The summer grass, it's all that's left of

  • The summer grass, it's all that's left of an old warriors dreams. The field of battle, Daisy's backporch swing. Still there, but Daisy's gone, and what I got? Just a fading dream
  • rolling into a nightmare, the ones that jolt me up out of my bed and send me out to those fields, where I try to get some semblance of a hold on my sanity. Hard for an old warrior.
  • Once sinewy with muscle, I had fallen into the usual malaise and subsequent marshmallowness of age. But hell with that. Too long had I fought these dark entities. I was not about t
  • o sack Constantinople with a flabby belly. I looked like what centuries from now would go by the name of Obelix. For now it was safe to say my name wan't yet in the Necronomicon. I
  • decided to rectify this by purchasing a secondhand copy of the Necronomicon for a Yuletide gift (this was before Christmas was invented) and signed my name on the inside cover.
  • When I gave it to him he asked me to sign it. I told him I had. He opened the Necronomicron to show where I had written congratulations. My signature was gone. Bits of blood crust
  • peppered the line where my signature had been. "You are released from the Dead," he said, and the world around me seemed to drop as I rose. Suddenly I was back at my job at a 7-11
  • in the suburbs of Springfield. I must've been in a daze because there was a line of customers and the one at the front said loudly "LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE HAS A CASE OF THE MONDAYS". I
  • just looked at him blankly. It was Thursday. What the heck? Monday was like several days ago. Geez. So I
  • picked up my shovel and joined the chain gang. Paul Newman was one of the gang and spoke some BS about “failure to conjugate,” but I saw nothing there related to verbs whatsoever.


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