A rose thorn made an ineffective knife, but Lo drew enough blood along her palm that her magic welled in response. She clenched her fist, and the spirits muttered around her. The living stayed silent.
Lo ignored them all. She pulled at the tidal wave of power. Barely in control, she forced it over the ground. The corpses and skeletons and empty coffins screamed their rage.
Before the magic even faded, the living muttered. Soon they’d run her out of town, but it didn’t matter. Another cemetery had been cleansed. No dead would rise there.
Lo was used to running.
Author’s Note: This begun in the story I didn’t write from a selection of words when I should have.
I lived in a flower: a dandelion, not a rose, but still my home.
Cruel hands plucked it from the earth and imprisoned it in ugly glass. They threw it aside when it wept and died.
I didn’t have their careless strength. I did have the favour of the earth and the ear of the wind. I waited and whispered and brought slow revenge.
They cried quake: bricks and mortar toppled with the rumble of the earth. The wind drew patterns in the dust. They harmed me not, so they were not harmed. But their home died as mine died.
Author’s Note: This didn’t really come from anywhere – unless something fae put it in my head as a warning. Maybe I should stop picking flowers…