Kneeling down, feeling the squelch of the charnel sludge against my pants, I lay a hand over the dark holes of his worm stolen eyes.
“Arise,” I whisper.
There’s a rippling in the black pool the boy had sunk into, and then a terrible gasp. Suddenly shooting up out of his sinking grave, the skeleton’s hollow gaze pans over the thorn conquered garden, drinking in the ruins of what was once his home some thousand years ago. A boney hand reaches for the petals of a wild rose, its wilting petals perhaps some survival of what had been long ago.
Tale Told 