Mulled Vine's Page

The Reaper called: come die with me tonight, and we'll sup on forbidden delights.

I did not want to go, and told him so, speaking of dreams and fortunes as yet unmade.

He looked at me through eyes that cared for nought: I've seen the web your life's threads will make ... and frankly I would not bother. Come die with me instead and we'll drink together of the great pools of futile earthen tears.

I considered his offer, and breathed out one last time.

Nothing makes me happier than the smell of napalm in the morning - that and vapourised duck. I warned them about crapping on my Porsche, but did they listen? No, they thought they could hide behind their cutesy little beaks and technicolour plumage, nestled amidst the verdant Nymphaea caerulea.

Pond scum! Die, die die!

She approached cautiously, her eyes focused intently on my clay tablet: "What are you doing, Kriah?"

I looked up and smiled at my young wife, "I am writing."

She furrowed her brows, "Writing? What is that?"

I invited her to sit down but she declined, so I replied, "I try to record the things that happen so that our children may read of them."

"Children?" she snorted. "At this rate we'll be lucky if we last the winter. Why can't you be like the other men who hunt food or grow crops for their… Continue

You're insane he said, so I says, how do you know?

He says, because he is not insane and I'm not like him.

So I reply, how do you know you're the one that's not insane?

He smiles and points to the people around him. Because, says he, he's like them and we outnumber you.

He had a point, but then I had the keys to the asylum and I guess at the end of the day, might is right.

At least that is what the voices tell me.