The Wounds Matter

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Sloughing off the tide of years, Ixcar came to his senses very slowly. There had been darkness and now there was light. Such light it was, appearing first as a horizontal line that separated one darkness into two. The line widened and grew in intensity until it became the whole of his vision, searing the inside of his head. Reflexively, he threw a hand up to ward off the pain, to block the light but his body didn't respond to his will. Moaning, he tried to avert his eyes but his neck wouldn't move either.

Sounds, broad and unfamiliar filled his ears. Clouds of noise became words, spoken by an excited person. A female.

“Oh my God, the ritual worked! Can you hear me?”

"Yes." He croaked.

"How did you die?"

Didn't they know of his legend already, his mighty deeds? Fury built within him. "I am Ixcar, son of the river Skye. I died of a thousand cuts in a battle against ten thousand men."

"Okay, we'll need bandages and a lot of blood. This is just the first step."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm resurrecting you."


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Story prompt:

Write a story about a character talking about when they died. They can be a ghost, or be in heaven, or anything else, so long as they died.

The Day I Died by PrincessLapis


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