Name on a tomb.

Seriously considering finishing Anastasia’s story.


My name is Anastasia Maria Persephone Whitmore and cemeteries are my thing.

Cemeteries are places we’ve all seen. The majority of us will probably end up here sooner or later. Most people wait until someone passes away before they visit -or at least before they willingly step foot on hallowed ground. But, I’ve never been most people.

I’ve always possessed an affinity for cemeteries. They hold such wonder, such intrigue, so many secrets to never be spoken. And each one is unique. Some are filled with mausoleums stretching as far as the eye can see. Others appear like empty fields with pebbled walkways scattered about the markers only visible along the paths. And still, there are the ones I love most, with markers here and there, mausoleums darted about, angels and saints watching over the now no longer living. Cemeteries bring much to my imagination.

Though most visit during the day, I choose to visit these places when the sun has run from the impending darkness. As I sit here at the gates of one of the cities’ many cemeteries on All Hallows Eve, I know tonight will be an adventure like no other. One thing sticks in my mind as the sun escapes beneath the horizon and my friend- night- covers the sky, what will people think when they see my name on a tombstone?

My friend, silence, greets me at the gate of this place marked away for the dead years before I was brought into this world. This place has been here through construction, destruction, bombs and battles. Of all that has happened to this neighborhood the only place that never changes is the place beyond these golden gates.

By the light of the full moon, I find myself wondering through the numerous gardens filled with bodies where souls no long inhabit. Though I am the only living body roaming these grounds, I am more than certain I am not alone. As I enter the garden of light, the winds lead me to a marker in the far corner of the gardens, one surrounded by azaleas on one side and a marble angel on the other.  As I stop before the stone, I close my eyes and listen.

For a short time, only the faint hum of music intrudes upon the quiet of the night. Soon though, I hear the faint whisper of a young girl’s voice.

“Claaaaarrrraaaaa. Claaaarrrrrrraaaaa. Clara where are you?” The voice is growing louder, getting closer. “Clara…is that you?”

She’s behind me, a little to the left. If I’ve estimated correctly, she’s standing right in front of a white mausoleum built for the Caldwell family.  “I’m sorry little girl…I’m not Clara.”

“What’s your name?”

She’s closer now, standing almost right behind me. “My name is Anastasia.”

“An…a…stay…see…a?” “


“Why are you here?”

She is standing right next to me now. If I open my eyes and turn to my right, I am more than sure I’ll see her in the moonlight. “I should be asking you the same question.” I do turn, and she is exactly where I suspect she’d be.


About Ana'Gia Wright

Ana’Gia Wright is a firm believer that reading and writing go hand and hand. A Southerner through and through, she loves her peaches and pecans while curling up with a good book. A master of resourcefulness, her love of research leads her down paths of discovery that touch every aspect of her writing. Her love of reading ignited her passion for writing, leading her to frequently fill page after page with tales of her beloved characters’ adventures. An influence and an adversary, she loves to sprinkle facts about her beloved Georgia throughout her fictional worlds. Sneak peeks of her projects, including those by her alter ego Aziza Sphinx, are always available on her website
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