Necromancy Chris Taylor
Go to the graveyard in the dead of night. Make sure no one sees. You’ re not ready for the torches and pitchforks yet. Dig up some old grudges, maybe a few long-dead arguments. Quality, not quantity; you can only keep so much in mind. Clutch it to your chest, where it can’ t be seen. Don’ t worry about getting a little bile on you; there will be worse soon enough. Gather all the bits and pieces together in your home, in your heart. Turn each one over, find something that makes each unsuitable. This was resolved. You caused that. You don’ t really care about that one. Use them anyway. Listen to your conscience. Stop listening to it. It’ s getting in the way. Ask yourself why you’ re doing this. Realize that it’ s something petty and absurd. Keep going. Don’ t bother justifying it to yourself. Sew the parts together. It doesn’ t have to make sense; it just has to look good. No – it has to look right. It has to look awful, larger than life. It has to look like what it is – a monster ripped from a nightmare-parody of the past, a stitched-up amalgamate of the worst things in life. Its appearance is the only honest thing about this venture. If you’ re lucky, you can pass honesty off as good faith. It’ s okay if a gripe or two falls off, or there are a few holes in it. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts; the amalgam is the point, not the components. Besides, the damn thing’ s so ugly, no one’ s going to want to look at one spot for too long. As long as it’ s hard to focus on it, the craftsmanship can be a little sloppy. And you probably shouldn’ t be touching rotting emotions anyway. Cover it. Refrigerate. Wait for the right opportunity. Wait for a storm.
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