#heart box embalmer

[caprisalad]

#fanart #identity v #andrew kreiss #aesop carl #aesdrew #digital art #2024 #idv grave keeper #idv embalmer #caprisalads art #art #heart candy gravekeeper #heart box embalmer #pfp icons

[mycological-mariner]

Sometimes I think that I was the weird sibling. And then I remember my little brother forcing us to stop and pick up roadkill so he could take it home, bury it and have all the bugs eat it, dig it up again, clean the bones and articulate them in the shed. He embalmed his pet scorpion. He collected live ‘specimens’ and just kept them in his room. Once he got so excited to see a shark while in the middle of the sea he threw himself/fell over the rail. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence to find dead animals in the freezer while he was studying them. And this was all before he was even 11.

All I wanted to be at 11 was a sea captain.

#his birthday is coming up #oh my god #I say all this like I didn’t have SOME part to play in it #when my snake died he decided to be respectful and we had a funeral pyre #I HELPED him embalm his scorpion! #I mean. I researched how to preserve one and helped with the trickier bits #I will never forget going out to the ice box opening it and finding a neatly dissected frog and baby shark that had washed up already dead #I’ll never forget when he thought it was a good idea to bring a bunch of spiders into his room! #I still feel them crawling on me sometimes #we used to plan on me being a captain and taking him all over the world so he could study his animals #but I have epilepsy and he’s dead so #he drew us together in a boat with a giant whale in the background and I taped it to my wall with packing tape #he’d be 21 on Halloween #he was a gentle heart though #he hated the film Jaws because they killed the shark (fair) and wouldn’t stop crying #holy shit #I miss him #wow personal much? what is this emotions? #im just in a reflective mood tonight i guess lol #and if anyone’s wondering I’m a writer/actor lol far cry from dashing sea captain #I wanted to be a sea captain before my brother was BORN I love the sea #im a sailor but I can’t ever get my license to captain an entire ship #guess I’ll be a pirate #pirate scientist siblings!

[fastcardotmp3]

thinking about various versions of Chrissy Comes Back Wrong again and Chrissy, whose mutilated body was buried 6 feet under, who was given a funeral in the local church, a whole mountain of flowers in her memory.

Chrissy, whose body is dead but whose mind is just trapped in Vecna's grasp, trapped where he has control of it, trapped in whatever memory or nightmare he wants to keep her in until she becomes useful.

Until there's reason to release her mind, send it crawling back to a body reanimated with the snapping of bones back into place, breath coming back in choking heaves and embalming fluid still cold in her veins.

And then she's alive again. Alive and 6 feet underground with her name on a placard awaiting a stone yet to be carved.

Alive but different.

Her chest is tight with heaving, sobbing, panicked breaths, but it's like she instinctually knows that it doesn't matter, that she won't run out of air in this pitch-dark box because she doesn't need it.

Chrissy doesn't need air anymore, doesn't need blood in her veins, doesn't need the beat of a heart in her chest despite the way she can still feel the motionless weight of it there.

Chrissy doesn't need any of it, as she scrabbles hands across the lid of her first and final resting place looking for a latch, but she needs something.

She needs to do something.

She needs.

Chrissy has been hungry before, is the thing. Chrissy has trained herself to ignore hunger, as much as a person can do such a thing, but this is unlike any of that.

It's not telling her friends she ate before she left and watching them sip on milkshakes at the diner with a lightness in her head; it's not eating only the meal portioned out for her by her mother and laying in bed with a growling stomach later that night.

It's uncontrollable, this hunger. It's vast and thick and all-consuming to the point where she hardly even realizes when she pushes hard enough against the lid to hear a crack!

She's hardly cognizant of her own frantic movements, doesn't have the wherewithal to acknowledge that she's stronger now, that something about the hunger makes her feel like once she's fed it she'll surpass even this desperation-fueled power.

Soil and insects rain down upon her as she pushes up and up and up; it gets under her nails as she claws towards the surface, in her mouth and up her nose and all over the pretty dress her mother had chosen for her to be buried in.

It was one which made her look particularly petite. It's been torn at the sleeves and the hem is hanging in rags by the time she realizes that in the impulse decision to dig she had locked herself into a singular fate.

Eventually she's going to resurface.

Eventually she's going to have to face the hunger.

---

Nancy Wheeler shouldn't be here.

They have so much work to do, so much to grapple with in the wake of their undeniable loss.

So many lives gone and so much destruction overtaking this town she has called home her entire life and Nancy should really be doing anything but being here.

The sun is setting and the others are having dinner at the Henderson house, one of the few with zero damage caused by the rifts opening in the earth, but Nancy just needs a moment.

She just needs a breath.

She just needs.

"We just keep failing you," she says to a girl's name carved in stone, forever sixteen and forever undeserving of the fate that had befallen her.

Nancy doesn't sit down, just stands on Barb's plot with her shoes sinking into deadened earth, greyed-out grass, and chokes on the feelings she can't have in front of the others.

Not when they're still in this fight, not when there's so much work left to do. She should be doing it. She shouldn't be here.

Fuck, Max still isn't awake and Eddie is on his way to very well losing one of his legs if they can't get his infection under control and Erica is the quietest she's ever been and the Byers boys are attached at the hip like they're scared to let each other out of their sight and Steve is carrying that damn bat around like it's the solution to all their problems and Mike is so much older than he was when he left for California and what is Nancy doing?

"I'm sorry. I'm so..."

She's crying at a dead girl like she's the one who's got it rough. Like she hadn't failed Barb and keeps failing all of them. Like she's not the one who said they should go to the Upside Down in the first place and now Max won't wake up and Eddie might lose a leg and--

The cemetery is empty, this time of day, because the people still sticking it out in Hawkins know that if the sun is setting you should get somewhere safe.

Nancy's stupider, more reckless than they are on paper, just by being here, but really she's just smart enough to know that there's no such thing as safe.

So when she hears a sound like-- like a person choking. Vomiting. Sobbing.

She has her hand on her revolver in the same whirl of motion as she looks behind her.

Nothing.

To the north, nothing.

To the west, nothing.

No one is out this time of day, as the short and hazy sunlight they do get fades into an even hazier orange and then black. But someone is here.

Nancy creeps towards the sound, because if a person is hurt then there's likely a creature nearby too-- a demo-something or other ready to rear back and wield its teeth and claws.

It takes a moment longer than she would like it to for her brain to catch up to her eyes when she sees what she sees. All the input is there, all the information needed to draw a conclusion, but even in Nancy's vast experience of the unexpected, she doesn't know how she could have expected this.

Pink dress gone muddy brown, shredded in places and slashed in others.

Bare feet and blonde hair changed almost entirely in color by the damp of the soil.

Heaving. Choking. Sobbing.

She hasn't been dead long enough for her to have a proper headstone, but the ground torn up all around the plot offers Nancy the final piece to a puzzle she hadn't known she was trying to solve.

Her jaw hinges open and she lowers her gun to clutch it one handed down by her side instead and she breathes--

"Chrissy."

Not a question, because there are a lot of questions here but that's not one of them.

Well.

It wouldn't be, except Nancy's quiet exclamation makes her presence known.

Except, even though Chrissy's chest is still heaving, she stills right there, collapsed on her knees.

Except, when she looks up. When she looks up, it's--

"Shit," Nancy whips her gun back up and trains it on the gleaming red eyes in front of her because maybe it's still a bit of a question.

She really shouldn't have come here.

#I JUST THINK THAT THEY OKAY #nancy wheeler #chrissy cunningham #nancy x chrissy #wheelingham #(is that the ship name help have we decided on one yet) #stranger things #stranger things fic #dot post #dot fic #what if I crawled out of my own grave and you pointed a gun at me and we were both girls (: #tw body horror #tw buried alive #tw implied disordered eating #kas!chrissy #<that will become a tag even if I'm the only one using it

[auncerra]

“And Just Like That...” Sexual Iconography Left the Studio

It’s inevitable some sequels will jeopardize the integrity of the original. While the fanfare for a Sex and the City re-installment had some of us naively convinced in Michael Patrick’s capacity for keeping the nostalgic momentum alive, it rather played out like a dismal Judd Apatow commentary on the nearing middle-aged (à la a very tactless, banal, and frankly unnecessarily depressing blow of “This is 40″, in which audiences are left feeling like the concept of aging is the equivalent of a death row inmate’s last pile of reheated mashed potatoes, or in the case of over-acting, emphatic Parker (Season 2) - poached eggs, friends-with-benefits breakfast of one?)).

Season 1 (AJLT) introduced audiences to everything Sex and the City conceptually opposed, the original series almost diametrically opposite to the concepts of female and sexual empowerment, friendship, resilience, and heart-touching, resonant storylines and intimately-crafted, beloved characters viewers came to know and praise semi-religiously. While there are many areas to nitpick, including the dismal costuming, unnecessary, unresolved side-plots, vacant added characters integrated merely for their ‘woke’ box-ticking capacity and not for social value or plausible commentary, what I came to love of Sex and the City had been drowned like a newborn kitten in a self-praising writers’ bleach bath. We lost sex to hearing aids and ice cream toppings, or gained it in unappealing, almost grotesquely invasive showboating - i.e. Miranda’s ‘fingering’ in Carrie’s studio kitchen by the much-loathed, and not ‘somewhat’ polarizing, ‘Che Diaz’. Did we need Carrie bedwetting, a loose stream into an emptied Snapple bottle? Miranda’s conditioned facial reactions alone were enough to transport viewers to desires of chastity, of hillside convents somewhere in Romania where those CW-styled dream montages of the repellent, narcissistic Che can’t virtually survive. Note 2 (of loss) - style. Did we need Carrie’s vainglorious, bizarre hat display as she burbled out her apartment window, did we need rubber gardening gloves for a walking smoke-break? Do we need to be assaulted with plaid and tartan, pigeons for purses (thank you, Jen), Charlotte’s over-billowed poof-sleeves and polka-dotted, infantilizing displays, do we need a silver-haired Cynthia Nixon who reads more Paula Deen than tirelessly chic Miranda Priestly? ‘Gray hair don’t care’, as it were, embracing age, as it were, but should be that a singular note of character development - that the bold, independent, autonomous career-driven Miranda we knew and respected has driven toward total absence of discernment, dry as a withered martini olive for a non-committal new beau with zero attributes of integrity or general likability? And why style her (Miranda) as though she were being embalmed in prints, can ‘older’ women not show skin, have avid sex lives, exude standards beyond accepting consequences of bad backs and Peloton-claimed husbands (realistically, did Carrie’s shock need to last several minutes of screen-time, has she never heard of a heart attack?)...

Lines were crossed with Brady’s sex life and Miranda’s questionably appropriate presence throughout, lines were crossed with Porta Potty tampon insertion challenges, lines were crossed with daytime bathroom blowjobs (has that ever been identifying of the hyper-attentive, traditional Charlotte), lines were crossed with rehashed, overplayed attempts at racial justice and white martyrdom - yes, let’s address the concerns, but maybe not in the context of unfunny comedy and a socially-unhinged spin on Miranda - again, Michael Patrick, do native/residential New Yorkers really not have interactions with POC/the queer and gender-diverse in today’s age? Do we need props of characters for this representation, who are as scripted feeling as the tired attempts at the writing - do we need the original cast to become the most egoistic versions of themselves in decades of television, do we need a money-grabbing “Max” Series that respects less its audience of - generations - and their valid, informed takes on a, frankly, garbage-fire, catastrophic spinoff, do the writers need to make relevant social issues - like racism, like sexism, like transphobia, like gender and sexual expression - feel trite, tired, exasperating, and with the ambiance of capitalistically-targeted Pride ads? Che isn’t funny, isn’t remotely likable, and while perhaps not a reflection of Ramirez’s personal life (despite some apparent synonymous attributes and social media feeds), Che’s being non-binary does not make them suddenly exempt from being situationally-inappropriate, selfish, callous, and just plain ‘ick’. Che makes broader viewers want to curl up into a congealing ball, return to embryonic fluids to avoid their “comedy” shows (if the quantity of who they have fucked, will fuck, want to fuck of their - pause for emphasis - live audience members - is qualifiable as humor at all...). Che is not a queer cosplay of Amy Schumer, there are no human or relatable characteristics that make viewers embrace a character so visibly and audibly shallow, not to mention entirely exploitative (the entire subplot of uprooting Miranda from her city for a Los Angeles move, for example, which, if you have forgotten, Michael/millennial-coded writers, completely betrays the Miranda archetype - so, career, long-invested internship, scrapped, for a romantically-ambivalent, narcissist Diaz?). Did audiences need “Rock”, pacifying elementary rhetoric, did audiences need a bigoted hit on one of the few redeemed, likable original characters, Anthony - i.e. advising Charlotte against utilizing preferred pronouns, making an analogy to a dog?

While this is mostly a blurb, a working draft, a tunnel of quality-abandonment-fueled-apathy, Season 2, so far (from what I’ve discerningly, limitedly glimpsed), took “L.T.W.”’s barber-shop painting ensembles, Carrie’s (again, the most self-involved - in the pejorative - character of the show) “user” attributes and poor-me-sloppy-grieving arc, steadily unlikable roundabout cast of diminishing characters to new, (love-to-hate) lows, without the glimmer of a blip of Cattrall resurgence, the only remarkable term to describe this train-wreck of a ‘reinstatement’ return is abysmal. Frankly, I’d have more intrigue in a Seema-driven plot-line, nil-Carrie-Che-L.T.W.-Dr.-Nya-Wallace-couch-coital-post-separation-Bridgerton-Netflix-dupe-streams, re-introducing a viable Miranda in the acting capacity we’ve seen of Nixon (who is by all measures, extremely talented in alternate roles) - or merely limiting the sheer, inarguable box-ticking strategies to reveal something more human, watchable, intimate, and real, like the SATC that charmed viewers over concurring, mingling generations, that comparatively, was successful with good cause. This is another classic example of the media industry exploiting devoted audiences with nostalgic whims of shows that in reality have been massacred by weak writing, a cacophony of plot, and a favoritism towards the emblematic assholes (excuzes mon francçais) of its series - referring, of course, to the effortlessly problematic Parker (who I, with little hesitation, can see as far more of a modern-exploit Carrie than she’d care to own), of dropping unsubtle breadcrumbs of the beloved, real, irreplaceable Samantha, likely cajoling Cattrall into a payout for her four-minutes of other-cast-members non-interactive virtual series presence as a tactic to attract views, and up subscriptions. Frankly, by Episode 1 of Season 2, by Miranda awkwardly, anti-sexily adorning a full-bodied strap-on harness (in 2023, really?) as though viewers had been thrown into the rank, antiquated sex shop of some National Lampoon-era film, for one unamused, indifferent Che, by Che’s hasty, box-check-positioned assistant complaining over the status of their not wearing a jacket (namely, not a glaring, dated, sequined one) / the shrill “non-binary”-cooing mirror harlequin-dance exchange (bizarre to witness), by Carrie once again insisting all life resolve around her and her everlasting grief plot-point with the painfully, awkwardly-timed, shit-written kitchen egg, Charlotte pop-in entrance scene, I was already exasperated.

And Just Like That is the epitome of the negative denotation of ‘woke’, it plays as turbulently and as polarizing as its core characters, and is a dreary, complacent attempt at modernity, it is the flatulence of yet another capitalistically-motivated acquisition, it is not worth your continued patience that solely a Patricia Field, Cattrall, Chris Noth, zany-glitzy-Manolo-steel-jungle-Cosmos-wonderland epitome of Sex and the City, Sex and the City alone could and will ever seemingly be capable of delivering. And Just Like That...Cattrall’s heart-wrenching cancer performance is traded for Snapple-piss and Los-Angeles-beach-cleanup-chronic-codependency, for narcissistic writers, lead creators, and yes, in some cases, eye-roll-icon, socially-liked actors.

I don’t subscribe to cancel culture, but let’s communally hold this embarrassment of unglamorous television accountable, let’s make a commitment to peer deeper at the integrity of shows that capitalize on the marginalized to produce, in sincerity, sugar-coated bullshit.

#andjustlikethat #sexandthecity #atravesty #imasamantha

[my-various-aus]

Dinner Reservation

It was a quiet night at the mortuary, as Clara looked over some files, double-checking all the information before filing it away.

In another room, she could hear her coworker’s radio playing, providing background noise, as he worked on the bodies in the back.

With a sigh, Clara stood, stretching out her back and groaning as her spine popped. She yawned, stacking the files on her desk, before going down the hallway that led to the embalming room.

“Hey, Marcus,” Clara called, knocking on the door and opening it, so she didn’t startle him “I’m thinking of ordering some food, you want anything?”

Marcus looked up from where he was inspecting a cadaver’s hand, making a quick note, before replying “Yeah, sure, I can eat; what did you have in mind?”

“Pizza?”

“Sounds good; let me know when it’s here and I can give Mr. Anderson a break.”

Clara snorted, going back to the front.

A few minutes later, the order was placed and she was back to sorting her paperwork.

The phone suddenly ringing made her jump, dropping the papers in her hand.

“What the fuck, it’s three in the morning,” she muttered, holding one hand to her heart, the other reaching for the phone “Thank you for calling Evergreen Mortuary, how may I assist you?”

There was silence on the other end, but Clara could swear she heard shaky breathing and...was the other person crying?

“Hello?” she prompted “This is Clara from Evergreen Mortuary; how may I assist you?”

The other person let out a harsh breath, sniffling and breaking Clara’s heart in the process; she had a feeling Marcus would be getting an extra body to work on tonight.

“I...I n-need to,” the man on the other end coughed to clear his throat, though his voice was still a little rough “I need to make a dinner reservation.”

Clara blinked, perplexed; who calls a mortuary for a din....dinner reservation.

She drew a deep breath, sitting up straighter “Just a moment, sir.”

The phone was set down, Clara opening a drawer at her desk and pressing down on the false bottom, revealing a set of old-fashioned keys. Snatching them up, she made her way to a closet behind her desk.

A few minutes later, she returned, shoving her previous work to the side and laying out the new file and papers.

Pen poised in her right hand, Clara picked the phone back up “How many in the party?”

“One.”

“Name?”

“Mic-Michelangelo Hamato.”

Clara paused, something about the name sending a shudder of dread down her spine “Age?”

The man on the other end let out a laugh that quickly became a sob “Thir... Thirteen, as of three hours ago.”

‘Just a kid,’ Clara thought, taking a calming breath and continuing to fill out the paperwork for the next couple of minutes.

Marcus came out of the backroom, just as Clara was wrapping up the call “We’ll be there in thirty minutes, Mr. Hamato; is there anything else I can help you with?”

The click of the phone hanging up was the only answer Clara got, making her blink, startled, before she hung her own phone up.

“What was that about?” Marcus asked, going to grab some coffee “...Did you say Hamato?”

“Yeah,” Clara muttered, pulling out a cell phone and shooting off a few texts “dinner reservation.”

Marcus clicked his tongue, stirring some sugar into his coffee and pouring a second cup “That ain’t good.”

“No,” Clara accepted the cup that was handed to her, reading the texts she received “Especially since it’s for the younger one.”

“Oh, somebody fucked up.”

“Hey, I haven’t been in this business for long,” Clara looked up at her coworker, pulling out some creamer to put into her coffee “but ‘Hamato’ sounds familiar.”

“It should,” Marcus said, taking a drink “That was a name to fear, five years ago, before they retired.”

“They?”

“Three of ‘em,” Marcus turned when there was a knock at the front, going to open the door, while Clara dug out some cash “brothers. Hey, man, how’s it goin’?”

“Eh, could be better, could be worse,” the delivery man said, handing the pizza boxes over “nice night, not too much goin’ on, so on and so forth.”

“Awesome,” Marcus took the boxes, stepping to the side, so Clara could hand over the tip “wish we could say the same; just got a call that another body is comin’ in.”

“I could not work in a place like this,” the delivery man said, shivering “I don’t like seein’ fake dead bodies, never mind real ones.”

Marcus and Clara both laughed, bidding the delivery man goodnight and closing the door behind him.

“So, there’s three Hamato brothers?”

“Ah, yeah, so...”

---

So, this is really just me practicing with two of my OCs, but also a scene that had been in my mind for my John Wick au and it needed to be written.

Because, unlike Daisy, Mikey is not a pet that you can just bury in your yard after they die; he’s a person, a kid; Donnie, Raph, and Leo’s little brother.

Therefore, I had to come up with some way for Mikey’s body to be taken care of and I figured something similar to Charlie’s cleanup crew, but geared more toward funerary services. A mortuary seemed like the most appropriate setting for underworld services.

#teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt 2003 #tmnt au #john wick au #tmnt donnie #i mostly imagine this as the 2003 turtles #but idk if i want to specifically tag that iteration #plus this a human au

[viconiadevirs]

Carrion Crown Book 2 contains the fun trivia that wealthy Ustalavic families keep Cabinets of Calamities full of weird stuff they collect/inherit. I imagine after WOTR Valerius' cabinet could fill an entire basement lol

This was my inventory management speaking, but anything Vali or this group wasn't using, I actually sold to the merchants.

However this is a pretty fun thing to think about, so I imagine his cabinet of calamities would primarily be trophies of some of the more notable kills he's gotten over the course of the crusade, as well as gifts:

Areshkagal's mask

one of Hepzimirah's horns

the hand that Minagho used to scar his cheek

the weapons belonging to the Graveguard: Staunton's glaive; Delamere's bow; Ciar's shield; Kestoglyr's scimitar, the Dawnflower, which became corrupted in the Ineluctable Prison.

the Hand of the Inheritor's heart; he was not able to restore it to the angel.

The ring Galfrey gifted him upon taking Drezen.

Vellexia's amulet.

The Battlebliss gladiator collar he was forced to wear.

Some of the rubble of the Pillar of Skulls

Areelu's restored cloak -- the Legend variant isn't particularly good compared to the other mythic paths -- as well as her heart.

Nocticula's crown that she bestowed upon him at Threshold.

As for where it is stored, the old ziggurat is the perfect place for it. It is never torn down, as it is used as a monument to remember Valerius' initial mythic power, but also as a place of pilgrimage and worship for the Urgathoans. The Urgathoans would also be able to embalm the body parts (e.g. the Hand of the Inheritor's heart) to make sure they do not decay. There are also rumours that every heart (and if possible, a signet ring) that Camellia brings him of an enemy he sent her to kill is also kept somewhere in the ziggurat, or the hearts themselves might have been used in a ritual.

A somewhat relevant aside: he does keep Camellia's original bone amulet thatt hides her alignment, even after she disappeared for a couple of years, but rather than being in his cabinet of calamities, it would reside in his jewellery box.

#anonymous #answered #oc: valerius #thank you this is very grisly but fun to think about

[paramokshafuneralservice]

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#funeral services #cremation service

[embalmin]

foisame: entwines his hand in aesop's & brings their hands up to his chest. "... sometimes, i think it would be nice to stay here forever," the candlelight illuminates his black & white face, & even the shattered pattern of cracks cannot distract from the subtle yet sincere smile that comes to joseph's lips ― though he isn't looking directly at the embalmer.

"though, i imagine you don't share the sentiment. i am trying to learn to accept that."

❝ it isn't a bad sentiment. ❞ head tips ever so slightly to the side, cool gaze flitting between their joined hands &. joseph's face. while aesop's artistic vision may not align with the rest of the world, when he looks upon the monochromatic planes of his lover's face, he understands with perfect clarity what every famous painter meant by finding their muse. the hand not entwined with joseph's lifts, turns his head ever so slightly, and traces just along a crack along his face. like a shattered doll, aesop thinks, with nothing short of fondness. joseph almost makes aesop believe in eternity, if only so he can spend the rest of it in moments like these; just them and the candlelight.

he will never admit it out loud, but he wishes that this could last forever. it terrifies him to think it; there will always be an inevitable end, in one way or another, no matter what joseph has done to stall such a thing for himself. for aesop, he knows he will be put to rest in the same box he summons. he's made his peace with that; he has made his peace with the knowledge he may live a long &. relatively happy life.

he has not made peace with the notion that, one day, he will have to say goodbye to joseph. briefly, his gaze is cast down before he finds heart to raise it once again.

refusing to drown beneath his own thoughts, aesop smiles. his hand pulls away from his lover's face so he may tug his mask off, and without a moment's hesitation, he leans forward to gently press their lips together. both hands come to cup joseph's cheeks, and when he parts from the kiss, his smile returns, a soft mirror of the one that joseph offered him.

❝ i... can't give you forever, joseph, ❞ he says, and a pain he hasn't felt in some time twists in his heart. ❝ but i can give you right now. and i can give you every moment after it. does that suffice? ❞

#foisame #baron deross the men you put in oletus manor are...... nay. i shan't say.

[cathygeha]

REVIEW

Funeral Daze by Dorian Box

Danny Teakwell #2

Easily stands alone and a great story though I missed reading Psycho Tropics and the introduction to the series.

What I liked:

* Danny Teakwell: widow, grieving, surf shop owner, talented surfboard maker, good friend, helpful, kind, generous, there for those in need and Jessica is definitely in need

* Jessica Jewell: preteen, grew up in the funeral business, a bit quirky, strong, outspoken, big-hearted, good friend, stands out from the crowd, truthful, good salesperson, has a lot to deal with

* The trust that develops between Danny and Jessica as the story progresses

* The way Danny “sees” Jessica and communicates with her openly and honestly

* That I had fun reading it even though there were some heavy issues discussed

* The way Jessica and Danny helped one another

* The influence of Sari, the deceased wife of Danny, even after she is gone

* Bennie “Fink” Finkel: law school graduate, a wildcard, good friend, has quite a few issues but a major part of the story

* Erin Delonia: female surf winner who lives in California and comes by the surf shop to tell Danny she rode one of his boards to win a contest – potential love interest

* Grady Banyon, Shannon-the waitress, Detective Rodrigues, and other supporting characters

* That not all the bad guys were horrible and that not all the good guys were necessarily good

* All of it really except…

What I didn’t like:

* Who and what I was meant not to like

* Thinking about addiction and how it changes people

* Yago – a loose cannon and a merciless killer that enjoyed his job a bit too much

Did I like this book? Yes

Would I read more by this author? Yes

Thank you to the NetGalley, the author, and Friction Press for the ARC – This is my honest review.

5 Stars

BLURB

"[A] novel that takes both light and dark elements to present a fantastically engaging, emotionally resonant story in a deeply humorous and satirical fashion. Unmissable reading." — 2023 Readers' Favorite Silver Medal for Humor Fiction From the author of the multi-award-winning Emily Calby Series SUMMER 2000. When down-and-out surfer and former lottery winner Danny Teakwell was framed for a grisly murder, he got help from a family of wacky morticians that included seven-year-old embalming expert Jessica Jewell (Psycho-Tropics ). Five years later the tables are turned when Jessica shows up, alone and desperate, seeking shelter. Her parents suddenly sold their family funeral home and vanished. Danny’s not in a good place. Grieving the recent death of his wife, he’s let life crumble. He reluctantly agrees to take the girl in for one night, but the willful twelve-year-old convinces him to join her investigation to find her parents and get back their funeral home. The trail leads into a ghastly criminal enterprise of corpses, caskets, and killers. As the bond between the unlikely pair grows, it becomes unclear who’s saving who and which one is really running the show. Hilarious and heartwarming mystery and suspense with a walloping conclusion, Dorian Box brings his unique blend of darkness and light to life in this zany joyride through the Sunshine State. PRAISE AND ACCOLADES FOR FUNERAL DAZE "FUNERAL DAZE manages to be laugh-out-loud funny, heartwarmingly tender, and full of lively action and suspense, all at once – a thoroughly entertaining and engaging read." — IndieReader (5 Stars, IR Seal of Approval) “The story unfolds at a crisp and steady pace, with plenty of thought-provoking moments once 12-year-old Jessica enters the scene, offering Danny surprisingly mature reflections on tragedy and a knockout mystery to occupy his time. … Funeral Daze delivers an appealing spin on the mystery genre through rich characterization and an abundance of insight throughout.” — 2023 Publishers Weekly BookLife Prize Semifinalist in Mysteries/Thrillers “[A]n exceptional read. … Box balances some incredibly heavy themes, such as loss, grief, child displacement, and physical and emotional trauma with moments of genuine levity that come in the form of intelligent humor. The writing is more often brilliant than not …” — Jamie Michele for Readers’ Favorite (5-Star Seal) “A hilarious page-turner that effortlessly blends crime, humor and South Florida beach culture. … Award-winning author Dorian Box (Psycho Tropics, The Hiding Girl) has always employed brilliant doses of well-timed levity in crime fiction, but he pulls out all the stops for this laugh-out-loud caper. — BestThrillers “A perfect beach read, this zany mystery has the thrills, quirky characters, juicy plot twists, and gripping conclusion you're looking for!” — Reedsy Discovery “Time and again, Box has proven he can write a tense thriller that is funny, dark, and completely endearing. It’s the perfect combination of a smart storyline and characters that keep you reading well after bedtime. Fantastic!” — NetGalley “Funeral Daze is a macabre and hilarious novel that intersects the lives of several bizarre and oddly compelling characters. … Dorian Box masterfully directs the story into a series of unpredictable and uproarious events that are deliciously ironic, unexpectedly thought-provoking, and always edgy and dark.” — D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

AUTHOR BIO

Dorian Box is the pen name for A.J. McClurg, a former law professor. He likes to blend dark themes with heart, hope and humor with a goal of evoking tears and laughs over the same book. His novels have received awards and honors such as: Writer's Digest Award for Genre Fiction; Publishers Weekly BookLife Prize Semifinalist (twice); IndieReader Discovery Award for Fiction; Feathered Quill Medal for Mystery/Suspense; Best Psychological Thriller of the Year and Finalist, Best Legal Thriller of the Year (BestThrillers); National Indie Excellence Award Finalist; and Readers’ Favorite medals in three different categories (Suspense, Humor, and New Adult Fiction). His nonfiction books include an Amazon Editors’ Favorite Book of the Year. As an academic, he's been interviewed as a legal expert by National Public Radio, the PBS Newshour, and many other sources. McClurg (or maybe it's Box) lives out his childhood rockstar fantasies singing and playing in Memphis cover bands.

https://dorianbox.com/

#Dorian Box #Danny Teakwell 2 #NetGalley #Friction Press #Mystery #Thriller #Humor #Satire #Fiction #Murder #Crime

[caprisalad]

#fanart #identity v #aesop carl #digital art #2024 #idv embalmer #caprisalads art #art #heart box embalmer

[moiratravel]

Using a Travel Agent or Going It Alone in Turkey

What is the most ideal way to travel Turkey, all alone or with a Travel Planner? To respond to this inquiry, you presumably need to do an exploration on the web to find accessible rate, then, contrast it with the offers you can have from neighborhood organizations.

Turkey is a country wealthy in verifiable sights that are challenging to join up. It is brimming with spots of extraordinary interest to travelers. The capital of Turkey extends in the steppes of Focal Anatolia. This city is altogether different from its ancestor, the Turkish city of Angora, which used to be here and was well known for the long-haired variety of sheep from which dress is sew. In 1920 Ataturk put his break government here, and the fundamental control of the city was to keep up with the public authority and everything associated with it.

Most guests start their city visit from Hisar, a Byzantine stronghold on the slope toward the east of the old town and the close by Exhibition hall of Anatolian Human progress. Going a couple of miles toward the south, one will find the tomb of Ataturk, a stupendous structure, which addresses the engineering of various times of Anatolian history. The official house has been safeguarded in a fantastic structure. An immense number of landmarks of old history and engineering are likewise present here. Roman Ankara was a city of exceptionally incredible significance, and the Roman remains are dispersed among the mosques and landmarks of Muslim Anatolia.

Istanbul is the old brilliant city, a significant port, the monetary and modern heart of the country. It is the world's just city situated on two mainlands. The city was established around 660 BC as Byzantium, then it became Constantinople, and in 1453 the city was caught by the Turks and was renamed Istanbul. The Byzantine time frame is addressed by the remaining parts of the majestic castles, the Water passage of Valens, the vestiges of the strong city walls, underground tanks and places of love, the majority of which are changed over into mosques. Hagia Sophia is an emblematic spot for the supporters of the Christian confidence, the biggest Christian church of now is the right time. In the Medieval times, Holy person Sophia was extended, a few minarets were added, and it was transformed into a mosque. The sights of the Basilica incorporate the copper-plated 'sobbing point of support' where numerous travelers make a wish, and the 'chilly box' where from a cool wind blows even on hot days.

The city's Blue Mosque of Ruler Ahmet is the most well known mosque of Istanbul, the world's just mosque with six minarets. Topkapi is the King's Royal residence, a complex of private and managerial structures where the vacationers partake in the piece of ruler's depository and individual things, the high positions, an assortment of stylized robes, jeweled weapons, and the embalmed hand of the prophet Muhammad. The extension over the Bosphorus, which associates the European and Asian shores of Turkey, is the fourth longest scaffold on the planet. The Incomparable Istanbul Market is the biggest market on the planet with around 5000 stores and shops, where you can purchase everything. Rumeli Hisar is the palace of the fifteenth century situated on the banks of the Bosphorus. The Turks raised it to obstruct the assaulted city. The Archeological Historical center of Istanbul has the most extravagant assortment of old and old style antiques.

The Dalaman Waterway History and Nature Save is well known as the living space of the special stream and ocean turtles, the focal point of mud treatment. Kekova is a pleasant inlet with a half-lowered city of the Byzantine time. Side is the Roman city, the 'privateer republic' of ancient times. Kusadasi is a traveler town on the shore of the sound, amidst which there stands a middle age palace, which has turned into an incredible café today. Pamukkale is a one of a kind verifiable and regular hold, popular for its hot mineral springs, precipices and salt caves.

The vestiges of Troy incorporate the to some degree safeguarded inclining rack entry of Troy, the city wall, the mass of the Roman time frame, the Acropolis, which served both to safeguard the city and to safeguard the tank with water saves, and the sanctuary of Athena.

For More Info:-

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[theblondegoesabroad]

Day 40

Friday 10th June 2022

Today started off well. We woke up and made ourselves some delicious eggs and bacon on toast for breakfast. After cleaning up and filling up our water bottles we headed out for the day. Our goal was to find a beach but along the way we stopped at the sights we saw. We first stopped at the town of Dumfries, they had a impressive amount of churches which we poked around. I quite enjoy visiting the graveyards, reading the old tomb stones, it is incredible the amount of kids and families that are all on the same stone. Today I read one where five children all passed away before they were 5 and their mother a few days after the death of their youngest. We forget how dangerous child birth and growing up was now that we have western medicines. But it is humbling. We also stumbled upon another abbey ruins. This abbey is nicknamed the sweethearts abbey as the lady that build it was so in love with her husband that when he died she embalmed his heart and kept it in a special box. And when she eventually died she was buried at the abbey clutching the heart box. Not something I am partial to, but I can see the beauty in the gesture. I think.

But also our goal of the day. We were hoping to go kite surfing but the tides weren’t agreeing with us. Each beach we checked out the tide was out too far or the wind wasn’t right or the beach was too rocky. Turns out it is not as easy as you would think to find the ideal kitesurfing spot. After a few beaches troed and failed we but our hopes of kiting back in the box and changed our plans. We headed inland towards the Galloway national park and once we found a parking spot we walked around there. It was a nice walk, we saw our first loch and we admired the fairy like beauty of the wet forests. Miss growing everywhere, trees bending and making sounds of a squeaky door opening, sunlight filtering through the trees. It was rather beautiful. A nice way to spend the afternoon. Exploring the forests. This evening we had our drinks and nibbles on our makeshift couch appreciating the sun when it appeared. We then heated up our risotto for dinner, did a bit of planning for the next steps of our journey and then set up camp and relaxed with our books. Love kate xxxx

[midwestgender]

when i die put me in the compost bin <3

#legit i dont want to be cremated #or be buried in a casket #like at MOST i want like a cardboard box or smthn that breaks down easily #open casket funerals are fucking weird lol <3 #embalming freaks me out so bad and i dont want weird people touching my dead body #just roll me up in some canvas and have my closest friends carry me to a hole they dug in a field <3 #i know that would be traumatizing to them and probably disgusting and illegal #but its my wishes #i DONT want to be burnt i hate that shit #i want to be buried somewhere #if its legal maybe in a place i really loved in nature or smthn #but my ass is a freak so ill probably in my heart of hearts want to be buried in a national park or some shit #or somewhere that should be owned by natives (even if its not legally it feels disrespectful lol!) #i dont like graveyards :/ #i dont want to hang out with a bunch of ghosts i dont know #what if they are lame or conservative #i just want to become one with the earth let the maggots and worms have me #uh just in case anyone reads my tags #bugs tw #death tw #decay tw #the other option is to fully and totally donate my body to science #but more to a specific thing like #the visible human project which is cool as fuck btw #organ donation isnt rlly helpful as u think it is so i would prefer to be specfic

[theunconcernedembalmer]

"Hello Aesop. Thank you for embalming me in the match earlier. Here is a flare gun as a sign of thanks. I thank you for your efforts." - Martha Behamfil ( Ask-Coord-and-Merc)

Aesop no that is not how you make friends @ask-coord-and-merc 

#aesop carl #identity v #identity v embalmer #joseph desaulnier #identity v photographer #SAY IT WITH ME GUYS #EVERYTHING I TOUCH TURNS INTOOOOO #remember how i said i finished drawing all my asks now my wrist hurts HAHAHAHAHA SHIT #i only drew nonstop for uhhhh two days #ok but its just my bad posture its not carpel tunnel thank god #thankfully ask box is empty for now so i can rest my wrist for a bit #then maybe draw that aesop joseph comic lmaoooo #its not even shippy its just aesop being antisocial #also like the file name for these two is joseph fucking dies dot png #i know its just a flare gun so nothing will hurt except for maybe josephs eyes and his heart HAHAHAHAHAH OOPS #sidetrack a bit but pls go and ask coord and merc!!!!! theyre a new blog SUPPORT THEM #i would but i cant send asks anonymously #and thank you so much for dropping by my blog and sending me an ask!!!!!! many appreciates #i was gonna say like i dont ship them like romantically i would just think they make a very fun duo with a sprinkle of pining #like i want to dwell on the pining bit cos i dont see these 2 as a romantic couple per se does that make sense #like their whole weird friend relationship #some romance is ok i guess thats always fun #maybe cos im in a relationship i know romance is nothing like the feel good stuff shown everywhere #so like i cant see these 2 as a stable couple lmaoooooo I DARE YALL TO CHANGE MY MIND GO GO GO HAHAHAHAHHA #i still dont like their ship name hhhhhhhhhh #i was thinking something like photos of the dead but ehhhhhhhhhhhh #eeeeeehhhhhhhhhh #but u know when i go these 2 u know which 2 lmao #my bois #not a couple: coord and merc

[scotianostra]

On April 10th 1273 Lady Devorgilla of Galloway signed a charter for the establishment of Sweetheart Abbey in memory of her late husband, John Balliol.

The abbey gained the nickname Dulce Cor, or Sweetheart Abbey, from the tale of the lovelorn and widowed Devorgilla. After her husband died, she took to carrying an ornate ivory box trimmed in silver that contained his embalmed heart. She kept her “sweet, silent companion” with her all the rest of her days, until 1289 when she died, and beyond, for the box containing John Balliol’s heart was buried in her casket beneath the abbey where it remained clasped to her bosom. And so the monks called the abbey Sweetheart after their founder’s enduring love for her husband.

Sweetheart is a ‘daughter’ abbey of Dundrennen Abbey nearby.  It was largely constructed by and populated with monks from Dundrennan.  

The last of the Cistercian Abbeys in Scotland, Sweetheart Abbey initially  managed to hold out against the enforcers of the reformation. The local Scots people and the local Lord all supported both Sweetheart Abbey and its Abbot and in so doing, the Abbey functioned as a place of worship much longer than many other abbeys of the time.  

The last Abbot was taken prisoner by the Crown in the early 1600s, and Sweetheart Abbey fell into decay, its relics & treasures plundered, and the very stones of its once great walls picked away by scavengers for use elsewhere.

You will no doubt know that the  Scottish Reformation meant only bad news for these beautiful structures. Sweetheart Abbey did not escape this fate, but its dissolution was more gradual than in other places as it was under the care of a Catholic lord at the time of the Reformation. Still, many of the abbey’s stones were recycled into buildings in New Abbey, though, incredibly, what remained of the abbey was protected in 1779 as an “ornament to that part of the country.” This must be one of the earliest acts of preservation in Scotland, it hellped preserve the Abbey as we see it today.

The Abbey is now in the care of Historic Scotland, and, in my opinion, well worth the £6 entrance fee. 

#Scotland #scottish #religious history #lady devorgilla #medieval history

[dungeonaspects]

Human College of Spirits Bard

"Stories are but ghosts of the past, why not let the ghosts tell it themselves?"

Growing up around the dead was fascinating and filled with so many souls trying to tell their stories it was difficult to catch up on sleep. This young man was the son of an undertaker, stoic and stern, his father would treat the bodies with clinical disinterest, fulfilling his obligation and nothing more. Yet the boy could hear the whispers of the dead, just faint noises during the day, but at night they came alive (so to speak).

The boy would sleep in the mortuary, much to the fathers distaste, but it made sure the boy was never late to work so what did he care? By day the boy would help embalm the dead, treating each one with the same methodical process as his father, but at night he would let the spirits reach out to him filling him with the wisdom of long lives and use him as an outlet for their sorrow.

On days where a grand funeral took place the boy would walk the funeral march with his father, playing the viol in a lament that touched the hearts of those they passed. Unknown to them however within the viol, tucked within the body, was a single crimson bloodstone, dipped in the blood of the one they guided to the cemetery. The boy would let the feelings of the dead out, projecting the true sense of loss the dead felt over the procession and their loved ones.

As the boy grew older his connection to the dead intensified, some souls even choosing to stay with him as years went by, wishing to help the boy that brought them peace just after their end. His father however had become a drunk, often leaving the work to the boy alone, other times doing such a poor job in his stupor that the boy had to stay up all night to correct it.

This continued for years, the boy finding solace in the stories of the dead, using the bloodstone to channel the spirits through his battered viol. The father growing more distant and cruel until he began beating the young man in his care.

One day the young man challenged his father, sick of the abuse at his hand, this enraged the old man who went to club the boy with the bottle in his hand, the boy clutched at the bloodstone in his pocket. A spirit intervened, it possessed the boy, guiding his body in quick motions to protect the child they cared for so much. The spectral strength combined with the sudden burst of vitality the spirit drove the boys hand through his fathers chest.

Once the spirit left his body the boy collapsed, dazed and confused. He wept over his father and cursed at the spirit who had killed his dad, with that the spirit, hurt, shocked, and most terribly cursed, began to shift. The kindly spirit that had told the boy fond stories warped under his words, his power over the dead changing the ghost into something far more malicious.

So the boy ran, he ran into the town like an imp out of hell, pursued by the spirit he cursed. As the spectre closed in, its clawed hands reaching for the back of the young mans neck it screamed, the sun struck it, casting it back into the darkness.

The boy had no time to stop, no time to think, he ran off into the world with nothing but the clothes on his back and the bloodstone in his pocket. Now the boy has become a man, he scraped by those early years, starving in gutters, begging on street corners. He travels now, telling tales and doing odd jobs.

He still listens to spirits, talking to them to help them in their most dour moments, but truly he speaks to them for news and warning. They can see the darkness that follows him, still so many many miles away, it follows in the darkest of nights. He waits for the day he must face the spectre of his own creation, but he is not ready yet, the sense of dread only intensifying over the years.

Some Ideas

I feel like this character can be played in so many ways, he checks a lot of edgelord boxes, but also has potential to be fun. He could be the life of a party, telling tall tales, playing his viol, even dancing a jig from ages past.

I would love to see him as this ray of sunshine, playing off as a regular bard beguiling and charming all around him, but in dark moments he can see the remnants of the living. Maybe an Addams family setup? How he's a swashbuckling fun loving (if morbid) man who values family and friends because he has dwelt with the dead.

However you play him is right, just make sure you're having fun too :)

Art by Yrno-Yrno

The character is beautiful, his face is very handsome but also the lighting and background is fantastic. The dark and foreboding setting, the magic light emanating from him, but he has a kind face. I really love it, thank you.

https://cdna.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/014/710/910/large/yrno-yrno-05.jpg?1545129202=

#character concept #d&d #dnd stuff #dungeons and dragons #rpg #tabletop #character design #Human #Bard #college of whispers #Viol #violin #undead #spirits #necromancer #necromancy