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Interview: Amelia from Death Follows

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A friend of mine is making some wonderful things and she was interviewed about what she’s doing by Vargamore! Check it out!

Salem-based artist Amelia creates hand-painted, memento mori inspired wall plaques. Just a couple of months ago she started her Etsy shop “Death Follows”. I got the chance to ask her some questions about her art and the role death plays in her life.

Processed with VSCOYou make memento mori inspired wall plaques. When and how did you come up with the idea for this?
I have always been captivated by cemeteries; by beautifully carved headstones, by beautifully landscaped garden style cemeteries, and by the fact that there were places reserved for visiting the dead. A few years ago I had the idea to make gravestone inspired art that I could hang on my wall, since there wasn’t much available to purchase at the time. I would often doodle little designs on post-it notes at my last job, of different themes and arrangements. Finally, last year I just went for it. I started…

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Get Exclusive FunDead Fiction Content

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FunDead Publications

14516584_1195058810551440_4792100642472757029_nWe are excited to announce that we will be sharing exclusive, Patron-Only short stories on Patreon!  If you enjoy our publications, you will have access to special short fiction written by the FunDead team and our a closest pals in the writing community.  We have selected the piece ‘A Hand for the Needy’ by FunDead Editor Amber Newberry, to be the first of this series of “Secret Stories”, which will be posted on Patreon this week.

We’ve talked a lot about how important your support is to the continuation of the FunDead Publications project, and we’d like to thank our patrons by providing them with a little something extra.  You can check out our Patreon page at the link below, and find out what your support will help FunDead do in the coming months and years.  One dollar will get you access to these forthcoming Secret Stories. Sign up…

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Walls of Ash Book Launch Party and Signing

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With the holidays now past I have some time to focus on the book release and my editor and I have begun to plan an official release party!  The book is already available, but the official launch will be January 11, 2013 at the Arc Works Community Art Center in Peabody, MA.  There will be raffle prizes and copies of the book available to purchase and have signed.  There will also, of course, be food themed after the book in a tea time style.  

Location:

Arc Works Community Art Center

22 Foster St., Peabody, MA 01960

From 6pm-8pm

Print copies will be $13.99

Here are links to the community event pages:

http://www.goodreads.com/event/show/870826-walls-of-ash-book-launch-party-and-signing

https://www.facebook.com/events/201783506625380/?ref=2&__req=1j

 

Red Moon Rise

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RED MOON RISE

 

The wind whispers,

tales of long ago,

of the falling leaves,

of crimson sunset glow.

All that is behind us,

is suddenly set free,

Autumn is the death of summer,

the wind its memory.

 

CHORUS

 

Red moon rise,

above the dying trees,

awaking our

memories.

All of life is captive,

as autumn reigns.

This the gentle murmur,

of the coming winter’s strain.

Every passing moment,

is imprisoned in the sound,

of the wailing wind,

and the leaves upon the ground.

 

CHORUS

 

Rest you weary soul,

beneath the autumn sky.

There’s magic to be found,

in the earth’s on lullaby.

While eyes are shut,

remembrance awakens.

In the dreams of fall,

return the memories, forsaken.

 

CHORUS

The Nightingale

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The Nightingale was a song I wrote for a musical project I worked on with Sebastien Gabriel several years ago called Broken September.  Here you will find the song and the lyrics.

THE NIGHTINGALE

She was still a child,

he was barely a man.

She gave him her heart,

he gave her his hand.

In the field of white lilies,

they professed their love,

to everyone and no one,

and to the above.

Chorus:

And the nightingale sings,

whether stormy or fair,

to the pale maiden,

forever resting there.

(repeat)

They would meet,

beneath the willow tree,

to hold one another,

where no one would see.

The dusk was their blanket,

the moon was their light,

and they’d dream all day,

of the following night.

(Chorus)

One night in winter,

the maiden was there,

beneath the willow,

the snow in her hair,

but as hours passed,

her love never came,

all the while her blood,

freezing blue in her veins.

(Chorus)

As the color,

drained from her skin,

the blanket of white,

seemed to bury her, then.

There she remained,

for months she did wait,

until spring had come,

the snow melted away.

(Chorus)

Gunshot

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Several years ago, a dear friend of mine decided that the only way out was to kill herself.  It took me a long time to get past it and I found an outlet for my anger in poetry.  This is an old piece and I’ll preface this by saying that I was very upset when I wrote it, but I think it gets the point across of what the people who are left behind think when someone takes this route.

 

Gunshot.

Body lying limp

like a broken doll

still and forgotten

in a puddle of glistening red

and silence.

That was your answer?

To destroy yourself

in an explosion

of anger

and pain

and regret.

And yet,

there you lie,

still and silent

with the wound of both

the gunshot

and your anguish

neither one healed.

Sacred Space

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For the home we once shared,

the sacred space between the walls,

the floor which shared our feet,

Those windows will forever frame

the memories we shared beneath that roof.

 

For the green grass soft beneath our toes,

the tree that shielded the sun,

and sheltered from the rain,

Those branches will forever hold,

the love we exchanged beneath.

 

For the void that you left,

when you closed that door forever,

and locked it tight behind you,

The memories trapped within those walls,

are also trapped within me.

Red Wine Hangover

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Sunlight trickles in, inducing familiar pain at the middle of my forehead,

the remnants of cheap red wine on my breath.  My fist finds the

alarm clock, halts the buzzing, stale and rhythmic. Red binary eyes

staring at me, startled at me, angry at me; it was only doing its job.

Roll from bed, trapped in sheets, dropping the glass that I brought

into the bed. Sea of red, dry and dark, stains the white. I’ll be

pissed when I’m awake enough to care.  Stumble through doors.

Not this one, or this one.  Where the hell is the bathroom?

Down the hall to the right.  Not the left! Now

I remember. Take a seat on the throne,

an ecstatic moment of pure relief.

Forget to flush.

Cool running water

splashing my eyes;

find the towel.

Where’s the towel?

The damn towel!

Screw the towel!

Find the kitchen,

and the Advil.

Douse with water,

lots of water.

One tall glass,

another half full

one half empty.

Green bottles everywhere.

Broken wine glass

with no stem,

almost discovered with

my bare feet.

Shrug my shoulders.  I’m still drunk.  Back to bed.

Snow

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Blue light angled from the window
and first I see your shadow from the open doorway,
you whisper my name.

You sit on the bed, and touch my cheek.
I can still feel that touch,
as if it happened only a moment ago.

Wrap the blanket around my shoulders,
your hand takes mine,
and I’m lead down the hallway.

More blue light through the white, lace curtains.
you lead me to the window and move aside the lace.
Snow.

We both whisper it, together.
My 7-year-old voice, and your 70-year-old voice,
Snow.

It’s blue in the moonlight,
and drifting, dancing in the wind
as if that moment is for me and for you and only for us.