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The necromancers gathered, fluttering moths around the death flame, fearful of their own mortality, grateful this was not them; clutching bibles, uttering fervent prayer, protecting their hypocritical souls through zealous Christian ritual.

Voyeurs, previously absent and knowing nothing of her life, now gave testament, dutifully relaying their intolerable tales; not one had experienced more of her trickery than I. A lifetime of cruelty; who were they to pronounce?

I detached myself from the wailing of well-wishers, denied myself the comfort of compassion. “Burn witch, burn” my inner voice cried, as the curtains closed in front of my mother’s coffin.

2 comments add one below

  • avatar

    Neville Hunt about 3 years ago


  • avatar

    Max about 3 years ago

    She's still alive, don't worry! :-)

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