The Grave Tale Of Anita Marie Moscoso

Orderly

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Of course my first call out to do a removal at the Funeral Home was at three in the morning, it was twenty miles away from my house and from the sight itself I had to drive another 15 miles to the Funeral home and I had to be at work at eight in the morning.

So I hall myself out of bed, dressed as if I were going to work ( no unprofessional looks no matter what you’re doing). I got into my car drove to the Funeral Home, picked up the removal van and drove to the hospital.

My face was numb, that’s how tired I was.

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When I got to the Hospital I drove around to the back, found the entrance to the morgue and yes, took an elevator down and ended up in the basement.

This wasn’t an old hospital, it was new and the floors were polished to a bright shine, the walls were white with just a hint of green and the lighting fixtures buzzed and hummed the way fluorescent lighting do.

The halls, oh those halls were long, they twisted and turned for no reason and there were no other doors, so far anyway except for the door I had come through.

Just as my seemingly endless and pointless walk was about to rattle my cage I passed an orderly.

” Excuse me, I’m close to the Morgue aren’t I?”

He didn’t really look at me, just pointed over his shoulder as he passed and nodded.

I heard him say from down the hall, ” I really hate that place. It’s so small in there.”

I found the Morgue and I saw what the orderly meant.

For such a massive building the morgue was small and there were only four drawers in the morgue itself.

It was almost like they had put in miles of hallways just to stash away a few bodies at a time.

I pulled open the drawer, pulled back the covering and checked the ID to my paperwork and loaded my deceased person on my gurney.

I checked to make sure the numbers and names all matched again and closed the drawer and left the room, but on my way out I  turned the lights off and when I realized what I had done I shrugged.

On my way out of the building  saw the orderly near the doors and I thanked him for his help and said good morning.

” We’re in a morgue.” he said.

Some people, I thought, have no people skills at all.

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When I got back to the Funeral Home I checked my person in and popped him onto a shelf in the C.U.

He was wrapped in plastic and covered with a sheet- the plastic bothered me so I slid him towards me and unwrapped him and threw the plastic away.

Then as I was about to cover him with the a sheet I saw his face.

I took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling.

I made up my mind to it right then and there as I carefully covered his face.

I was working with the dead now and from that point forward nothing concerning what the living or the dead are capable of doing would ever surprise me again.

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Lost In The Darkness

Epitome

I have three paintings that speak directly to how I see the world through my ” writer’s eye”.

One is ” The Sin ” by Franz von Stuck.

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When I write about the Darkness I have to ask myself:

Where does the Darkness stop and the Light Begin? Are Dark Souls really in torment, or is that just what they do and in following their nature do they really enjoy their ‘evil deeds’ or is it just another day at work for them?

In this painting we are told we see a massive snake wrapped around ” Eve’s ” body and the snake looks right at us as if it is about to strike.

I don’t see that.

Who is the real ‘villain’ here?

“Eve” is bearing the weight off the giant snake with no effort. She’s not the one who is being consumed or overwhelmed by evil says my Spidey Sense.

One of her shoulder’s is thrown back and up, her chin is tilting down,  her lips are set against her teeth in mid snarl.

SHE is the one about to strike.

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The portrait ” The Sin”  reminds me  that when  I create a monster, when I dwell on evil to tell a story, where I wonder what makes us scared and  where it all comes from, to not just look at the ‘big picture’ .

Sometimes you have to get lost in the darkness with them, sometimes you have to get closer then you’d like, sometimes you have to understand that when one finds the real monster you won’t really be surprised by their behavior or by who they turn out to be.

You just have to keep in mind you might see a little or maybe a lot of yourself in those twisted, haunted creatures. In those dark souls lost in the darkness.

That’s what makes horror stories so horrible and that’ why they scare us.

Don’t you think?

Hell by Hieronymus Bosch

Hell by Hieronymus Bosch

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Whisper

wp-1464194851379.jpgWhere to find my next story, where to find it, where can it be?

Maybe it’s hiding in a grave, in the pocket of a woman about to drive her car off of a bridge or in an attic rotting in a trunk with a handful of hair and a magazine about cars.

Where is that story? When will it walk up to me and say, ” How do you do? I’ve been to Hell today and I’ll be there tomorrow and we down there are all wondering when you’ll join us. Don’t worry. We’ll be in touch, you can count on it as you know.”

Some of my stories grow in a shady garden, choked with weeds and flowers and  trees that creak and sound like snapping bones when the wind sneaks through and the rains come.

In my  dark garden the birds sing off key and the sunlight tries, but never quite touches the ground.

Inspired By:

Grain

 

 

Paging Doctor Spock

Phase

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When I  think of the Moon I think Werewolves.

When I see the Moon hanging above me in the sky I wonder what it would look like it if all of the sudden it just stopped in its tracks and smashed into the Earth.

If  I could go to the Moon  I’d take my helmet off, take a selfie with the Earth in the background and post it to my Facebook before I died because that’s the way we roll now days on planet Earth, USA in the suburbs.

Pablo Picasso - "Absinthe Drinker

I’ve always gone through phases where my train of thought roars around backwards through crazy town, slams the brakes on at  ” What the Hell ” and jumps the tracks at ” Really Anita Marie?”

I think its one of my more endearing qualities.

Happy to say I’ve always been like that.

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I’m not afraid to write what I think, no matter how weird it sounds.

It’s a phase I went through when I started to write when I was nine years old.

Happy to say I never grew out of it.

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A few years ago I did some art workshops and writing workshops and I dedicated loads of time to social media.

I learned nothing from that phase of my life.

Happy to say, I grew out of it.

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I posted this on my Facebook page:

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Some people thought it was funny, other people told me not to write about people or real life events because I’d get sued and one person asked me how I was going to portray people I knew.

Yeah.

And while I’m at it, I’ll just post my attorney’s phone number at the end of each story.

I wish stories just floated down from the sky, crawled into my brain via my nose ( I rode dirt bikes, I must have snorted half the bugs in Washington state, so having stuff slithering on up to my nasal passages holds no fear for me ) but alas that is not how the process works.

Stories have to come from somewhere- to think they come into this world without the aid of real life experiences  is like thinking that babies are delivered by storks or their parents find them under cabbage leaves and that they are not made by two people combining their DNA.

Some people go through this phase where sticks find their way into their bodies and they walk around like that and looking like that giant thing is wedged in them until the day they die.

Makes you wish the Werewolf thing was real when we are faced with some of those  phases, doesn’t it?