From A Thousand Cemeteries

From The Danse Macabre Prompt  Standing on a Literary Legend’s Shoulders

Brainstormed and thought about how Red Death would enter Prince Prospero’s fortress-this is how I saw it:

It whispered in her ear

it was a shadow in the corner of his eye

it made their dog howl in despair at the stars

it trapped their cat in the window

and asked them as they stood there frozen in fear

with a voice as smooth and cold as bitter fog from a thousand cemeteries

” I’m here, won’t you welcome me in? “

It said to one and all

Politely.

 

Nothing was there

they insisted that night.

There nothing to see, nothing to hear

especially nothing to feel

nothing was there except a thin red veil

that covered the face of the Moon.

 

The Grave Tale of Murder Dog and Trash Panda

Just a story about two Gravediggers and Ghosts.

Lots of ghosts.

Dug up to Inform, Honor and Stimulate Ideas

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Murder Dog and Trash Panda are gravediggers at the Leaning Birches Cemetery right here in Washington state and they have both been keeping grounds there for over 30 years.

Murder Dog ( Mundy Wolf ) and Trash Panda ( Elspeth Sung) used to tell people they took on those names back  in their wild days as Punk rock musicians back in high school. The truth is, they were both honor role students.

But the girls assumed they would never get jobs digging graves with names like Eli and Muni so they made up the wildest nicknames they could think of, and lo and behold they got the jobs.

They dug graves, ran heavy machinery, helped the Funeral Directors in the embalming room and they trimmed and mowed and kept the grass and trees and shrubs looking neat- but not to perfect.

Doc Treason ( that’s Docia Treason, the sole proprietor of Leaning Birches ) was very picky about that- the grounds should look natural, wild a little separate from the world around it.

Doc had all sorts of wild ideas about death- but she paid well, she never had a bad word to say about anyone living or dead and she was a soft touch when it came to people without a lot of money to see their loved ones into the next world- so whatever she said pretty much went.

Her staff on the other hand lacked her general temperament.

Sometimes Murder Dog and Trash Panda would see a Funeral Procession winding it’s way down one of the two roads that cut through the cemetery and before the hearse passed them their tools would be stashed behind a tree or in the maintenance truck’s bed. Their sunglasses would be stashed in their back pockets and their hair would be pulled back into ponytails.

Sometimes as the hearse slid by, one of the directors would casually drape their arm out the driver’s window and they would give the Gravediggers the finger.

Murder Dog and Trash Panda, their heads bowed would roll their eyes up and mouth, ” Same to you ”

“How’d you like to bury that son of bi…” Trash Panda would start.

” With my bare hands.” Murder Dog would finish.

That’s about as normal as things got at Leaning Birches.

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Murder and Panda were catching the bright winter sun in the old part of the cemetery when Panda asked Murder, ” Remember that service we did for that baby, you know, the one born with one eye in the middle of her face and no mouth, what was her name?”

” Madeline,” Murder lifted her face to the sun ” Madeline Faulkner.”

” Yeah. Madeline. Remember her Great Grandma, she died liked three months after Madeline.”

” She was like a hundred right?”

” I don’t know, the point is the Great Grandma, we buried her right?”

” Yeah. ”

” I mean, we dug the grave and put her into it, right?”

” Yes Panda, we buried her. That’s what we do. We bury dead people.”

” There’s a few live ones I’d like to…”

” Your point Trash Panda is?”

” I saw her.”

” Who?” Murder Dog pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head.

” Madeline’s Great Grandma.”

” Who?”

Trash Panda said slowly. ” I. Saw. Madeline’s Great Grandma at The Food Bazaar. She was in the that section where they sell candy and stuff in bulk. She was bagging some yogurt pretzels.”

Murder Dog started to walk away from Trash Panda and then she walked back and whispered into Trash Panda’s ear. ” Never say anything like that out loud again. Really Panda. That’s the kind of talk that gets you sent to Greenlake for an extended vacation. You know what I mean?”

” I saw her, the lady we buried, in the bulk food section at the Food Bazaar. Deal with it Murder Dog.”

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A few weeks later Murder Dog did have to deal with it because she saw Mr. Denny Pearce dead at age 46 from a boating accident and Laverne Simon age 84 taken from this world after a brief illness waiting for a table at the Terrace Lighthouse Restaurant.

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Murder Dog and Trash Panda were pruning the trees on Sunrise Hill when they both stopped working and they looked around the cemetery from the ladders they were standing on and both of them wondered,

” Is anybody home?”

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Murder Dog figured it would be OK to ask Doc about her views on the dead returning to the land of the living. Doc as I shared earlier had some off the wall ideas about death and everyone at the Funeral Home knew it.

She had those ideas because she was always willing to listen to whatever people wanted to share and with that Doc Treason has heard a lot.

The opportunity to share her idea came one morning when Doc Treason asked Murder Dog to help her in the embalming room.

” Say Doc. I have this idea about ghosts. Want to hear it?”

” You know it Murder Dog.”

” Well. In all these movies and TV shows only certain people can see ghosts, right?”

” Right. Here, help me uncover Miss Bixby. ”

Murder Dog went on, ” I have this idea that might not be true.”

” Seeing ghosts?”

” No. That only certain people see ghosts. What if we can all see them? I mean, would there be anyway for us to really know who the dead and who the living are?”

” Maybe.” Doc Treason said after a minute ‘We’re not supposed too.”

Murder Dog looked down at Miss Bixby. Then she looked up into Doc’s dark eyes  and smiled.

Murder turned to the embalming machine and before she did she said,  ” See you soon Miss Bixby.”

 

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I’ll Be Late Tonight

In order to write about the Darkness, you can’t be afraid to face it. This is a true experience I went through a few days ago and I thought I’d share it here because I t does go to the question: :” Where do you get your ideas from? “

Sometimes those ideas come from a Grim Destination and sometimes that Grim Destination is a place that is until one minute before was just a corner on  street that is as normal as any other street around it.

 

I have learned over the last few days, that when I get a text from the Sounder that says, ” Medical Emergency ” it probably means someone was on the tracks and got hit by a train.

That’s what happened on Wednesday.

I was on my way home when someone sitting across from me said he just got a text from his friend that was riding on the train ahead of us and his friend had texted  that the train they were on hit someone.

Almost right after that we pulled into our first stop and then  we got word about the fatality and that we were looking at a two hour wait minimum.

Considering I was going to get to go home and my family wasn’t going to have to claim me at the morgue, I decided that I may as well not stress, stay with the train instead if racing for a bus ( one of three I would need to get home ) or calling for an Uber  and that I would eventually get to where I needed to be.

Once we got going, we eventually got to the place on the tracks where the accident happened.

There were law enforcement cars, there was a Medical Examiner’s truck and then I saw a gurney. I was surprised that it was there, considering the nature of the situation.

Our train was moving slowly   as we moved through the intersection, I looked out my window and I saw a leg, a little further down I saw part of a torso and then I saw the people who have to take care of situations like this one kneeling in a circle and working.

And that’s when some jackass who rides the train on a regular basis shouted out ‘ Oh my GOD.”

But she wasn’t crying out in horror, she sounded like she was at the movies or at a concert- she sounded  thrilled.

I write about death, I have worked in a Funeral Home, I have been there when my loved ones have passed away and I explore and study death and it’s influence in art and music an literature.

But here is the thing- when I am in the presence of Death I show it respect.

I respect the deceased, I respect the process, I respect the impact death has on what it touches.

I think that the passengers on my train, for the most part respected that- Not everyone looked out the window and some people made it a point to NOT look.

If you were going to be a part of that moment, if you wanted to witness what death did on the tracks that day- then don’t act like that person lived and then died to give you a cheap thrill.

If there is  on thing I’ve learned about Death over the years, I’ve learned it has a way of catching those little moments where people did not respect the process  and it stores them away for the future.

For. Your. Future.

AMM

 

The Invitation

From Danse Macabre :   Standing on a Literary Legend’s Shoulders The Red Death Project-

Photo A.M. Moscoso

The Masque has been hanging in my attic all of my life- it was there when my Parents owned my house and it was there when my Great Grandparents had the house built in 1901.

Nobody knows where it came from or who hung it or why nobody ever took it down.

It seemed better, wiser, to just leave it alone to the darkness and the dust – because sometimes it sounded like someone was up there with it and during those times we made sure the attic door was locked.

“There’s nothing up there,” we would say as we turned the skeleton key and backed slowly away from that door and hurried down the hall to the safety of the well lit living room.

There is nothing in that huge dark room that hangs over heads we  told ourselves- nothing except for that Masque, and it’s occasional visitor.

Three days ago I started to hear music.

I’m not ashamed to admit- the music worries me to the point of distraction and I’m having trouble sleeping at night and it’s almost impossible to wake up in the morning.

I think that slightly off key tune that howls like the wind just before the storm hits is an invitation  and I am sure that any day now, the RSVP’s will start to arrive

The Button Collector

Inspired By The Danse Macabre Writing Prompt: Visiting The Other Room

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

We

were standing in a room full of doors.

Each door was shut, each door looked exactly like the door next to it

and all of the doors smelled like wood polish- orange scented wood polish.

” Sometimes it is so hard to choose. ” she said to me.

I waited, as I always do, patiently.

There is no rushing her on days like this.

” One is as good as the other.” I reminded her.

She shrugged.

” It’s all so random. I mean. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could say today I am taking doors five, eleven and 64. I could even plan it days in advance. How great would that be? No surprises, no arguments. Just one-two-three and I’m done for the day. I could have all the time in the world to pursue my hobbies, maybe even work on a tan.”

I coughed delicately. ” You have hobbies?”

” Of course. I collect buttons and keys.”

” You know, I never would have guessed that.”

She reached over her head and pulled her hood over her forehead, she took up her scythe and squared her shoulders. Death spun herself around three times- stopped and pointed and she asked ” Am I pointing at a door?”

One of my other two heads replied, ‘ You’re good. See you later.”

” Later Gator, I mean Cerberus. You know I mean all three of your right?”

We did.

Death chose her door as randomly as she always did and we set down and watched the doors like we always do and we waited for our friend to return to us.

Like she always does.

He was taking pictures of the fog rolling up from the Sound, it was thick that morning and the Ferry Boats looked like they were floating on gray clouds.

” These shots are going to be so good.”

He was going to be the biggest thing in Instagram today. He could feel it on his bones.

He took a minute to look them over and just as he clicked on the last one, an artery in his brain swelled and then it tore and the last thing he ever saw was that picture of a ferry gliding towards him on a sea of gray mist and the woman in black standing at her bow.

And she was looking right at him.