I wonder if it’s an old foundation of a farmhouse or something, Brett thought to himself, but nothing before was ever said about any other buildings existing on their land. Deciding to have a closer look, he dismounted his horse and grabbed an army entrenching tool that he kept tied to the saddle. He went and cleared a path so he could have a closer look. He was surprised to find what looked like an old, flat grave marker. As he cleared away more of the tumbleweeds, he was surprised to discover several other grave markers arranged in two rows. It looked like a small graveyard. Brett brushed away some of the mud and sand that had caked onto one of the grave markers. He noticed that the lettering was shallow but still legible. “Hey Dad,”
Ever take a midnight train to Georgia? No, well ever drive through Georgia? When driving through Georgia on State Road 49, there is a little town called Andersonville that is very easy to miss. To many it is just another town. Yet this town has its own trail. The Andersonville Trail is a small brown dirt road that leads visitors to the Andersonville National Historic Site (Roberts xi). This National Historic Site looks like a “well- tended” national cemetery. On closer examination, this cemetery is nothing like Arlington (Roberts xi). “In this national cemetery, the marble headstones are so close together, they almost touch. The markers appear to be one long head...
The very grave you are staring at is located in La Venta Mexico, in the center of the Olmec community. The grave was thought to be created before 400 BCE. The material this grave is made out of is thick stones. The grave is near by a lot of pillars. This grave was believed by some that the grave was used as an attraction.
This burial ground is the final resting place of not only Church members and Yellow Fever victims, but Benjamin Franklin and 4 other signers of the Declaration of Independence! Though not many historical events other than burials occurred here, the burial ground itself has undergone many eventful changes. In 1977, the burial ground closed due to a lack of funding, among other reasons. It reopened in 2003 after a brief but extremely beneficial restoration project. In this project, many tombstones were repaired or completely remade. Along with this renovation, updates are made to the burial ground on both Benjamin Franklin’s birthday and the burial site’s anniversary. An example is the brick path installed around Benjamin Franklin’s grave, which was added in December 2005 to celebrate his 300th birthday. More of these updates and renovations will likely occur as the years go
Today is the day before we go over the top. I’m dreading it, dying or
I looked up at Gabriel from the grass. I never actually got to inspect the full extent of his features. His dark brown hair was tussled and looked as if he had been running his fingers through it from stress. His green eyes resembled emeralds. He had a bit of muscle on him, but he wasn’t too broad shouldered. You could see a small rose tattoo on his upper bicep. He wore a dark green t-shirt and jeans. He was definitely handsome, and all his features complimented each other.
Penning a Legacy is a significant title because the article speaks about William Penn and the lasting legacy of him and the colony that he had started. He is a legacy because he stood up for what he believed in even when he was imprisoned. He started a government from scratch in his colony, which was named after his father. In his colony all faiths were looked at as equal.
“Roughly 86 house platforms, 35 stone shelters, 9 piles of stones marking graves, and more than
I stumbled onto the porch and hear the decrepit wooden planks creak beneath my feet. The cabin had aged and had succumb to the power of the prime mover in its neglected state. Kudzu vines ran along the structure, strangling the the cedar pillars that held the roof above the porch. One side of the debacle had been defeated by the ensnarement and slouched toward the earth. However, the somber structure survives in spite. It contests sanguine in the grip of the strangling savage. But the master shall prevail and the slave will fall. It will one day be devoured and its remains, buried by its master, never to be unearthed, misinterpreted as a ridge rather than a
The start of this short story consisted of the story of a body. This body was the grandfather of Miranda and Paul. Their grandfathers widow exhumed his body three times, moving the body all over from Texas to Louisiana. She wanted his body with her constantly. When the grandmother passed she was burried next to his body. The grounds they were burried on soon were sold. The bodies were dug up and moved left were they once layed were empty graves. One day, Miranda and Paul went out to go hunting. They stumbled upon the empty graves. When they saw them they layed down their guns and hopped the fence wanting to seach for treasure. After hopping the fence, they both climbed in the graves and dug around on the dirt. Miranda
There once was a man named Franswah, and he had a wife named Keisha. They both lived in Keithville, Atlanta. They had a little girl named Jasmine, she was twelve years of age and she attended Ghettoville Jr. High School in the seventh grade. Keisha never did like doing anything, so her husband Franswah decided to go out and have an affair with a lady named Shay. Franswah and Shay worked at a law firm together. Shay was his assistant, she always helped him with things and they always went to lunch together. So some nights he never came home or either he came in late. Keisha was never the type of person to just argue, she mainly just questioned him to see what the response would be and she left it alone until the next morning. So one night when he came in he had a funny odor and Keisha asked him what was up with the smell, he told her that he had been working out and got sweaty. Their daughter Jasmine had very high blood pressure, so most of the time she didn’t go to school because of her condition and she stayed ill. Keisha had a younger sister named Ashley, she is the rowdy type that doesn’t care and will tell anybody anything. Keisha was telling her sister about Franswah coming in late, having a odor on him and don’t want to be questioned. So one day when Ashley was over there and he walked in she confronted him and told him if she find out that’s its that he’s cheating on her she was gone handle it. So he got mad and started hollering at Keisha for telling her sister about what was going on in their relationship. Then that’s when Ashley came back and told him that she can tell her anything she want to tell her because that’s her sister. So few minutes later the phone rings and its was Shay. Keisha answers the phone and it was another lady’s voice, and she asked to speak to Franswah. So she asked her who is calling and she told her that it was Franswah’s baby mother. Everyone is in shock, so Ashley gets on the phone and started getting rowdy. Ashley was asking her different questions like how old is the baby, where she live, and where did Franswah and her meet.
As the database will be used for research as well as town-planning by a wide variety of people, including historians, local councils, genealogists, sociologists and epidemiologists, it is anticipated that it will include not only information about the graveyards themselves, but also the buildings, individual gravestones and the records of people buried there. [Emphasis added]
The ground rumbled and shook as the 9:30 Friday night, frightfreight train barreled down the east side tracks. The grinding snarl and rhythmic clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack grew louder as the engine pulled its cars along the slaloming S-curve that cut across Old Route 22. The cry of the whistle began its lone, sorrowful warning as the train approached the road. Everyone in town called the crossing Dead Man’s Curve. The whistle wailed on for what seemed an eternity as the intersection was pierced by the light of the locomotive, and the rumbling cars swooshed through the chill night air.
Montressor’s home. It is a place of doom where skeletons lie against damp walls covered
From late June to early August of 2013, I found myself taking yet another six-week crash course at Florida Atlantic University. The course in question was Creative Writing I. At the time, it seemed like a serious gamble. My experience as a writer had come through doing ‘academic’ writing, and, to say the least, I never considered myself someone with a creative mind. I didn’t know where to begin, and it felt as if I’d ensnared myself in another trap. Later on, a spark got ignited in my brain leading me to remember how my Grandpa’s dad was a former professional fighter in the bantamweight division. Said spark would compel me towards asking my Grandpa about his dad’s boxing adventures and other endeavors. The notes I took during this discussion
It was a dark, cold, cloudy day. The clouds covered the sky like a big black sheet, nothing to be seen except darkness that seemed to go on forever. This was the third day in a row that there had been complete darkness, there was no getting rid of it. This was because of ‘the meteorite.’