J.D.R. Hawkins

One bullet can make a man a hero… or a casualty.

Archive for the tag “Frankenstein”

Bringing the Dead to Life

With Halloween rapidly approaching, costumes, parties, and Trick-or-Treating are imminent. One popular costume that has been prevalent for a few years is the zombie. My youngest son loves them. He even made a music video last year featuring numerous zombies. 

Preview YouTube video In The Wilderness – Apocalypse (Official Music Video)

The undead have always been fascinating – hence the popularity of Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein.  Following several Civil War battles, the dead were heaped up in piles. Amazingly, after the carcasses were being carried off for burial, some men buried under the carnage came back to life and lived to tell about it. I have always found it interesting how the Victorians saved hair from their loved ones, both dead and living, and made hair flower pictures out of them. They also loved to pose deceased people for photographs, making them look as lifelike as possible. They even went so far as to paint pupils on their subjects’ eyelids, and prop them on stands to make them look like they were standing up. Creepy!

Disturbing-Victorian-Art-Of-Death

Some old photos of the Civil War, which of course were all originally in black and white, have had color added. I think that it adds a lot to the photos, and brings them to life. It’s hard to imagine the people and scenes in the old tintypes, because they seem so ancient. But with added color, it makes them seem more real, somehow.

Civil War

My grandson is dressing up as a Ghostbuster this year. His dad did when he was little, too. Like zombies, ghosts are always fascinating. There are too many haunted places related to the War Between the States to mention. Some are more eery than others, but all are interesting. Of course, Gettysburg is probably the most haunted battlefield, since it is positioned on a lay line. There are also many haunted mansions, prison camps, cemeteries, and museums located all over the country. Even the White House is haunted with Lincoln’s ghost. Alas, these apparitions just cannot be brought back to life. If they could, think of the amazing stories they could tell.

ghost

(Photo courtesy of After Dark Investigations)

Friday the 13th

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As you know, today is Friday the 13th. This year, there are only two. The first one was in April. Today is a celebration of all things macabre, thanks to long-time superstitions.

“The fear of Friday the 13th stems from two separate fears — the fear of the number 13 and the fear of Fridays. Both fears have deep roots in Western culture, most notably in Christian theology.

“Thirteen is significant to Christians because it is the number of people who were present at the Last Supper (Jesus and his 12 apostles). Judas, the apostle w­ho betrayed Jesus, was the 13th member of the party to arrive.”

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This is from a really interesting article I found, so check it out: https://people.howstuffworks.com/friday-thirteenth1.htm

Speaking of all things macabre, there was plenty of that going on during the Civil War. One of the grossest things that struck me while I was researching the strange and interesting Victorian era was the fact that, because medicine at that time was so primitive, doctors stole cadavars to conduct experiments and learn more about human anatomy. Ew!

Frankenstein

Here is an excerpt from my novel, A Rebel Among Us, describing the nightmarish practice. BTW, Mary Shelley’s infamous novel, Frankenstein, published in 1818, brought to the surface integrated fears of resurrecting the dead, but not to their previous state of being. We have always had a profound interest in death and the undead, like the vampire rage a few years back, Pet Cemetery by Stephen King, and the recent zombie fascination.

ARAU Medium

Excerpt From A Rebel Among Us

“Where’s the feller who was occupyin’ this cot?” David asked him.

The man seemed too weak to respond, but finally uttered, “Dead house.”

Stunned, David quickly walked to the morgue. He entered to see several attendees place frozen bodies into pine coffins. The cadavers’ bones cracked as they were forced into their eternal chambers. David grimaced. Meandering down an aisle, he unwittingly found a coffin with a wooden marker tied to the top of it that read:

Ltn Hershel P Harrison

42nd Mississippi

Died 2-5-1865

He stood over the pine box, staring down at the chiseled lettering. A cart lumbered up and came to a halt outside the morgue. With a heavy sigh, David departed the cold charnel. He barely noticed the other inmates, who loaded coffins onto the back of a wagon before transporting them to Woodlawn Cemetery.

One of the attendants saw him and said, “No need to fret. John Jones will tend to them proper.”

“Who’s John Jones?” he asked.

“He’s the ex-slave who’s markin’ every grave. Doin’ a right thorough job of it too.”

David watched for a moment, still trying to comprehend that Hershel was truly gone. He slowly shuffled through the deep snow, dismally wondering if he might soon end up the same way. He remembered what one of the Tar Heels had told him about grave robbers. According to Sherwood, the loathsome ghouls unearthed buried cadavers and sold them to area doctors who conducted experiments on them. He hoped such a fate wouldn’t befall Hershel’s body.

Making his way past the guardhouse used for solitary confinement, he looked up. A few feet in front of him, sitting on its haunches, was the largest rat he had ever seen. It looked to be at least the size of a tomcat. The enormous rodent bared its long, yellow teeth at him. Astonished, David gasped. He hurried back to his bunk; continuously glancing over his shoulder to make sure the giant rat wasn’t coming after him. All the while, he shivered from the cold, and from the sight of the frightful creature he had just encountered.

Reaching the sanctuary of his confines, he rubbed his hands together for several minutes, sat down, and forced himself to construct a sympathy letter to Hershel’s family. The sad event filled his heart with melancholy. He was thankful he didn’t have to tell them in person.

Glancing around, he noticed how some of the convicts were invested in lively games while their comrades lay dying on the beds beside them. It appalled him that no one seemed to take notice. Death was nothing more than a trite matter of circumstance. But to him, it was a life-changing event. He knew he would never forget Hershel. Struggling to hold back tears, he started writing.

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