The Sun Rose Slowly, As If It

It Was Lonely On The Hill, And Cold. And All You Could Do Was Keep Going. You Could Scream, Cry, And Stamp Your Feet, But Apart From Making You Feel Warmer, It Wouldn’t Do Any Good. You Could Say It Was Unfair, And That Was True, But The Universe Didn’t Care Because It Didn’t Know What “fair” Meant. That Was The Big Problem About Being A Witch. It Was Up To You. It Was Always Up To You.

A World Like That, Which Exists Only Because The Gods Enjoy A Joke, Must Be A Place Where Magic Can Survive. And Sex Too, Of Course.

It Was Possibly The Most Circumspect Advance In The History Of Military Maneuvers, Right Down At The Bottom End Of The Scale That Things Like The Charge Of The Light Brigade Are At The Top Of.

I Don't Read An Awful Lot Of Fiction And When I Do, It Tends To Be Lightweight Stuff.

The Four Horsemen Whose Ride Presages The End Of The World Are Known To Be Death, War, Famine, And Pestilence. But Even Less Significant Events Have Their Own Horsemen. For Example, The Four Horsemen Of The Common Cold Are Sniffles, Chesty, Nostril, And Lack Of Tissues; The Four Horsemen Whose Appearance Foreshadows Any Public Holiday Are Storm, Gales, Sleet, And Contra-flow.