Many called it cruel, but every child born into the village endured The Graveyard Sleep. Their parents nestled their newborns amongst the gravestones on their fifth night of living. They’d be collected in the morning. Mothers crying, fathers praying. The ancestors chose. Either way, the babies found their way home.
(ps I have been debating about whether to put up more of these stories because I've found recently that some have been copied word for word on other sites without any credit. Please can I remind you that while you are more than welcome to use the photos and stories as prompts for your own work - and if you publish these elsewhere, it would make me happy if you could acknowledge where the original idea came from - BUT the stories and photographs published in the main body of this blog are my creative work, and if you want to reproduce them, I'd be grateful if you could email me to ask first. Thank you!)
2 comments:
Whether or not they were the same the day after their ordeal, only the parents knew. They could tell by the small creases around the eyes or the whimper after they cried, sometimes babies came back mute or worse they screamed until their faces turned pink like gravestone roses
Feargus wanted a burial and a stone at his head to mark the place. And singing of hymns. And prayers where no one was really thinking about the words, but feeling something like sad, and concentrating on what’s been lost in his not being there. Feargus wanted to be missed.
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