Originally Written 2022
Prompt: When it comes to Necromancy, people mostly think of human zombies and skeletons. What they often forget is that many, many things live and die to be risen again.
submitted to r/WritingPrompts by u/Supershadow30
NOTE: This chapter has 2 stories, and I wrote 2 shorts for this prompt
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Name: Flowers Grow
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for years that bitch Carrol has been winning the state fair flower competition.
my perfect petunias grow strong, and yet over night, they seem to die off.
and just by coincidence, every time, she comes by a day later to gloat about how well her flowers are doing, and a snotty little remark.
"oh look, how poor, your flowers are burned, must have been struck by lightning",
"oh dear, there wilting, must have over watered them"
"oh dear, did a dog come and chew them up"
sure Carrol, you may have a green thumb, but this year mine is black.
cause come hell or high water my petunias will grow immortal, and even if my soul is damned, i will get first place.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
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Name: Sun Baked Soil (original)
Warn: [ Horror, Gore ]
Note: This story was later adapted/rewritten to the full fiction Sun Baked Soil available on my profile. this is the original version
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Necromancy, a twisted perversion of the worlds rules. A reversal of the natural law, it revives the things that once died.
I look upon the fields, the sun beaten cracked dirt lay barren. Every spec of green long since uprooted or witherd away.
the trees, a missing patchwork of bark. when boiled, it's almost edible, bitter, but it's juices try to calm the pains in the stomach.
I enter my house. A pair of small children, no older then 6, run up.
"Papa I'm hungry"
I hold them tight. "Don't worry, Papa will make some food."
I check the cupboard... empty... "go to your room sweeties, ill have dinner ready soon."
I open the back cellar door. The putrid smell stings my nose.
I approach the rotting bones, a festering corpse tied to the walls.
The blade runs across my palm, gathering my blood. The tip etches the fresh crimson deeper and deeper into the symbols scattered across the already stained floor boards.
A deep glow appears. A horrific sight of flesh, regrowing, morphing, stretching tightly across bone.
Before me lies a puppet, a young lamb. I can feel it, an existence entwined with my own.
it cowers as I brandish my knife. The bindings holding it still, the gag silencing its screams. I position the knife and run it deeply across the neck.
Burning white hot pain assaults me. I can feel it, every fiber of the cut, the aganising screaming of the cut across its neck as if it were my own. The encroaching fear, terror, of the darkness closing in.
I hold my breath, and squeeze my eyes shut, and hear the gurgling cries of the young creature. Rousing the memories of thin arms, of a tear filled face of a child. Desperate, begging for something to stop the gnawing pain.
the string connecting me to the puppet finally falls away. The pain gone, I open my eyes
I look at my arms, smeared with many years worth of the marks of age, gained in mere months.
Necromancy, a twisted perversion of the worlds rules. A reversal of the natural law, it revives the hope that once died.
Hope that one day, my children shall see the rain again.