The Day of Tortured Souls

The cold harsh winds of the winter whistled through the ranch. Nothing moved, the grounds lay bare the only sign of life was an illuminated window on the far side of the silent ranch. The light came from a small wooden shack; the shack appeared newer than the rest of the weather worn buildings, it also looked better cared for than the other buildings. Next to the shack was a small garden and in it were gravestones. Two were lined side by side, but another sat lonely in the corner of the garden. The lonely gravestone was simple it was made from wood unlike the other two that had been carefully crafted out of stone. Then a creak echoed around the garden and the shack, it was no louder than a whisper but in a place where nothing made a single

Walking into the cemetery, I noticed that the night shined brighter than the day and the music was more alive than ever. I could hear the song, “Puno de Tierra” by Ramon Ayala, playing in the background and there were many families gathered around the graves of their loved ones. I could smell the fresh copal burning into the air and I noticed that my uncles tumba (tomb) looked cleaner than any other day. His grave was decorated with marigolds, candy skulls, pan de muertos, and white candles along with a few of his favorite foods and a portrait of him placed in the middle for everyone to see. Then, I suddenly open my eyes to see myself sitting down on a sofa from our living room, and in the background I heard my grandmother continuously repeating

Let’s examine the short story of “Killings” by Andre Dubus. The story begins on a warm August day with the burial of Matt and Ruth Fowler’s youngest son Frank. Frank was only twenty-one: “twenty-one years, eight months, and four days” (Dubus, “Killings” 107). Attending the funeral were Matt, his wife Ruth, their eldest son Steve, his wife, their middle daughter Cathleen and her husband. Frank was buried in a cemetery on a hill in Massachusetts overlooking the Merrimack. Across from the cemetery is an “apple orchard with symmetrically planted trees going up a hill” (107), a symbol of how nice and serene the cemetery actually is and the peace Frank now has. Matt’s family is extremely distraught over the murder of their youngest

I sat in an interrogation room in the Road Mill Police Station covered in blood, on the verge of tears, hoping that today was all a dream. The lights began to flicker as Detective Ronald enters the room and starts roaring with anger at me," What happened to your husband?! Tell me! Did you murder him?", the room goes silent as I sit, still trying to process what happened

As I walked, the air of this haunted, dreadful and sorrowful land had sucked the life out of everything and roared as humanity began to disappear. As I carried on walking, I noticed that the small fraction of light was getting smaller and smaller, until it had been engulfed into a think black ash like smoke. Aggressively, the wind walked past the building with its cruddy feeling, blowing away all signs of life. Deeper and deeper into the land was a burning car door. The fire roared and crackled. The roaring and crackling of the burning car door merged with the aggressive air and created the loudest sounds ever heard on land. Growing darker, the skies made me feel nauseous. The fear of not waking up if a human fell asleep towered

I was brought out of my painful daze while looking down at my dad pouring vinegar and rubbing a credit card repeatedly over the sting. Not knowing what to expect I looked down to see that my shin had puffed up multiple inches and turned a purple color. I was escorted upstairs to the condominium and had strict instructions to stay on the couch in front of the sliding glass doors. I peered out to see the dark, eerie water filled with many unknowns. No longer was it a sight of beauty, it had turned into an ominous view that was filled with gloomy and painful memories. My eyelids slid shut as I tried to escape my once paradise, and now nightmare.

During the current Easter break, I ventured to Denver, Colorado with two others. The day after our arrival, I broke away from the group for a short period of time to visit Riverside Cemetery. Peering through the cemetery’s aligned headstones as if they were rows of filled bookshelves, my pupils skimmed from one headstone to the next, searching for an appealing name to take home to investigate like it was a book to check out from the library.

Waited on hand and foot as he lay in bed, waiting for his life to slip away. But that time was long gone. His sons and their wives were dead. His grandchildren were dead. All except little Alice. And Alice was far too young and vulnerable to let her face his death alone, unaided. So Craig Weathers, who had been born screaming his lungs out on a wintery day in 1938, dug his own grave. He told Alice it was going to be a pit to compost in, he would line it with bricks come springtime and they would compost in it. He spent long hours writing in his journal he planned to leave Alice. Stories of their family. Advice to her. Information on planting, on the open wild land surrounding their farmhouse, on anything and everything he could think of. He asked that she name her firstborn son after his father, James Weathers. He told her over and over again how much he loved her. He wrote stories of her father’s childhood, of his romance of her mother. All these things he told her in his journal, because he could not bear to worry her. He would not tell her until the last possible second.

Currently, she was at the local cemetery, where all around, freshly fallen snow twinkled and glistened on the once green ground. The pale gray pathway had been shoveled, however, so that people could get around the cemetery easily. Mrs. Ferguson was listening attentively to the pastor, who was describing Mr. Ferguson’s life. Only Mr. Ferguson’s close family had been invited to attend the funeral, so they all knew every detail of his life, but it was common practice to read it all anyways.

Mr Jackson decided to also keep in touch with the people that lose their beloved ones. The tour of the premises was quiet interesting and the type of casket they have and the services they do were impressive. The tour of was premises was kind of giving me some thoughts on how I want my funeral to look like. The premises showed a lot of remembrance book albums and framed wall picture as remembrance of the people that were known because this is how I would want my beloved people funerals to look like. The tours of the premises brought in tears in that I do not want to die now or in the near future. The premises in a way was giving me nightmare where I actually saw people dying on the spot right in front of

“La ofrenda de los muertos” which means the offering of the dead, is the step of a colorful ritual where an individual and the community are represented by their gifts. It is a sacred act, but can also be secular. The popular tradition is when the devotion of the sacred conjoins with the secular practice. Ofrendar (to offer) on the day of the dead, is to give ones bread, salt, fruits, pastries and water to the deceased and if they were adults, wine can also be included. By giving, the community comes closer to the ones that have passed away to reflect with their memory and life. The offering is a reunion with the ritual that brings about and honors memory. The offering, as known today, is also a reflection of the syncretism of the old and the new world.

It is the last Friday night of the summer, and they will never forget this night, however, what they do not recognize, is although this is a memorable Friday night. Due to circumstances, yet unseen, they may not remember these dark shadows and eerie movements created by the plant life undergrowth and forested area that is supplying the makings of quite a predicament. Nonetheless, a cemetery it is not, there are no gloomy graves or broken headstones with slightly opened crypts allowing restless cadavers to wander about convincing one it would be a good idea, “To get the hell

Seeing my best friend lying still in coffin was a dose of unwanted reality. I broke down sobbing at the sight. Three months after that and I started to get back into my daily routine. However, Tori’s presence at my side was something constantly missing. Missing Tori was a dull ache that never really went away. I didn’t know that Tori’s presence would soon be making a reappearance. My phone alarm rung on a Wednesday and pulled me away from my thoughts. I had five minutes to leave the house and head to school or I’d be late. I quickly shoved my red doc martens on my feet and headed to school. Tori used to go to the same highschool as me and being there without her was difficult. At least the new kid in history class seemed cool I thought to myself. I got to school right before the bell rings and I had to rush to my first class. I walked into my history class and plopped down into an empty seat. The new kid was seated at my right side. He was attractive with his dark hair falling into his eyes and the constant aloof expression on his face. I was intrigued by him and the air of mystery around him. No one knew where he came from. He just had transferred recently and he wasn’t very

Holding him in my arms I set him in a box that I prepared for him, Filled with blankets notes and roses. I start walking to this spot in the woods that always caught my eye, a tree that bloomed every summer, “so beautiful, thats where I’ll bury him i thought” we were digging for a half of an hour until we finally stopped and put him in there, We filled it back with dirt and stood there trying to comprehend what just happened. Everyone left until it was just

The cemetery I chose to visit and explore was the Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. On the way to the cemetery I couldn’t help but feel anxious. When I began to drive past the cemetery to its entrance, all I could see were miles and miles of headstones. It was eerie to say the least. As a kid, whenever my family would drive by a cemetery, my siblings and I would hold our breath until we passed so as to not breathe in the wandering, lost souls. Actually going into a cemetery to look around seemed counterintuitive, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to hold my breath for that long. It didn’t help that right when I entered those black gates that separated the living from the dead, clouds of smoke and ash permeated the air around me due to bodies being cremated on site.