Random insomniac story writing.

I don’t half write some strange stuff at four in the morning when I can’t sleep. Enjoy.

Exit Stage left, followed by a bear.

“Some people say that all the worlds a stage.” The weaver said, his hands busily throwing the shuttle up and down then lines of his loom, intertwining the threads into a tapestry so fine that one could not see where one pattern began and the next ended.

“I prefer to think that all the worlds a script.” He continued, “And the we, my friends, are the writers.”

The lord of death let loose a sigh, and rolled his eyes in the sunken sockets of his skull-face.

“You don’t half talk some shit, old boy.”

The weaver’s rhythm didn’t falter as he glared at the cadaverous figure.

“And, what, pray tell, do you mean by that?” he said dangerously.

Death shook his head slightly, and let lose another sigh.

“Look, I know you’ve been weaving the fate of the world for a long time, but there’s no need to get so pompous about it.”

“Listen here, you skeletal sod, I’ll have you know…”

War leaned against the parapet of the tower, and stared into his beer. He was beginning to regret coming to the annual barbecue. Death and the fate-weaver always struck sparks of each other, pestilence constantly picked his spots in the corner, and famine always nicked all the pringles.

“It’s not the same as it used to be, is it?” Medusa asked, her snakes tied back into a rather fetching ponytail.

“Not really. We’ve all been at this for so long, I think it’s stopped being fun.” War took a sip of his drink. “Hell, I might as well change my name to ‘decisive action’ or ‘surgical strike’ for all the work I’m getting these days.”

“At least you still get work.” The gorgon grumbled. “The only reason anyone still knows about me is because some bugger carved my story onto a slab of marble a couple of millennia back.”

War nodded an acknowledgement, and gently tapped his beer can against the rim of her wine glass.

“Still… it’d be nice to get some real action.” He mused.

Hermes wandered up to him, and patted him on the shoulder.

“Hey old fella, I reckon you might just get your wish.” He grinned. “The Americans have just elected another Texan.”

War blinked, them smiled.

“You know, sometimes, just sometimes, I think someone up here likes me.”


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