to the library, taking a seat on one of the sofas as you continued to chat about anything and everything.

You froze mid sentence as he walked past the mirror over the fireplace, noticing an anomaly in the reflection. The blue light was back, reflected in the glass, floating there in the middle of the room, but that wasn't what made you freeze.

The light was where Jimin's reflection should've been, but there was no Jimin, just the light.

"What's wrong?" He glanced back, stiffening at the reflection. "ah, that happens sometimes, especially with these old mirrors." He said dismissively, turning back to you as if it were completely normal. "It's kinda fun at first, but after a while, it just gets annoying."

Your starting to shake as cold realization washed over you.

"I told you it was just me." He reminded, watching you.

He had. He had told you how he hadn't lived in the house for a long time, he'd just refrained from mentioning that it was due to his dying, fearing it would bring down the mood of your evening together.

"I-I have to go." Your voice shook.

He frowned. "But we were having such a nice time?"

"I really need to go" You started towards the door, tripping over your own feet, but he moved to stop you.

"I don't think that's possible." He said.

"I wasn't asking permission." Pushing past him, you made it out the door and into the night. Glancing back over your shoulder, you could see him watching from window, his expression somber.

You wove quickly through the trees, trying to find your way back to the cemetery, but it was so dark you could hardly see a thing. As your pace grew more frantic, your shoe caught on a tree root and you were falling yet again.

You braced for the impact, but it never came.

You opened your eyes slowly, shocked to find yourself back in the house, laying in the middle of the entryway. As you sat up, you caught sight of Jimin sitting on the stairs, waiting for you.

"What the hell is going on?" You asked unsteadily.

"I was going to tell you, but I didn't want to upset you, not so soon." He spoke quietly.

"Tell me what?"

He nodded towards the door he'd avoided on your tour earlier, the cellar.

He stayed seated as you got to your feet and slowly crossed the hall and turned the knob, letting the door swing open with a creak.

It was silent for a moment as your eyes adjusted to the dark, followed by a strangled cry as you stared in wide-eyed horror.

At the bottom of the stairs was you, your body crumpled and broken from the fall.

You staggered backwards, your knees buckling as you slumped to the floor, reaching out for anything to steady you. Your hand found purchase on the soft material of Jimin's shirt as he rushed forward to catch you.

"I'm sorry." He whispered as you sobbed against his chest.

It had been an accident, he explained. When you had first followed him, it had just been for fun, a sort of game of hide & seek. But when you fell, he'd panicked and tried to grab you, somehow causing a separation between you and your body, sparing you the final moment of impact, but unable to save you entirely.

So, thats why you hadn't felt any pain from the cuts on your hands and arms, now lingering momentos of your last moments.

"I didn't mean for you to get hurt." He said quietly. "I just wanted you to stay for a bit."

He'd worried you would be angry with him, and maybe you should've been, but you weren't.

You sat in the library, watching the first hints of sunrise creep across the sky, exhaustion catching up with you and making your limbs heavy. It was strange that you could still feel tired when you were dead. As your eyes fell closed, you felt Jimin come over and sit down next to you, letting you lean on him.

"Will they find me?" You asked.

"Maybe." He said,

"Did they find you?" You asked.

He looked down. "No."

You nodded, a few silent tears slipping out.

"Don't worry, it won't be so bad." He tried to comfort you. "We can stay here and have fun together."

You nodded again, your thoughts going back to those forgotten graves you'd pittied the night before. You wondered if any of them were like this. Or had they faded away, like the names on their headstones.

At least, this way, you wouldn't be like them. You would never be forgotten. Jimin would remember you.

"At least we'll never be alone."

[rotteneldritchhorror]

Objegraveyardic

A gender related to dumps for out-of-use parts or objects being called “graveyards” or “cemeteries” (eg; car cemeteries, ship graveyards, etc)

May also relate to the personification of objects, referring to neglected or abandoned objects, places or items as ‘dead’, the idea of referring to things that were never alive as ‘dead’, the burying of objects, graveyards in general, decay and rust, decaying, rusting or broken things, etc. but not necessarily.

DNI: bigots, radinclus, radexclus, pro-endo, if you’re going to try and argue with me on any of these points, if you demonise mental illness, pro-transid (eg; transabled, transage, transrace, etc), proshippers/anti-anti, MAPS/NOMAPS/necro/zoo

[unclevladscorner]

I have to reassess my feelings on Cemetery Boys

I want to be clear- I had a really difficult time reading this book. It was not fun, nor was it particularly enjoyable for me. Reading it touched a raw emotional nerve in me, and I had such a wildly different experience with it from most other transmasculine people that I do not relate to the attachment many feel for the book.

But the thing is I could not seem to explain why, exactly. The book is not bad. The language is a little plainer than I'd like normally. The story is also not bad. I could see the ending from a long ways off, but I'm also almost 40 and this is a YA book.

I thought it might be my age. I'm older and I didn't start my transition until I was 30. But I think I have to admit that it was that I saw my own very raw younger self reflected in Julian so nearly completely it hit on some difficult to feel emotions about what it was like to be a queer kid.

Julian isn't just literally invisible- he's metaphorically invisible in his own life. Abandoned, half neglected and living with behavioral issues, this kid is completely feral. His friends are his family, and he would literally die for them.

I know him and his life because; in spite of our racial and geographical differences, it was my own life. The mechanic father and brother, the mother who abandoned them? Yup, my life too.

Yadirel has it much easier in comparison to Julian and he is blissfully unaware of it. His situation isn't particularly easy or even much more comfortable, but his awkward family is stable and at a better place to work with him. Yadirel's family isn't always sensitive to his needs; nor are they always supportive, but they do love him.

The reaction I had was so raw, so emotional, and so hard to explain that I really hated the experience for a long time. I finished the book a year ago, and I still chafe a little when it comes up.

At the end of the day, Yadirel's life just wasn't my life, his experiences as a trans person are nothing like my own, and that's why I didn't really relate.

That being said, a younger trans person showing agency with his own life resonates very strongly with a lot of trans people. That's a good thing! The book touched a lot of other transmasculine people in ways that has been deeply important for them.

I'd still recommend this book to people who are just discovering their transness or queerness. I think it can be a good place for some people to start, even if I wasn't that person myself.

[imaginarianisms]

thinking about how rickon stark at such a young age when he was like literally six years old (& literally three years old but our asoiaf munchkins are aged up like the show is & even then six is insanely young thats still a baby thats like literal preschool to just starting school age. lmao) was literally in the deepest, darkest parts of the crypts of winterfell for DAYS in the pitch black with no tapers, no candles, no lamps & no lights & with no fear & didn't even come back up. like. how many kids do you know that can do that lmao. thats the equivalent of like leaving a kid alone in a cemetery in the middle of the night in pitch black w/ no lights. for the vast majority of the time nobody knew where rickon or shaggydog was in winterfell. & not only that, at his very young age, at age 6-7 (age 4 in the books) he TAUGHT HIMSELF TO VOLUNTARILY WARG into shaggydog AT WILL before bran or jon or arya ever did & he didn't even have jojen reed let alone anyone to teach him. & not to mention when he gets hurt it doesn't even bother him. when he & the twin freys were playing, one of the walders hit him HARD. he gets OBLITERATED. & in a flash shaggydog got PISSED & then rickon just started LAUGHING HYSTERICALLY. that's a TOUGH little dude. most kids his age would be on the floor crying when they're hit in the chest by a kid more than twice his age. & THEN from THAT MOMENT ON the walders were basically rickon disciples lmao. they were more than twice his age & they would follow him all around the castle & he would use them to get stuff done. & he basically had free reign of the kitchens & stealing the cakes & meat & doing whatever he wants & getting these much older kids to do what he wants them to do which indicates even at his young age he's got leadership qualities. that's like a kid in late preschool to JUST starting elementary school & having all these 5th & 6th graders wanting to be his friend lmao. he was FEARLESS at such a young age & shaggydog made him fearless.

he also had more time to bond with his direwolf because he wasn't in a coma & was also being completely neglected because ned had gone south with sansa & arya, robb was busy at winterfell with everything going on & he was only a teenager himself & he even told his mother to care for rickon, too, bc he'd follow him around everywhere crying, he'd refuse to let anybody cut his hair, maester luwin had no idea where he was most of the time so half of the entire winterfell guard was out here looking for this kid after catelyn left, bran, her favorite son who she didn't want him to leave winterfell, was in a coma & catelyn neglected her household duties out of grief & ignored rickon (as well as robb, & didnt even say goodbye to ned, sansa or arya when they left for king's landing) completely so in his state of neglect he bonded even moreso with his direwolf. & he's this tiny little kid that's full of rage. like. everyone left him. his father left him & his mother left & he's not forgiving her. like. this kid is severely traumatized has next level anger inside of him for someone his age to the point where he PULLS A SWORD on maester luwin & sics his direwolf on him. this is a teeny tiny fuckin kid, this is a tiny lil dude & this kid is just fierce as FUCK.

& not to mention he says some really prophetic shit too. when robb leaves & bran says they'll be back, rickon states "no they won't". & that's not a question; that was a statement. & that wasn't in a frightened child way. in his mind, his father left & his mother left & robb left & his family abandoned him & never came back & he's never going to see his father, his mother or his oldest brother ever again. this kid's been in winter his whole life. & how shaggydog is pitch black & has green eyes in contrast with jon's direwolf ghost who is white as snow & has red eyes & literally no other direwolf has ever been recorded to look like that & the old gods have specifically made them look like that to be the most magically gifted. his role is going to be crazy magical. he's not gonna run into a straight line & die like the show does lmao. & not to mention osha who knew all about skinchangers because she's beyond the wall & on skagos they're closer to the free folk culturally than they are to the northmen. so like when davos brings this kid back this kid is gonna be insanely powerful, like varamyr sixskins on steroids. this kid's gonna have this gigantic black direwolf shaggydog, a unicorn, flocks of eagles & families of polar bears & shadowcats & herds of mammoths & packs of wolves all at once. he would be the living embodiment of the children of the forest of old. & so like. even when rickon by the winds of winter-a dream of spring is like. 13. thats still insanely young. like. elementary school level kid.

[v1ctimplagued]

#v1ctimplagued  ;  an  anthology  of  the  broken  child,  torn  in  his  grief  &  destruction,  consumed  with  the  desire  to  be  wanted,  the  reality  of  child  abandonment,  the  ravaging  of  child  abuse  on  a  desecrated  soul  —  making  his  body  a  memorial  and  his  heart  a  martyr, fractured  innocence,  being  the  sacrifice  &  being  the  BLADE,  carrying  it  all  within  the  walls  of  his  skin,  &  making  his  childhood  home  a  cemetery. 

　　　 　―――――― dear boy you're 𝑆𝐴𝐶𝑅𝐼𝐹𝐼𝐶𝐼𝐴𝐿 !

a  highly  selective,  mature  &  independent  depiction  of  billy  hargrove  from  netflix’  stranger  things.  written  as  a  villain’s  obituary  ╱  as  destroyed  by  nic  (they/them,  29,  CST).

𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔 :   background & laws. memes. verses. open starters. 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 : wanted plots. promo. threads. mains. wire.

𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 : also found writing at @godstrayed ( multimuse )

→ 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒅 ღ : villainarcsupremacy

IMPORTANT NOTES ABOUT MY PORTRAYAL UNDER THE CUT:

Billy through the tv series expresses and acts on a lot of TOXIC behavior some of which I will explore in my writing and some which I will not.

The character expresses some beliefs that I will never write or mention in my writing because I never want to have to justify it even in character. After all, it's not justifiable.

Then there is the entire “Mrs. Wheeler” situation which is highly uncomfortable and problematic for the implications there. I will not be writing it or mentioning it either.

As far as I am concerned those are written out of my headcanon, didn’t fucking happen and any mention or implication of such will result in me dropping our things and no longer writing with you.

His beliefs & actions do not equal me as the writer. Fiction is fiction. 'Bad' characters can exist without the people who write them being bad. I am not trying to redeem my Billy. I prefer writing him as awful and therewithin the complexities of childhood abuse.

Billy is a character who experiences extreme levels of parental abandonment, mental & physical abuse, and neglect. It will periodically be referenced in my writing. If those are things you are uncomfortable seeing I suggest you do not follow as it is intrinsic to his characterization.

As for the abusive, unhealthy and violent nature of Billy, that will remain the same and a focal point of his characterization for me. Please feel free to approach me with any other clarifications.

[doctorbrown]

I have a lot of thoughts about Doc & Marty and their time in the 1985A timeline tbh. We get to see a lot of Marty's time in that timeline (obviously) but almost none of Doc's besides when he shows up at Oak Park Cemetery and when he shows up again to save Marty on the roof of the Pleasure Paradise.

And despite the fact that Doc never shares what he saw during his own investigation nor his complete thoughts on the situation behind the obvious and pressing, we get told so much with so little, especially as they're preparing to leave Hell Valley for 1955 again.

In the DeLorean, when Marty asks what if we don't succeed, you can see it on Doc's face even before he says anything. Failure's not an option because he knows what's going to happen if they screw this up; this will be his reality when the time bubble bursts and they'll lose any and all chance of making things right if that happens.

"What if we don't succeed?"

"We must succeed."

And that's that. No consideration for the what-if, no room for doubt or misinterpretation. They might only get that one trip to the past to do it and there's no exact science behind how quickly the timeline will move to correct itself in situations like this. Marty had a week after nearly erasing himself from existence after screwing up his parents' meeting and they barely made it. They might only have a few hours. They could have three days. They just can't risk it.

Doc's normally a very expressive individual, but you don't often see or hear the genuine fear in his voice the same way you do in this interaction. Concern, sure, confusion and excitement and surprise and bewilderment, absolutely, but he's never visibly this rattled. He's clearly in a rush, more so than usual. He'd normally never leave behind someone in another time, certainly not Jen or Einie, but there's simply no time to waste and he's banking on that, their success.

Like, Biff's an idiot, sure, (at least when it comes to book smarts; he's clearly street smart) but we also know he's manipulative, vindictive, and self-serving and if he's got it in his head that Doc's going to be a threat to his empire and the ruse he's been keeping up for decades, he'll do whatever it takes.

So what did Doc actually see while in this timeline? I've got my own personal headcanons about this and I imagine everything he saw just got progressively worse and worse. This won't be an exhaustive list, just some of my thoughts particular to how I see the timeline and what I'd write as a sequence of events happening behind the scenes.

Doc's first order of business is a disguise—he doesn't yet know what's happened to him in this timeline or where he is and he's certain his name will be as well-known here as it was back home; he can't run the risk of someone finding out his identity and asking questions. He's not proud of it, but haste and urgency prompts him to steal the clothes.

He wants to go visit his own home, but without the assurance that his counterpart won't be there, he decides to make for the library instead, after spending a little time inspecting what Hill Valley has turned into. The degradation, vandalism, chaos, and obvious neglect causes the hair on his arms to stand on end and he's suddenly extremely worried about driving the time machine around so openly, hover conversion be damned. He stashes the DeLorean in the garage of an abandoned, dilapidated old home and shuts the door, believing it will be safer in there than him trying to drive it around and attract attention to himself.

Breaking into the library is easy enough. Windows are smashed, it has been boarded up and left to decay with a graffiti-laden sign proudly announcing this to be the newest location for another BiffCo addition; nobody's around to see him go in and so he helps himself. He's in the library a few hours sorting through all the disarray, but he finds several noteworthy articles: Biff's highly suspicious, meteoric rise to fame and fortune, his buying out of Hill Valley, reports of crime on the rise and the police abandoning the population, George McFly's death, Lorraine's marriage to Biff, the police having to close the case on the murder of George McFly several months later due to 'no leads', BiffCo purchasing Lone Pine Mall, the ongoing hunt for the group looking to topple the Tannen Empire, detailing the most recent siphoning of electricity and other resources, the list continues. Doc gets a clearer and clearer picture of what Biff has done to Hill Valley since his older self went back in time to give him the sports almanac.

Then he finds articles about himself—several—with the most recent and most damning being '83's front-page declaration that he has finally been committed indefinitely at the County Asylum and is filled with an icy dread. Now armed with the chilling knowledge that there's no possible way he can run into his alternate self, Doc retrieves the DeLorean and hurries off to 'his' home.

The lab is beyond saving and Doc spends a considerable amount of time rooting through all his upturned belongings, looking for any further clues or hints his alternate may have left behind, namely in the form of journals or audio recordings. Thinking where would I hide something if I was being targeted by a madman? Doc eventually manages to find some of the writings his alternate had left behind. Much of it was weather-damaged and heavily redacted, especially the parts detailing any of the specifics of time-travel, but Doc was able to glean enough of the story of the life his counterpart had lived.

The time machine was never completed due to power constraints, a shifted timeframe, and Biff and the authorities constantly hounding him. Alternate Doc had started growing suspicious of Biff after his third consecutive big sports win and began to suspect foul play via time-travel, thus fuelling his desire to complete his own research to do some investigation of his own. Something had always felt off. He'd been siphoning power on the down-low to keep his experiments going, never able to achieve the 1.21 gigawatts of power he needed for proper time travel. He could manage a few hours at best with this small amount of power, but that wouldn't do. He'd never gotten his hands on a DeLorean; his time travel device more closely resembles Doc's own early prototype for travelling through time, the TFC. The authorities began harassing him more and more, especially as protests against Biff began to pick up. He had secretly encouraged and even supported those with sense enough to stand up against Biff and his perverting corruption. His final unredacted entry was a short, cryptic line: It's safe.

Doc's an hour early to Oak Park Cemetery once he finally collects himself and he's waiting around with Einie, talking to him and trying to process everything he's just learned. What he'll tell Marty. He opts to keep everything but the most pertinent information a secret. It's only when he hears Marty screaming at George's grave that he knows he's there and makes his presence known.

When Marty goes back to the Pleasure Paradise to confront Biff, Doc uses the time to, against his better judgment drive to the County Asylum, where he's supposedly been locked up. Still in disguise and posing as a relative of his, he walks up to the check-in desk and inquires after himself, one Doctor Emmett L. Brown and receives news that he's in no shape to meet anyone, as he's currently in recovery. Doc hurries out.

Marty dies. He resolves never to speak of this to the boy so long as he lives, but the very first time, he's too late to be there to save him during his confrontation with Biff. Doc is frozen over the body of his friend while the world fades out around him and it takes a while for him to come to his senses enough to get back into the DeLorean and prevent this tragedy from ever happening. At that moment, he doesn't care that a crowd of people sees the time machine take off in flight; they won't remember in a minute anyway.

Anyway, long post over—these are some of the major thoughts I've got about this timeline.

[dragilia99]

BBB Ghost Hotel AU! 🪦🥀

Behind the Grand Hotel, there is an old cemetery. From the looks of it, it has been neglected for a long time. Although it seems the cemetery also have a visitor from afar.

"Abandoned Cemetery" featuring Kira'na as the Tearful Maiden🥀

[ceresoktavia]

Wandering around the ruins of Ebonhawke always had something unrealistic to Bengar.

The Fortress City had been abandoned several hundred years by now, but to him the legions besieging it felt like yesterday. Then again, time seemed to move exceedingly fast, especially after having lived as long as he did.

By now, every person he came to now died in what felt like the blink of an eye, despite him being there when they were born. An odd feeling and one he had grown accustomed to. The only long term friendship he now had was with Aurene. But the elder dragon liked to keep to herself and focus on her duty as living, breathing magic filter.

A fate Bengar wished upon no one.

He kept checking in on her every now and then, always making sure to ask her how she was feeling. Last thing he wanted was for her to end like the former six elder dragons, corrupted and in Soo-Won’s case consumed by Void Energy.

Wandering on, he dragged his claws along one of the few remaining sturdy walls.

He hated this time of the year.

When he was painfully reminded that he was not entirely charr, where he couldn’t pretend to just be cursed with a long life.

It had gotten worse ever since demon overlords had started to turn their attention to Tyria, and therefore to the homelands of his people.

Something about the frequent contact with demons and other magic based creatures had called out to the demonic side of him, awakening and empowering parts he would have preferred to stay dormant.

Aimlessly wandering through the ruins barely helped to calm his agitated mind.

At least he was alone in here, not even the souls of the dead seemed to frequent this place anymore. He preferred it this way.

Last time someone had caught him while the demonic part of him had turned him into a slave of his carnal urges wasn’t pretty. The thought alone still mortified him.

Carefully ascending the stairs up to the former cemetery, he mused if this was the result of him refusing to sire cubs.

It wasn’t like he lived a celibate life, but he had always taken precautions. Downing herbs, potions and everything that could prevent him from somehow being fertile enough to reproduce.

After the shitshow that was the blood imperator trying to enslave Jormag had forced him out of hiding, many females had shown more than interest in him. And they all were disappointed to the core when they found out it hadn’t worked and they weren’t going around with a little titan slayer of their own.

Sitting down between the crumbling gravestones, he looked up at the sky.

Surely he would need to take care of … it … soon.

Last time he had neglected the urge for too long, he had torn an ogre apart with his bare hands without transforming first.

He squinted as he saw a shadowy swirl in the sky. At first he thought it was just a very large bird, but the swirl remained until something fell out, crushing into the grounds.

Bengar instantly jumped to his feet and sprinted down the slippery stone stairs.

The impact site was within the walls of Ebonhawke, he had seen that much.

Running across the large, empty streets, he wondered what that had been. The swirl was gone, but whatever it was that had fallen out hadn’t given off a single sound, or had started to make any moves.

Almost falling over when he reached a crumbling house with a now destroyed roof, he did his best to strain his hearing while catching his breath.

Not even a groan of pain.

He tried to open the door, but something blocked it and it didn’t even budge in the slightest. An agitated growl on his lips, he simply threw himself against the door several times until it gave in.

The light inside made it hard to see at first, but he quickly adjusted and saw what had fallen out of the swirl like portal.

A humanoid woman with red hair, brown horns framing her forehead and large, feathery wings on her hips.

She wasn’t moving and looked like she had taken a severe beating.

The armor she was wearing showed deep cuts and the dents in it spoke of years of usage.

Tiptoeing closer, he watched the obviously demonic woman carefully. Yet she was completely out cold. Something about her had the demonic part of him rattling on the cage he kept it in.

Oddly enough, she fascinated him. Way more than most charr females had ever managed to.

Bengar snorted and shook his head.

They had always complained about him being some sort of pervert. Evidently they had been right without knowing.

Carefully checking for a pulse, he allowed himself to take a closer look while doing so.

This demoness wasn’t that tall compared to other demons he had met, but her features were pleasing, even to him. And he didn’t even liked humanoid creatures in the aesthetic sense to begin with.

The pulse was there, but weak.

He sat down next to her and dragged a hand over his face. She had to be a succubus, at least that was the explanation he had for him actually feeling drawn towards her.

Pondering what to do for several minutes, he more and more had to actively fight his demonic side. Much to his horror, the demon side gathered strength from the mere presence of a succubus. Or was it about being THAT time?

Didn’t matter, he had to do something.

A bitter grimace on his face, he picked the unconscious demoness up and carried her to his hideout.

Having brought her to a place that wasn’t in the risk of collapsing in on them any second, he took time to inspect her for injuries. Aside from an easily treatable stabbing wound on her side, he found none.

Once he was done, he grabbed a chair and sat down across the room, keeping a watchful eye on her.

Despite the fact that a humanoid creature was just lying in his hideout, in his bed, he didn’t felt bothered. Others had bothered him way harder. And they had been of his own race and had freely joined him.

He stemmed a hand against his chin.

“What should I do with you?”

Nobody needed to remind him of what his demonic side wanted him to do with her.

He patiently kept watching her, only leaving his position to get something to drink or take care of other urges. Every time he returned, he checked her pulse before he sat back down to watch her like a hawk.

Almost dozing off a couple of times, he tried not to think too hard about actually resolving this situation once she would wake up. Actually dreading to have to resolve it.

Watching on for hours, he wondered at some point if she would ever wake up. A thought that had him growl to himself.

Just as he was about to doze off yet again, he heard the ever first sound from her.

It was just a pained groan, but it was a sound.

His ears twitched as he looked up, but she didn’t move. Grimacing, Bengar got up and started to pace around.

The whole situation was driving him insane.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he heard a weak, hoarse voice behind himself.

“Who are you?”

Turning back, he somehow expected to find the picture of the succubus having risen up to gracefully display why they were demons of lust and desire. Instead he saw her still lying there, eyes barely open and hands carefully checking his wound treatment while looking up at him.

Light reflections gave off the illusion of dancing flames in eyes as red as blood.

Bengar swallowed hard. This was far worse than a graceful demoness trying to be seductive. It was a display of weakness, and to some degree of trust. The last thing he had expected.

“I’m …” He cleared his throat. “… I’m Bengar Dustclaw. And you are?”

“Anjeka … Anjeka de Lafitte.”

The massive white charr stared at her like she was the most baffling thing he had ever seen in his life. “The heir of this matriarchal cubi hive? The daughter of Grand Mistress Mythal?”

“Oh fuck my life …” Anjeka turned her eyes away from Bengar and instead stared at the ceiling. “ … of course the mother effing Titan Slayer did his homework.”

“Wait, what? You know who I am?” Confusion written all over his features, he stepped closer, weighing the pros and cons on sitting down next to her in his head.

“Of course I do.” She looked back at him, actually smirking. “Demonic charr aren’t something you encounter in the wild, you know?”

“Right … right ��” Shaking his head, he sat down on the ground next to the bed. “Forgot that I’m unique among my people.”

“Well that and your looks are a big giveaway as well.” What should have been a snort turned into a pained groan as Anjeka quickly curled up into herself and purposefully away from Bengar.

As quickly as she had curled up, Bengar jumped up. “Wha … are you alright? Did I miss any injuries?”

The weak chuckle she answered with utterly confused him. Uncurling, she carefully sat up while hissing. Sweat was visibly gathering on the parts of her skin he could see.

“Ah … so that’s why a somewhat human looking female is having this effect on me …” Bengar started pacing around once again. “Of course … now Aurene’s smug comment makes sense …”

“You know the prismatic elder dragon?”

“I …” He stopped pacing, running his claws through his hair instead. “ … yes I guess I do. Was friends with a comrade of her champion.”

“You mean the one with Sohothin … Brimmstone was his name if I recall right.” Anjeka grinned, but her grin was quickly replaced by a grimace of pain. Once again curling up, she clenched her jaws to not scream out.

Instantly dropping down in front of her, Bengar conjured a light, cold breeze in between his hands and held them to her sides. “Smalltalk is fine and all … but you’re not really on terms to have lengthy chats up front right now.”

“I know.” Looking up again, Anjeka blinked a few times in confusion. Being on eye level with the big, white charr, she managed to actually see his eyes properly. “But this is … “

“… awkward? Mortifying?”

“And much more.”

Bengar sighed, then showed an uneasy smirk. “You know, this is actually pretty terrifying for me.”

“I could make it easier on you.” Anjeka’s features changed right before his eyes, shifting, adjusting until he was looking at a female charr with ginger fur. “If that helps … cause to be perfectly honest, I don’t feel like begging …”

Bengar laughed and retreated his hands, once again running them through his hair. “Actually … and I know I sound like a perverted freak saying this … I like the real you better.”

Shifting back, Anjeka tilted her head to the side. “Then what are you waiting for? A formal invitation?”

“No …” He chuckled. “… I’m just … all about consent I guess. It’s just how my people roll. We clearly state that we want to do it before we do it.”

Anjeka’s features changed to an amused smirk. “Okay, then here’s the facts. You’re an Alpha in rut, I’m an Omega in heat. We both need it, and we need it badly. So how about we cut the part where we act like awkward kids out and just do it?”

To her surprise, Bengar chuckled and got up, simply stripping his shirt over his head while at it. “As you wish.”

The demoness swallowed hard. She had thought the shirt had made him look broader, like literally everything charr tended to wear did, but Bengar really was of a broad build. His white fur only enhanced the effect.

Sharp claws carefully pushed her down to her back and she watched with heated interest how he hooked one of those sharp as hell fangs into the front clasp of her bra to carefully pull it open.

Her breathing hitched when those sharp fangs continued to grace her body, and yelped when she felt that his tongue was just as rough a cat’s.

The demoness bucked her hips up. Being up close to an Alpha for ancestors know how long without them doing anything while in heat was pure torture. Especially since Bengar insisted on being a gentle tease.

At this point, she was desperate.

She needed it bad, she needed it hard and worst of all, him not knowing how to treat a humanoid and therefore testing out a lot and being overly cautious drove her insane.

A threatening growl tore out of Bengar’s throat, his eyes met hers, dark desire raging is his mesmerizing purple eyes.

So the demon part of him had finally won …

Claws of one hand carefully scratching over her body, the white charr rose up again, reaching behind himself to undo his pants.

“Never took cubi to be the impatient type.” He danced his tongue around one of his fangs. “You’ll never stop learning.”

First biting her lips, Anjeka then decided that she wasn’t really in the mood to be the obedient little thing everyone expected when they thought of Omegas like her. Growling herself, she quickly undid her own pants and stripped them down as far as she could with the big, smug bastard kneeling down in between her legs.

“As if you don’t know why.” She leaned up, dragging her slowly growing talons through his fur. “It fucking hurts! So quit messing around!”

A wolfish grin plastered over his features, he pressed her back down, then got up to strip her pants away completely, simultaneously dropping his own. “Very well.”

Kneeling down in between her legs again, he once again roamed his claws up over her body, leaning down in the process. “If you want it so bad, turn around.” He almost breathed in her ear as his fangs graced it “Kitten.”

Anjeka did what he had asked of her, faster than Bengar had expected and despite her being caged beneath him. Having rolled over, she bucked her hips back, gracing him just enough to make him groan.

He dragged his fangs over her shoulder in return, biting down just firm enough to keep her in place while undoing his loincloth behind his back.

Finally being completely freed from possibly interfering fabric, he wedged an arm beneath her hips to pull her back, growling into her shoulder from the feeling of slick warmth between her legs.

Blindly slipping along her folds until he found her entrance naturally, Bengar lost no time and simply pushed in, winding his arm around her hips tighter to pull her down, his fangs threatening to break the skin on Anjeka’s shoulder as he slowly pushed further.

Damn, she was so much tighter than any charr female he had been with.

And the filthy moan ripping from her throat was almost enough to finish him off on the spot.

Not even thinking of ruining his fun by taking everything at once, he rocked his hips back, thrusted with just enough force to go a little deeper and the demoness moaned out so loud he was sure she would scare off everything, even the souls of the dead, if there was anything nearby.

Unclenching his jaw, he opted for holding on to hear throat and pulling her up. Groaning into her ear, he once again thrusted just enough to sink in a little deeper.

“That what you wanted?”

The demoness rolled her head back, another moan ripping from her throat. “Yes! Fucking yes!”

Wolfish grin on his lips, he dragged his claws over her hips. “You’ll regret it.”

Anjeka glanced back at him, grinning, daring him. “Make. Me.”

She cried out when Bengars fangs were suddenly buried in her shoulder again, and lost all control of her body as he started to take her with deep, hard thrusts.

Actually allowing her to fall forward, he held on to her hips with a bruising grip, driving into her like a starved beast, groaning and growling into her shoulder.

The demoness clawed at the sheets beneath her, moan after moan ripped out of her throat. The danger of the charr’s claws on her throat and his fangs on her shoulder added a thrill she had never experienced before. Additionally, she felt the same rough prick inside herself she had previously felt when he had licked along her body.

Her perception stopped working, world around her drowned out by the pleasure her body had been screaming for. And it didn’t seem to stop.

Bengar kept driving into her like a madman even all the way through her coming undone, not the least bit interested in basking in his achievement like other Alphas she had been with did. Instead, he kept her on an impossible high, making her drool into the sheets.

A full body shudder ran through her when his fangs left her shoulder, then she felt one impossible deep thrust. Crying out a moan, her eyes went wide, something inside her rejoicing at the feeling of him swelling up inside her, of him shuddering and rocking until he jerked into her and growled through bared fangs.

Her head rolled to the side on instinct, but instead of sharp fangs breaking her skin, she felt the fluff of his fur nuzzling against her neck.

Winding both arms around her, he pulled her up, then pushed her wing to the side before collapsing to the now free side with her in her arms. Tail curling up around her, he squeezed her and shuddered.

Panting and chuckling, Anjeka felt every bit of him inside and purred.

Bengar nipped her neck in return. “Are you mocking me?”

“I mean … if it helps.” She turned her head and smirked. “Cause I’m not regretting anything in the least.”

A smug smirk on his face, Bengar chuckled. “Don’t worry, working on that one.”

[autolovecraft]

God, what a rage!

He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass.

Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.

That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the tomb.

It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. Birch.

Sawyer.

I agreed that he was wise in so doing. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. Why did you do it, Birch? Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door.

Perhaps he screamed. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to realize the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh an unsympathetic reply.

The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer.

The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was also near by; but actually postponed the matter for three days, not getting to work till Good Friday, the 15th. I'd hate to have it aimed at me!

That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the tomb. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced.

For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. Davis.

[vuulpecula]

✖ @paramounticebound​ inquired: always  managed  to  move  in  right  next  to  the  cemeteries  and  never  far  from  hospitals.

✖ boygenius sentence starters | always accepting

      “There ain’t much else ‘round here,” she remarked around a stick of peppermint. The remainder of someone else’s Christmas candy. A few months old and chalky, but still good. “You can’t really go for more than a mile without seeing a cemetery, unless you take the interstate.” A road she’d never driven on and only seen. All those lanes packed full of people rushing past the town or away from it. It seemed loud and dirty. As if the very air around it was so chocked full of exhaust one could suffocate with their windows down. Fox much preferred the back-roads. The abandoned highways full of cracks and neglect, where the earth was beginning to claim back what men had done to her. There was a slowness on those roads. One that made a fifteen-minute drive feel like hours. Along them there were lots of overgrown grave-sites full of people, whole families even, dotted even few miles. Forgotten. Their weathered headstones all covered in moss and mold, choked with vines, the solitary reminders that once they had lived. Once they had been someone. Now, they were only bones and dust.

      “We ain’t got a hospital, though. Places like that don’t stay here long. Just the clinic, but if you need something big, sometimes they send you two towns over--nearest hospital is there.” Big facilities like that weren’t inclined to settle anywhere money was always tight and healthcare was something you paid for and seldom used. “Saint something-or-other. You’d probably like it, lots of crosses hanging in the hallways. As if the power of God will keep someone from dying after half their skull went missing.” There had been a boy a few years older than her who had died of that exact situation. His parents had prayed. Hell, the whole damn town had prayed, but he died anyway. God or Jesus or whatever angels might be out there hadn’t done a thing aside from keeping him alive long enough to pass through the threshold of Saint something-or-other. His parents came home with his body and a bill they were still trying to pay off. Morosely, Fox wondered if his parents wished he had just died in the road that night. It would have saved them a whole lot of trouble. Of course, if he had been wearing his seat-belt and hadn’t had a truck filled with shining, empty cans of PBR, it would have saved them even more. She couldn’t remember his name. It was Bobby or Billy or Buddy or some other variation, but she remembered the road. Old Oak Lane. His body was buried in a cemetery not far from it. The town had the tree cut down after the wreckage was removed and the blood was sprayed from the asphalt. The Old Oak. She guessed people couldn’t stand being reminded of it.

      “You ever live in a town this small, Preacher?”

[ausetkmt]

"Finding Zion, a Black cemetery time forgot in Tampa"

Lost African American Cemetery Found Under Florida Parking Lot

Nora McGreevy

Residents of Clearwater Heights, a historically black neighborhood in Clearwater, Florida, have long shared rumors of unmarked graves left behind when an all-black cemetery was moved to another town in the 1950s.

Now, an archaeological survey has confirmed this speculation, reports Paul Guzzo for the Tampa Bay Times. According to records obtained by the Times, researchers recently used ground-penetrating radar (GPR) to analyze a patch of land in the Tampa Bay community. Though a paved parking lot covers most of the site, a business complex owned by staffing firm FrankCrum occupies a small portion of the land.

Archaeologists discovered 70 possible graves just below the surface of the lot, says Jeff Moates of the Florida Public Archaeology Network. The team only surveyed a fifth of the 2.5-acre cemetery plot, raising the possibility that more graves may be hidden at the site.

The St. Matthew Missionary Baptist Church established the cemetery in 1909. When the church sold the land in 1955, most of the bodies buried in the graveyard were moved to another African American cemetery in nearby Dunedin. But some of the graves were unmarked, and they appear to have been left behind during the move.

Over the next 50 years, the plot of land hosted a department store, an administrative building and a technology firm. In 2004, FrankCrum purchased the site, unaware of the forgotten graves on-site, according to the Times.

The new discovery is the latest in a string of key historical finds across Tampa Bay. In the past year alone, research spearheaded by local reporters has led to the identification of four historical black cemeteries in the area.

Two years ago, Times journalists acting on a tip from local historian Ray Reed realized that the city’s first all-black graveyard, Zion Cemetery, was buried beneath land now occupied by the Tampa Housing Authority and restaurant warehouses.

Using GPR, researchers discovered more than 300 unmarked graves. Their findings, published in June 2019, led to the rediscovery of other cemeteries in the area, including a nearly all-black grave site hidden beneath a Tampa high school.

That these black cemeteries have been neglected or “lost” to time is no accident, but rather the result of systemic racism, reports Emerald Morrow for local broadcast station WTSP. During the Reconstruction era following the Civil War, Jim Crow laws effectively barred black people from owning property—a restriction that forced African Americans out of neighborhoods where they had lived for generations.

As Morrow explains, “At the time, racism and segregation meant African Americans lacked the political and economic power to hold onto their property and sacred institutions like cemeteries. And it’s the buildup of these injustices over time that have led to outrage in the black community today.”

Spurred by the recent spate of discoveries, experts from the University of South Florida and the Florida Public Archaeology Network are researching unmarked graves and working to identify the people buried within.

“We die twice,” says USF librarian Drew Smith in a statement. “We die when our physical body dies, but we also die when the last person speaks our name. We can bring these people back because we can begin talking about them and speaking their names again.”

As Jacey Fortin and Johnny Diaz reported for the New York Times last November, efforts to preserve abandoned or neglected historical black cemeteries are ongoing across the country.

In February 2019, Congressional lawmakers introduced the African-American Burial Grounds Network Act, which seeks to create a national database of historic black cemeteries under the auspices of the National Park Service, according to Caitlin Byrd of the Post and Courier.

More recently, the Mass Graves Investigation Public Oversight Committee announced plans to dig for suspected mass graves linked to the Tulsa Race Massacre, as DeNeen L. Brown reported for the Washington Post in February. In 1921, a white mob attacked and destroyed the prosperous black neighborhood of Greenwood, killing an estimated 300 black Tulsans. Public interest in the search for the mass graves has intensified as the centennial of the massacre approaches, wrote Jason Daley for Smithsonian magazine in 2018.

Work aimed at unearthing and preserving historic black burial sites has taken on new urgency as protests against racism and police brutality erupt across the country.

As historian Fred Hearns tells the Tampa Bay Times, “[Y]ou can’t hide the truth. It will be dug up. Those young people out in the street inherited our rage. Until we tell the whole truth, there will always be a lingering evil—like the cemeteries—waiting to pop its head up.”

[cdoc1890]

Black Civil War veterans in an abandoned Chester County cemetery deserve a memorial https://www.inquirer.com/opinion/commentary/memorial-day-black-civil-war-veterans-cemeteries-shiloh-ame-church-westtown-20240517.html

[raemeria]

Preserving some historical sites can be more complicated than at first, though, and even sometimes reflects racial inequalities. Neglect, financial difficulties, and land are all factors that can hinder attempts at preserving historical sights. Other factors can also be priorities, as Confederate burial sites are prioritized above African American cemeteries.

Through research, many interactions with the local population, and fighting for their protection, this is how public historians play an integral part in the preservation of burial sitesᅳworking with stakeholders in order to establish conservation and interpretation plans, increase public awareness of how historically significant these sites are, and contribute to the documentation of historical narratives related to the sites. At the same time, community-based remembrance and preservation are built through the upkeep and development of burial sites by members of the local community, historical societies, organizations through the church, and professional caretakers. Through these programs, the shared ownership of cultural assets and rehabilitation of sites and communities that have previously been abandoned is created, giving the stakeholders the ability to participate directly in the preservation. Innovative methods of recording and preserving the history of deceased communities are improved with technology and digital history. Ground radar and VR applications are just some ways researchers can map out burial grounds. At the same time, digital platforms also promote the exchange of historical information and access to archives.

[laurenpomfrett-ardn516-2023]

Assignment Brief Answers:

What are the particular, peculiar oddities, beautiful, raw, hidden gems of your surroundings?

My childhood hometown of rural Kaukapakapa, has beautiful scenic views of the Kaipara river and the wide expansive paddocks, which attracts many people to leave their busy and intense lives to come live in the quiet and peaceful country side. However, on the contrary, does not hide its flaws and brutal truths with many meat processing factories, old abandoned service station, a cemetery, railway tracks that are never used, an old slaughter house, an abandoned real estate building, shooting signs, junk yards, old rusted cars, alcohol ban areas, overgrown weeds and moss, home kill signs and many other brutal truths. These are what is often forgotten and left out when we think of the country side and only focus on the rose tinted glass viewpoint. I want to showcase my past and my hometowns unique character in a way that does not sugar coat anything.

Are they interiors, exteriors, or both?

Solely exterior. My focus is documenting and showcasing the outdoor scenes, structures, and experiences of Kaukapakapa and Helensville. All of my structures are situated outside. These regions are expansive in size but have limited structures with instead a lot of empty open space. Most of my experiences with my hometown was outside, for example, playing in the paddocks and by the river with friends rather than being cooped up inside and I want to showcase the unique scenery as my background.

What do these places look like? How might your photographs convey a connection to them?

These places feel a bit neglected and forgotten. The historic sites aren't taken care of very well and so they get left behind as we focus on developing society. I'll be showcasing lots of overgrowth, paint, junk, old metal scraps that have been rusted away, paint chipping, holes in framing, wooden panels that have fallen down, scaffolding and roadkill that hasn't been taken away as examples. I also want to showcase the livelihoods of people who live here such as farmers and meat processors through photographing their work places and their land.

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