Bury Your Dead Novels & Stories

The sound of his bones snapping was like dry tinder. "You don't understand the geography of this world, Marcus," she whispered, leaning into his face. "You were a small man in a small life, and now you are a small sacrifice." She didn't kill him with a strike. She placed her palm over his heart and siphoned every ounce of vitality he possessed—not just his energy, but his memories, his hate, his very breath. Marcus withered in seconds, turning into a grey, desiccated husk that crumbled into ash before he even hit the floor.

KHLOE The drums rolled and whispered their poetry in ballads , a sad tune to mourn the man that had died, a commoner , a father and a friend , His burial and passage to the after life be will forgotten so quickly in the heart of the other sympathizers but will definitely leave a print in the heart of his loved ones . The burial of the commoners were easy , two coins on each eyes for the ferry man and a few drums roll as his body is burnt till ashes to prevent an incarnation.

Vincent’s ears twitched as he strained for any hint of a whisper or a scream—anything at all. "Camela!" His roar erupted from deep within him, echoing strangely without any actual sound. His lips moved, his throat burned with effort, but the grave swallowed every trace of sound. He pressed his claws against his ears in frustration and snarled, “What kind of trick is this?” The tombstone glowed brighter, and the name Vincent Fox throbbed like a heartbeat. Slowly, faint letters began to carve themselves beneath it: “Buried but not broken. Dead but not gone.”

I’m really confused about what I’m seeing. I spent the morning baking with Flora and now I’m standing at the back of a crowd watching two wooden boxes being lowered into the ground. Desmond has said some lovely things but completely pointless; the men are dead, they don’t care what's being said or who is here to witness their bodies being left to rot. At the Academy we burn our dead; when I kill a man, the body is left and I never think of it again. I’ve never seen someone buried like this; it seems weird and I’m not fully understanding the purpose.

Because if I did— And he wasn’t real— “I saw you,” I said, my voice trembling despite everything. “I saw—” My throat tightened. “I buried you.” The words hung between us. He didn’t react the way I expected. No denial. No confusion. Just… Understanding. “I know,” he said quietly. My chest tightened. “You’re dead,” I whispered. The word felt wrong even as I said it. Because he didn’t look dead. Didn’t feel like absence. He felt like—

WHEN THE dark rose, we went to the open field part of our hideout where we would burn the bodies of our dead comrades. I stared at them as they put a blindfold on the four of them lying on the wood and stacks of straw that would be used as fuel to burn the bodies. They are surrounded by different kinds of flowers. Blindfolding is kind of a tradition for us. It is believed in our kingdom that we do that to the dead bodies so that they would not see anything that will distract them and head straight to their destination. This symbolizes that they cannot turn their heads back once they are set for the afterlife.

First, I was reincarnated in another body, next I narrowly escaped death again, only God knows what lies ahead. The time was 1 pm, but the sun was perhaps grieving a great fighter like Nikki to show up; it almost felt like the Earth was mourning Nikki's death. It cried thunder, and sobbed rain as we got to the venue for the burial. It was a big field where, according to Keto, dead werewolves from Orion's pack were buried. "Are you sure the burial will hold?" I asked, turning to face Keto in the car as the driver slowly parked in the field. "The rain is heavy."

The old Don was killed in an ambush by a rival crew. At the mass, Vito, the new Don, stood at the very front of the church. I'd rushed back from a job and barely made it. There were only two spots left in the church. One was right next to the new Don. The seat for his wife. The other was at the very end of the guest line. I figured, without even thinking about it, that the spot beside him was mine. So I walked straight toward Vito. But he looked right past me. "Sofia." He lifted his chin, just slightly. "Come up." Around me, the family elders and the heads of the different crews started whispering. "The next Don's wife is a beautiful woman." "Look at those two. They just fit." Vito took the

I said, and the word broke in my mouth. Heirs, Recce corrected gently. Not ghosts. Ours. “You’re chasing shadows,” I said, but my throat had closed. A scent lingered, faint—cedar, dust, rain. A hand in my coat. A voice whispering tomorrow. “I buried her,” I told the dark. “With my own words.” Words don’t bury fate. They sharpen it. Boots scuffed the doorway. Garron again. “You’re keeping the yard awake,” he said carefully.

Ryan I'm not gone. That's the thing nobody tells you about being buried alive inside your own skin... I'm not gone, I'm just far down, pressed under something vast and cold and patient, and every so often I get close enough to the surface to feel what my body's doing without any say in whether it stops.