May I Please Draw Your OC?

“May I please draw your OC?”

Reblog this message if you encourage anyone that wants to draw your OC to do so.  No need to ask for permission in advance.

Go for it.  Draw my OC.  If you want, I’ll even give you reference posts.  Go to town on it.

You are welcome to draw my OC and surprise me with the result.  Seriously.  In fact, I encourage it.  I will proudly display whatever it is you submit to me regarding my OC.  There is a chance that I will squeal about it for several days.

Even if you feel you aren’t good at whatever artistic adventure it is you do, please feel free to submit it to me.  I want to see what you have done.

LADY IRENÉ — ! 🌷

Apple Experiments

Word Count: 2500

POV: Third Person

Commission for: Laine

Note: i didnt know what pronouns to use for Colress so i went with what the commissioner referred to Colress as! If you do not like transfem Colress i suggest you look the other way! I have permission from Laine to post this!!

“This isn’t what I thought you had in mind when you said, ‘let’s go apple picking.’” Laine said, sitting on the ladder as Colress picked one of the low-hanging fruit.

They were currently in an orchard, a ladder stood up next to the tree that Laine was currently sitting on and Colress on the ground picking apples from the tree. Laine took an apple, bit into it, and watched as Colress examined the apples with such awe and amazement. She just couldn’t get it, how could Colress find apples of all things interesting now? Laine knows of all the things she could get up to, and in part she has helped him in the past. This time was no different, helping Colress find the perfect apple for her experiment.

“Apples are fascinating things, are they not?” Colress asked. “We eat them every day yet we don’t dare to distinguish between what makes a good apple and what doesn’t. Or what the difference between a biologically engineered apple or a fresh one is like.”

“Here we go…” Laine mumbled, putting her head in his hands. “Can’t we just pick apples like normal people?”

They weren’t the only ones in the orchard picking apples. Couples all around them picking different types of fruit, smiling and hugging each other as they had fun. Among the trees were oranges, peaches, and other fruits that people went to pick, meanwhile Colress was still here picking apples and examining them for her experiment. What that experiment was, Laine still didn’t know. Laine almost felt a little embarrassed sitting there on the ladder as Colress still stayed at the same tree for minutes at a time looking at apples that all honestly looked the same to Laine. There was something endearing about it all though.

Laine would be the only person to put up with Colress’ weird experiments. Laine was always the first person Colress went to if she needed help with an experiment. There was that one thing Colress needed help with an experiment on plants, and while most in her department called her insane, Laine was the only person to indulge her in her weird antics. And it worked, by the way. People were surprised to see that, yes, you could turn plants into animals. (She made a dog-plant hybrid of some sort.)

Laine didn’t mind it when Colress did weird and funky things like this. Sure, it was boring, but it was what Colress loved doing the most, and he couldn’t deny Colress. So, that’s what Laine ended up doing for most of the day; picking apples with Colress. Laine would eat the apples and Colress would examine whatever Laine didn’t eat. Laine was in for a long day, because Colress wasn’t stopping anytime soon. They had gone through about 40 apples by this time, and there were still apple trees full of the fruit waiting to be picked.

“Normal people?” Colress asked, “When have I ever been normal?”

“Never, sweetheart.”

“Then there’s your answer. Now, come, we’re done with this tree.”

Laine sighed, stepping down the ladder and hauling it with them as they made their way to the next tree. It wasn’t too unbearably hot outside, a nice spring breeze waved through the air, so that was a plus on Laine’s side. Colress thought it to be good as well, since the orchard would be in its prime for picking. She made sure it was the right time for this apple picking date (if you could call it that) so that the apples would be in their prime when they were picked. It was careful and meticulous planning on her part, spending days and nights trying to figure out the best day to pick apples.

“What do you mean you want to go pick apples?”

Laine asked this while sitting on the couch of their shared apartment. Colress seemed to be in another fit; this time about apples. She was pacing around the room mumbling to herself about apples and their taste and looks. Colress had been like this for days, non stop muttering about apples and in the lab doing research on all types of apples. Looking up red versus green, unripe versus ripe, waxed versus not. Laine sighed, knowing she’d never get out of this fit on her own, and stood up grabbing Colress by the shoulders lightly.

“Calm down. I’ll take you to an orchard.”

“You will?” there was an uncharacteristic amount of begging and enthusiasm behind that voice, something that Laine couldn’t help but say yes to.

“I will.”

Colress smiled big, wrapping her arms around Laine. Despite looking lanky and unforgiving, Colress gave the best hugs. There was something warm about the hugs she gave, especially since she gives them rarely. Laine would savor these hugs knowing that they weren’t given for free. It was a tight hug, probably from the fact that Laine was giving into Colress’ indulgences, and one that lingered on. Colress pulled away thinking in a frenzy.

“I have to plan! I have to figure out what day is best for picking apples…the wind speed, the temperature, even the location is all important!”

“Woah there, slow down Colress.”

“I can’t!” she exclaimed, walking away from Laine. “I have to figure this stuff out! I’ll see you in a bit!”

So she did. She spent the next few days figuring out what days were best. Wednesday’s weren’t the best due to the constant wind speed on those days, and Thursday wasn’t good either because of the rain. Monday’s were too busy, and Colress didn’t particularly like people all too much. Laine had to beg Colress to go to bed a few times because she would accidentally not sleep for a couple days, or eat. After all was said and on, Friday of next week was the best time to pick apples.

“Alright, do we have everything?” Laine asked.

Laine checked through her bag, looking for all the necessary things she was bringing with her. Half the stuff Laine didn’t even know the name to, and the other half he didn’t even know what it did. She just kept quiet and let Colress do her thing. With a single thumbs up from Colress, they headed off to the orchard. It was some orchard on the other side of town, apparently with a lot of good apples, as Colress said. It wasn’t too busy, and the temperature was just right this day. Everything was made sure to go to plan.

“When did you even have time to go check out this orchard?”

“A couple of days ago after some research on the orchards in town.” Colress said simply. “It took me a few hours but I found the perfect one with good apples.”

“What is your experiment anyways?”

Laine shrugged. “Not sure yet. Could be the biological foundations of apples or the differences between green and red. I just need to see them for myself to determine the next step.”

Colress was always doing things like this. Going into an experiment without a solid hypothesis. It wasn’t the most soundproof and ideal way to do an experiment, but it was Colress’ idea of a fun experiment. If you don’t know your hypothesis then there’s the fun in doing the experiment! Something that Colress’ would do is make up a hypothesis along the way, and Laine figured that’s what Colress’ was doing now. Making up a hypothesis to have a sound experiment.

Which brought Laine back to here, sitting at a new spot under the tree eating red apples that taste super sweet. The sun was now in the evening and most of the couples had left the orchard. Meanwhile, Colress was still as interested in apples as she was when she first came into the orchard. That made Laine have a question though. “What’s the difference between a green apple and red apple?”

“Colour, for one thing.” Colress started as she plucked another apple from the tree. “Taste is second. Green apples tend to be more sour than red apples, while red apples have a sweeter juicier taste. I suppose that’s what you’re tasting now.”

Colress was right. There were red and green apple trees and whenever Laine had tasted the green apples his face would scrunch and pucker up. Laine didn’t mind the sour taste of the green apples and continued eating them, and the red ones were juicier. They would often make a mess and drip down Laine’s face, which she had to wipe off the excess juice afterwards. There was something else that Laine had a question of…

“Anything else?”

“Their skin,” Colress said, poking the red apple in her hand with a gadget, “Red apples have thin skin and green apples have thicker skin. There’s also the vitamin differences too. Green apples have vitamin A, vitamin B, vitamin C, vitamin E and vitamin K, while red apples are full of antioxidants.”

That was something that Laine noticed whenever she bit into a red apple versus a green apple. It wasn’t much of a difference, but there was an obvious thickness to the green apples than the red ones. The way it was a tiny bit harder to bite into the green ones. They were cleaner, though, than the red ones. Laine chewed through the red of the apple in his hand and threw the core on the ground.

“What about unripe apples?”

“They’re usually smaller and greener. They also taste sour, much like green apples. I assume they taste even more sour than green apples…” Colress plucked an unripe apple and a ripe green apple. “Ripe apples have more colour and when you pluck them,” Colress plucked a ripe apple, “they come off the tree easily.”

On all the trees Laine did see apples that did look green, but not as green as the green apples they had been eating. They looked smaller, and had more spots on them than regular green apples. Laine had made the mistake of biting into one earlier and making a sour face as they threw the apple on the ground. It was unmistakably sour than a green apple, but Laine wouldn’t tell Colress that. She could find that out for herself.

Laine bit into a red apple, looking down at Colress who looked at the green apple with such intensity. “So, have you figured out your hypothesis yet?”

“Other than the sourness of a green apple versus an unripe apple, no. But I’m getting there.”

“It’s starting to get late,” Laine said, looking at the horizon. “We can always come back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow it will rain.” Colress said in a deadpan still looking at the apple in her hand. “Won’t work tomorrow. At the least we’ll have to wait until next week, again.”

The sun was still high up in the sky that Colress could still search for a few more minutes, but it was starting to dip below the horizon-line. Laine didn’t much mind the night sky, but didn’t want to be spent in an orchard overnight either. Not that the owner would let them. They had a specific time they closed at, and Colress was nearing that time. Colress continued to examine more apples, having a basket full of them already piled up.

Although Laine complained about going to an orchard for simple research there was something about spending time with Colress that was endearing to his heart. The fact that Colress didn’t want Laine to do anything except sit there and hand her apples when she needed them. Laine guesses this is what people call ‘quality time’ in terms of expressions of love. Colress loved quality time, asking Laine to come into the lab whenever she was super busy just to keep her company. While it wasn’t Laine’s preferred expression, she still loved that Colress loved it.

“Havin’ fun there?” one of the owners of the orchard came by. “Pretty interested in the apples, ain’t she?”

Laine looked at Colress who looked at a green apple, before tossing it in the basket. Laine couldn’t blame Colress for her eccentricity though. If she was passionate about something she was going to put her mind to it. No one else would go through a million apples in an orchard just for an experiment. She was also persistent, and headstrong, not willing to leave until she had all the data she needed for her collection.

“Yeah…” Laine sighed. “Come on, Colress, it’s time to go.”

It was Colress’ turn to sigh, as she put up the clipboard in her bag and walked over to the basket full of apples. Despite her lanky figure she was strong, at least, strong enough to pick up a basket full of apples. Holding a basket full of apples, Colress nodded, and headed off towards the car. The owner of the orchard looked at her with wide eyes and his mouth agape. “Need that many apples?”

“Yeah.” Laine repeated, sighing again.

Laine got in the car with Colress while the apples sat in the backseat. The evening sky started to loom over them as they made it back to their apartment on the other side of town. The day was over just as quickly as it came. Laine thought of it to be a somewhat eventful day, spending time with Colress as she poked and prodded apples of all different kinds. The car ride was silent until Laine decided to break the tension between the two of them. “I thought this was a date.”

“A date?” Colress asked. “Did you want it to be?”

“Yes,” Laine grumbled. “But I didn’t mind. Watching you pick apples with that expression on your face is something that I love about you.”

“No…no,” Colress shook her head, “I mean. You want to date me?”

Laine looked at Colress in disbelief, but wore a smile on his face. “Sweetheart, we’re already dating.” Laine laughed. “We live together.”

“Oh…” Colress looked down at her lap, folding her hands together. “So this is dating…”

“You seriously didn’t know?” Laine asked, albeit a little more seriously now.

“I’m joking, of course.” Colress joked. “Of course, I know I’m dating you.”

“Oh, thank God.” Laine sighed in relief. “I had fun today.”

“I love you too,” Colress said, looking at Laine endearingly on the ride home.

It was moments like these that Colress wouldn’t dare to ever forget. Although she was known for her friendly nature, she wasn’t known for trusting so easily. Trusting, much less than loving someone. There was a sense of openness and vulnerability that came with loving someone as deeply as Colress loved Laine. A sense of belonging. Whenever Colress would look at Laine it was like her entire world would light up, knowing that there was someone in her corner to indulge in her every whimsy. Colress may have asked for a lot, but Laine was always there to give, and never asking for anything in return.

And Colress wouldn’t have it any other way.

GOOOO!!!

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♡ ︎& ⟲ appreciated!

Reworked Species #2: Tuatha Dé Danann

Unfortunately, little information has been preserved about the history, culture, behaviours, and capabilities of the Tuatha Dé Danann. However, it’s known that they thrived during the Hadean Eon, a time marked by the emergence of life, and possessed technology far superior to that of modern humanity. This society of demigods was renowned for their impressive naval prowess and vast knowledge, reflecting their diverse talents and interests.

The Tuatha Dé Danann created intricate hieroglyphic drawings on portable pieces of green jasper, red garnet or obsidian, highlighting them with fool's gold or mercury. These drawings depicted ancient deities, such as the Avatar of Evil, and are often referred to as the Rosetta Stones.

The Tuatha Dé Danann are believed to possess an infinite amount of knowledge, encompassing even forbidden lore, but this intellectual capacity diminishes with each successive generation of descendants. As their DNA is diluted, their heirs retain only a hint of the Tuatha Dé Danann's extraordinary cognitive abilities, allowing them to hold more knowledge than the average human but not to the same extent as their ancestors. Notably, the Tuatha Dé Danann lived long enough to intermarry with fully evolved humans, sparking controversy among the older generations. The older generations viewed such unions as a taint on their genetic lineage, regarding themselves as a superior species whose physical and mental purity was paramount.

They can effortlessly distinguish between their own kind, including those who possess Tuatha Dé Danann DNA, and beings from other species through a peculiar tingling sensation of familiarity. Legend has it that they occasionally or frequently glimpse a pair of glowing red eyes watching them from darkened corners or shadowy places. They interpret this as a guardian carefully observing and assessing their moral actions. However, their descendants often find this unsettling with some believing they are being haunted by a restless spirit, while others suspect they are merely hallucinating. Sometimes, they're drawn into certain places, enticed by an aura of curiosity, a commanding presence or the echoing whispers of safety and growth.

They're immune to debilitating illnesses and were once prolific wielders of powerful magic, controlling the weather, elements, and earth's fertility. With this magic, they could shapeshift themselves and objects into animals and people, become invisible by hiding in a mist, and bring doom upon those who committed heinous acts against the divine and the law. However, descendants of the Tuatha Dé Danann have lost the ability to wield this magic as modern society has forgotten the secrets of harnessing and maintaining such an arcane force.

Beliefs

Although their specific beliefs and values are not well-documented, they are largely centred around animism, enlightenment, salvation, and cultural preservation. They held key values such as honour, courage, mastery of survival skills, overall health, compassion, creativity, and wisdom. Moreover, they believed it was their responsibility to aid in the physical and technological evolution of all life forms and reset the timeline when destruction seemed imminent. Some believe in the transformative power of human emotions and physical capabilities.

They held immense respect for the deities, preparing exquisite festivals, large feasts, worship ceremonies, and moral laws inspired by their unique principles. They hold a profound belief in the sacredness of the land, recognizing a collective responsibility to protect it from desecration and preserve its integrity. As stewards of the natural world, they strive to maintain harmony among the five elements: earth, air, fire, water, and quintessence. Embracing the cyclical nature of life, they accept and respect the phases of birth, growth, decay, and rebirth, working to maintain the delicate balance of the natural order.

Appearance

It's commonly believed that the Tuatha Dé Danann bore a striking resemblance to humans, but with distinct physical differences. They were remarkably tall, with males standing at an impressive 9’ 4” (284.48 cm) and females reaching approximately 8’ 10” (269.24 cm). Their physiques were characterised by lean builds, prominent muscles, and a proportionate amount of body fat. Their hair reportedly came in varying shades of black and blonde, while their eyes ranged in hues of blue and cyan. They have a pale complexion, but most experience a dulling of their skin hue as they grow older with age.

Warriors often adorned themselves with vibrant markings: they bleached the skin of their faces, torsos, arms, and lower legs with woad, giving them a bluish appearance. They also used Murex snail dye to create swirling patterns or claw-like marks on their faces, chests, and arms, which appeared purple. Additionally, they dyed their hair with madder red dye, and if they had longer hair, they braided it.

Tuatha Dé Danann rulers are always born with distinctive physical characteristics, including either python-like legs, a wolf’s head, a winding, serpentine fish tail or the lower half of a horse.

The exact nature of their attire is unknown, but it’s believed to have been crafted from luxurious materials such as silks, satins, linens, and animal pelts. Their jewellery was adorned with gemstones, precious metals, and ornate pieces made from animal teeth and bones. Notably, their armour was forged from a mysterious material known as adamant, a semi-magnetic rock infused with hardened steel, renowned for its exceptional strength and durability, surpassing even that of diamond.

Known Locations

Atlantis is said to be buried deep within the centre of the Atlantic Ocean. According to legend, the fabled civilization of the Hadean Eon was lost to the depths after its ruler succumbed to hubris and attempted to conquer humanity or prematurely reboot life itself with the aid of the Alator. The city's architecture is characterised by a series of concentric islands, separated by expansive moats and linked by a winding canal that culminates in a central hub: a towering structure featuring labyrinthine hallways, prismatic stone, and an altar adorned with ancient deity caricatures.

Some believe that Atlantis houses ancient technology infused with psionic energy and holds the knowledge of the deities. A few also speculate that it will rise up from the Atlantic Ocean during a rare and ominous blood moon event, rumoured to last for seven days, potentially initiating the apocalypse.

Ultima Thule is a remote tundra island located northwest of the Orkney Islands, frequently visited by whale and orca families. The island experiences the extreme phenomena of polar night and midnight sun. Despite its fertile soil and abundant fields, capable of supporting crops and fruits, Ultima Thule is uninhabited. Regrettably, the island has been exploited as a dumping site for trash, discarded vehicles, and defunct machinery, leading to its notorious moniker, Scrap Island. It secretly harbours the remains of a deceased extraterrestrial deity and antediluvian, faulty technology of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

It's believed that Ultima Thule was once a multifaceted hub, featuring large greenhouses for agriculture, mines for fossil fuels, precious metals, and gemstones, and sanctuaries that housed libraries, lavish bathhouses, and comfy homes for the elderly. Additionally, the area hosted various winter sports to test physical strength and agility, survival skills, instinctive reflexes, and mental strategies.

Technology

Little is known about their technological capabilities, but it’s believed that they were the result of a fusion of advanced mechanics, cutting-edge bioengineering, and mystical wizardry. Some of their technology is said to be capable of creating devastating weapons unparalleled on Earth, generating new land masses and life forms (including clones), and even tearing rifts in the space-time continuum.

Atlantis contains the Alator, a 200-million-year-old information-gathering device, and the Lugus Lieu, a biomechanical tower giant that serves as the Alator's core. The Alator is employed to accelerate the evolution of cultures and life forms, but it inevitably self-destructs when accessed by an individual of Tuatha Dé Danann lineage, resetting the timeline and perpetuating an eternal cycle of repetition.

They were in possession of data discs attached to copper-hued adamant vambraces, comprising three sections that are adorned with an encircling, shaky line pattern and outlined with gold accents to demarcate each section. The data discs themselves are rimmed with pearlescent adamant and centred with a floating rhomboid piece of green jasper. These devices are capable of generating an impenetrable shield, manifesting as yellow-orange and saffron octagonal waves, for defensive purposes. Additionally, they can emit purplish-white laser projectiles for long-range offence.

The Gravestone

Trigger warnings for death, suicide, and dissociation

She never imagined she should die so young.

Beverly Whittenhouse stood before the grave that said in big letters her name—BEVERLY WHITTENHOUSE—and the date—JANUARY 17, 1992 - SEPTEMBER 5, 1953. The gravestone was small and upright, but to her, it was everything. This is where she would forever lie. She thought her funeral would be grander, but when she stood in the back pew looking at her coffin, she couldn’t help but feel nothing. She could never stand to look at her body.

It was shortly after the birth of her firstborn, Cynthia Whittenhouse, that her body relaxed and her muscles eased. Her arms felt like a million pounds, and her body felt like cement. She couldn’t tell the doctors what was wrong because she couldn’t gather the energy to speak. It was painful for the first hour or so, with a mind-crushing headache and sweat beading down her face. Sooner or later, the nurses monitoring her noticed something was wrong, but by then, it was too late. Beverly was already too far gone for treatment, so she did the next best thing. She closed her eyes. She thought, ‘Maybe if I close my eyes, I’ll wake up fine.’

Beverly did wake up. Her body lay in the hospital bed, unmoving, when she opened her eyes. Her body felt light like she could run a marathon and then some. She no longer felt sweaty and gross but instead felt rejuvenated, like she was a kid again. The lights in the delivery room no longer felt blinding, and everything was still. For a moment, Beverly felt true, genuine peace.

When she came back to her senses, Beverly saw her peers, the other nurses who served alongside her in the Second World War, crying. She didn’t understand what was wrong, so she sat up.

“What’re you cryin’ for? I’m right here.”

But they acted like they couldn’t hear her.

She went to grab onto one of the nurses but saw that her hand went through them. Her hand felt like nothing, and a simple gust of wind could blow her away. Beverly got out of bed, stood up, and looked at the nurses. Her eyes couldn’t believe the moment that had transpired, and all she could do was stare at them with a still and fearful expression. The pit in her stomach grew, and she knew one thing.

She couldn’t turn around.

Beverly knew if she turned around, it would become all too real to her. She walked around the nurses, knowing full well she could walk right through them, and walked through the door. Passing through physical objects is strange; it’s like walking through jello or something similar. It’s like something is trying to pull you back, and you feel suffocated all at once.

Each step she took felt heavier than the last. Her surroundings felt…off. She couldn’t feel or touch anything, and when she looked around, it felt as if everything had a haze to it. Her body felt out of her control, and she went on autopilot. She felt disconnected from reality, and in a sense, she really was.

It was a small hospital with a long corridor leading to different hospital rooms. She walked down the corridor, passing by the paintings on the wall she never got a good look at when she was being wheeled down. They were beautiful paintings: one of sunflowers, another of a fruit basket, and a few others of various objects. She walked slowly down the corridor until she came to the double doors that led to the entrance. She took a left because of the label ‘nursery’ on the wall.

It didn’t take long to find her husband standing there with a smile on his face. He wasn’t paying attention to Beverly; instead, he stared at one of the babies in the nursery. There were about 20 babies, but she couldn’t mistake her own. There, in the back row in the middle, was hers: Cynthia Whittenhouse. She had this feeling of elation, knowing her baby was alive and well. She felt so far from everything, but in this moment alone, she finally felt the happiness she had been waiting for 9 months.

“Mister George Whittenhouse.”

The recurring fear came back into Beverly’s body as she turned to look at her husband, who had been happy and smiling at his newborn daughter. She knew this would be the last time he would be seen happy again. She stayed, looking into the nursery with a fond expression, while he left with the doctor and went back down the corridor.

For the next week, she wasn’t allowed to leave the funeral home. She was stuck in some place that looked like a dentist’s office with a long chair in the middle. Beverly looked curiously around the room, looking at the different bottles labeled formaldehyde, methanol, glutaraldehyde, and other names of chemicals she didn’t know. She never once looked at the person in the room rushing around or who laid on the chair herself.

Beverly could never stand to look at herself in the eyes. Once, she tried to turn and look at herself, but when she caught a glimpse of her still lifeless body on the table, she couldn’t bear it. She tried; she honestly tried to come to terms with the fact she was dead, but she internally screamed at herself. She was too young to die, too young to perish! She didn’t even get to meet the baby girl she had so long to see.

So when it finally came time for her funeral, seeing the preparations and flowers, seeing all the guests that came, it all felt too surreal. Beverly waited outside the room where the funeral was being held. That’s the farthest she could get before she would blink and be back at her body. She could never travel far from it. It was like some sort of tether still tying her to her body.

“Today we mourn the loss of Beverly Whittenhouse…”

Arriving there was no problem; all she had to do was wait until her body left the funeral home. Whenever she got too far away from her body, it was always like walking through a fog. Even now, whenever she starts to walk too far, she always makes it back to her gravestone. Even in death, she couldn’t travel the world like her husband promised.

The cemetery was beautiful when she was buried there. It was still a fresh plot of grass, and the headstone was beautifully carved. She could hear sniffles from everyone in the crowd and, worst of all, her husband’s red eyes. She had assumed their baby was still in the hospital, where she would stay until enough time had passed and it was okay to send her home. Seeing her husband’s cheerful demeanor disappear after the war was the first sign of his depression, and then the second was seeing the loss of his beloved wife.

The third came way later.

Over time, she would stand beside her gravestone and wait. She would see her little girl grow up with her mother’s bright green eyes and her father’s red curly hair. She was always so happy whenever she came by. Cynthia would say hello and would sit down at the grave and talk for hours and hours about her day and home life. She was a pretty lucky kid; most dads would run, but this one didn’t.

It didn’t stop Beverly from noticing something was wrong. Every time he came by, he seemed tired and often worn out. After the war, George went back to his job as a factory worker. His sad smile turned weary, and after a while, the smile faded. It was like it took everything out of him just to get up in the morning. Soon enough, he stopped coming.

Beverly waited by the gravestone one day, waiting for Cynthia to come by. The weather wasn’t half bad—a little rain here and there, but otherwise, it was a perfectly cloudy day. She sat down on the ground, trying to pick the grass, but she couldn’t touch the ground like she could before. She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her.

“I’ve been watching.”

“Who the hell are you?” a startled Beverly yelled, getting up and backing away.

When she turned around to face whoever it was, she was pleasantly surprised. There stood a man about fifty years old with a stubbly face and dark brown eyes. He stood a little taller than Beverly, who was already 5’6 herself and looked clean. He stood there staring straight at her with a kind and soft expression.

“I am the Groundskeeper of this fine cemetery. You must be Beverly Whittenhouse.”

She looked around to see if anyone else was around and then back to the man. “How can you see me?”

“Once you spend enough time at the cemetery, you tend to see things.”

“So, you can really see me?” she asked, walking up to the man. “I wonder…” she reached out a hand to touch him.

“Still can’t touch.”

“Oh.”

She withdrew her arm and looked at him curiously. It still bothered her that his only answer was that ‘you tend to see things’ when you spend enough time at the cemetery. It wasn’t enough for her. There had to be more to the story.

“Does that mean my daughter can see me?”

“Perhaps.”

She rushed towards the man, trying to grab his shirt, but stumbled and fell to the ground. The man stepped out of the way nonchalantly, looking down at her. She grumbled at the fact that she had forgotten she couldn’t touch people and got to her feet again. She brushed off the nonexistent dirt and looked at him sternly.

“That’s not a good answer.”

Despite everything, the Groundskeeper seemed unbothered by this entire situation. “You want me to talk to her, yes?”

“I’d do anything to tell her that I loved her,” she begged the man. “Please. I just want to see my daughter once.”

“I can’t tell you if she can see you or not. I can only assume. When she comes by again, I’ll talk to her.”

If she could kiss that man’s feet, she would. She could finally meet the daughter she never got to see. It had been so long since she could hold her little girl in her arms, and now she could talk to her as a teenager. Maybe, just maybe, she could get to meet Cynthia

When the next year came, Cynthia was eighteen years old. Beverly had seen some of her relatives come by the cemetery; they were stuck to their bodies just like she was, but they moved on. Beverly got to know some of the other residents of the cemetery, like David, an elderly man waiting for his wife, or Susan, a young adult who wanted to stay just a bit longer. Beverly wasn’t alone.

It was the middle of the summer, and while everyone else was out wearing short sleeves and shirts, Beverly was still in her orange pencil skirt dress she was buried in. It was almost scandalous how much skin a woman could show nowadays, but it was trendy. Back before she died, it was scandalous for a woman to wear pants, much less mini-skirts.

Cynthia wore a similar outfit to the rest of the people. She wore a pink halter top with high-waisted bell bottoms. She wasn’t with her father that day; he stopped visiting two years ago. Beverly had hoped he was moving on and was being a father to their child, but in reality, Beverly didn’t know. All she cared about now was meeting her daughter for the first time.

Beverly waited by the gravestone for Cynthia with a smile on her face. She was nervous; she couldn’t lie, but she was so elated that she could finally tell her daughter the words “I love you” on her face. She held her hands together tightly as she waited for her daughter to get closer.

Beverly didn’t know where he came from or how, but the Groundskeeper came along. He seemed to have some supplies, and he started cleaning a gravestone. She didn’t know the supplies’ names or what exactly he was doing, but she knew he was cleaning the gravestone. This was the first she had seen him clean them.

Cynthia set down a white rose and looked over to see the Groundskeeper. “Who are you?”

He looked up from his work to face her. “I am the Groundskeeper. I watch over the cemetery.”

“Weird…” she turned back to Beverly’s gravestone. “So, what, do you watch over the graves here or something?”

“You could say that,” he says as he brushed the gravestone with some cleaning agent. “What would you say to her?”

“Who, my mom? I dunno,” she shrugged, looking at the grave. “It’s hard to miss someone you didn’t get to know. I mean, I love her, but it’s different.”

“Do you grieve for her?”

“I grieve for the mother I didn’t get to know, but do I grieve my mom?” she paused for a second to think on the question. “No. I just hope she’s at peace now.”

“Why do you keep coming then?”

“Because…she’s still my mom. I may not grieve her, but without her, I wouldn’t be here. I know she loved me; Dad tells me that every day.” she stares at the gravestone a bit longer. “Thank you for talking to me and all. Mr…?”

“Mr. Peters.”

Beverly wiped her eyes as tears ran down her face when Cynthia left the cemetery. She wasn’t wailing, but she was sobbing quietly. Did her daughter not love her enough? What did she mean by it was different? Beverly had so many unanswered questions but couldn’t ask. She wanted to run, scream, and do whatever. And so she did.

Beverly fell to her knees in some distraught agony and pounded her fists into the ground. She clenched her teeth and shut her eyes as she sobbed out. Beverly was frustrated with the feeling of not being able to do anything. She couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t speak to the people she loved; she couldn’t go and see them; she couldn’t do anything except stay here and stare at the words on the gravestone that said her name.

“Why…” Beverly sniffled. “Why can’t she see me?”

“Because she’s not grieving you,” the Groundskeeper told her. “She may have lost a mother, but she didn’t lose you.”

“If that’s supposed to make me feel better, then it’s not!” she yelled through broken sobs. “My own daughter…”

“She never said she didn’t love you. In fact, she said the opposite. She’s moved on. Maybe you should, as well.”

Beverly got up and stood over the Groundskeeper. “I should move on?! How? I can’t even tell the people that I love that I loved them! And you didn’t help me at all!”

“I showed you that she couldn’t see you.” the Groundskeeper got up from his spot and looked Beverly in the eyes. “I cannot control how your daughter grieves or does not grieve you.”

“You could have at least told her that I loved her! That I was proud of her!”

“Realistically, how would you react if I said your dead loved one told me beyond the grave that they loved you?”

“I…” Beverly was at a loss for words. On the one hand, she wanted to say she would be receptive, but on the other, she knew she would view him as crazy. “You still could have said something!”

“I am but a mere groundskeeper. I watch the grounds. I am not a messenger between the dead and the living.”

“But you can see me, and you’re not grieving!” she jabbed a finger at him, but all it did was pass through him.

Grief comes in many different forms. It’s thoughtless to assume I am not grieving.” the Groundskeeper walked through her to get to another grave to clean. “Think about this, Beverly. This is not meant to be an attack on you. This is merely a time for self-refleciton.”

“Self-reflection, my ass,” she rolled her eyes.

She did reflect on his words. There was a patch of trees beside the cemetery that she could sit under that wouldn’t bring her back to her body, so she was there for years at a time. She saw that over time, as her daughter grew older, she had this fond smile on her face. She always brought white roses, which were her favorite. Although, she never saw her husband come.

That was until one day, someone came to sit wit hher.

Today wasn’t much different than any other day. A funeral service was being held. It was rainy, and the sky was grey. It’s not a beautiful day to be holding funeral services, really. She wasn’t bothered with who was showing up because she would see them anyway. So, she sat under some trees and watched as people grieved and cried for their lost loved one.

Beverly had kept track of how old Cynthia was at that point, 50 years old. She had a child of her own, Jennifer, who then had a child of her own, Maeve. Even after so long, she still visited her mother, who had been in the ground for half a century. Beverly was curious though. Was her body decayed by then? Was she all bones now?

Those thats didn’t matter when a voice rang out to her. “You look as beautiful as the day I married you.”

She looked up and saw an elderly man standing there. He had a kind smile on his face and kind eyes. She stared confusingly at him for a moment. The last she recalled, all the elderly men in her life had passed away and moved on.

“Who are you?”

“I guess I look different than when you last saw me, Beaver.”

Her eyes widened when she heard the nickname. It had been a long time since she was called 'Beaver.' It was some stupid nickname a few friends gave her in high school because of how her name Beverly sounded similar to Beaver. She didn't understand it, but she took it with pride.

"George?"

He sat next to her with a grunt. "Yeah. It's me, hon."

She couldn't touch him because ghosts can't touch anything, so she cried into her hands. It had been so many years since she saw her husband, and now she could finally see him again.

"What happened?"

"I...couldn't bear it any longer," he said, looking down. "I hadn't been with anyone since you died, and I got diagnosed with dementia earlier last year. I couldn't bear the thought of losing my memories of you."

"Oh, George..."

"But I can finally see you again, and that's all I could ask for."

That was when she made her decision. She decided to stay. She finally understood what it meant to be dead. She wanted to see her daughter again, and the only way she could do that was to wait.

“Do you finally understand?”

She had almost forgotten where all of this began. She stood in front of her gravestone still as the grey skies passed. It was now the dawn of the 21st century, a little over 20 years since she first met the Groundskeeper. This time, he was an elderly man in his 80s with grey balding hair and a stout hunched figure. He could no longer keep up the cemetery, so moss and dirt had taken over the gravestone.

“It’s been a little bit since George left,” she noted. “He moved on much quicker than I did, but I think that’s because he had all the time in the world to spend with her.”

“Are you still angry?”

“Not anymore. I’ve come to learn to appreciate the cemetery for all it’s worth. I just hope there will be someone else to take over your job when you pass.”

He let out a hearty laugh. One that she had never seen before. He was usually stoic and aloof, but this time he looked more…friendly, more forthcoming. Maybe it had to do with age. After all, she didn’t know much about him.

“What about you?” she asked him. “What about your friends or family?”

“I’ll be fine, Beverly.” he said in his smooth, rich voice, now huskier than before. He left the cemetery with his cane in hand. “Just take care.”

She stood there waving goodbye to him as he left and he returned the wave back, before leaving. She looked down at her gravestone one last time, and saw the white roses that Jennifer had placed there.