Remember the fable of the flea in the coffin? In this country, they bury the corpses in salt. Even the trees refuse to die with honor. My mind aches from the constant hammering of the glass eye makers. At night, the sirens whine, warning us that the enemy is arriving disguised as rain. Thus the rationing of umbrellas. My card is low, so I fashion my own umbrellas from old underwear and twigs. We eat well, though. Mice are plentiful and the chefs have learned to grow tiny apples to stuff into their mouths. The villagers are cooperating nicely, caging their cats. But it's hell, this war. No matter who wins, we'll still be lectured to by the robed men hold their dark books. I'm already wearing a chain around my neck in preparation for the peace treaty.
Copyright 2001, Kevin Griffith