Prosatio Silban and the Perfect Colleague

TRYING TO HOLD A CANDLE to someone else is the quickest way to extinguish your own flickering flame.

“And then the High Sacreant herself complimented me on yet another job well done,” Egotio Nys said, lifting his expensive drink and smiling benevolently. “‘It’s what I’m here for, Eminence,’ I told her. You all know how hard she is to please.”

The speaker was holding court at the back bar in Pelvhi’s Chopping-House, surrounded by an admiring throng of well-wishers, which is to say, everyone in the tavern.

Well, not quite everyone. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Perfect Colleague”

Inevitable (Itieration #3 in the Heavy-Handed Environmentalism Series)

DESPITE HIS SUDDENLY POUNDING HEARTBEAT, the president’s face remained calm. “Say that again,” he said in his best imitation of a steady voice.

His chief of staff looked as though she would faint. “We have discovered ruins on Venus,” she repeated. “And not primitive ones, either. Actual cities. Roads. Industry. An entire civilization, not all that different from ours, once existed there. And more than existed – it thrived.”

“For a while, anyway,” the science advisor spoke up. “Tell him about the launch sites.”

“‘Launch sites?’” echoed the president. Continue reading “Inevitable (Itieration #3 in the Heavy-Handed Environmentalism Series)”

Prosatio Silban and the Blank Tyranny

ARTISTRY IN ONE ARENA DOES not always guarantee artistry in another.

“My proposal is a simple one,” the young man said. “Grant your endorsement, in a few choice words, of my latest cookbook, New Tastes of Pormaris. It is a simple matter of between three to five hundred words. Should take you less than a day, if even that long. What say you?”

Prosatio Silban’s mind raced for the softest possible protest. Belio Pharval was the eldest son of a professional acquaintance from Pelvhi’s Chopping-House. A nice enough fellow in his own right, but his request was a bit far afield for the cook-errant – whose heart thumped as he weighed the situation.

What do I know about writing? he thought. For that matter, what do I know of this lad? True, his mother credits him with verbal skill and cooking talent; he can turn a fair phrase or flavorsome dish at need. But how far goes my social obligation to his mother? And how many others might come seeking the same favor? I cannot. I must not. I shall not. How can I?

“Of course I will,” he heard himself reply. “By when, did you say?” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Blank Tyranny”

Posse Commentatus (An Alpha-Nerd Manifesto)

(Originally posted 2007.06.28)

IN THE BEGINNING was the Text. But not for long.

The Text – definer and exemplar, authority and comfort, platform and trampoline – was no ordinary collection of words. It spoke of history and possibility, treated miracles as though they were commonplace and elevated the commonplace above the miraculous. Its basic gist was that humanity matters, even if humanity couldn’t always understand why.

Yet while the Text was finite (after all, its Author had to stop writing somewhere) it did contain the seeds of an infinite perpetuation, though not in the most obvious of ways.
Continue reading “Posse Commentatus (An Alpha-Nerd Manifesto)”

Prosatio Silban and the Free Lunch

IF SOMETHING COMES FROM NOTHING, is it worth the price?

Prosatio Silban sighed, and not for the first time that day. How did I come to this? he asked himself. I used to be more thrifty with my pantry and accounts. Perhaps fame has made me overconfident? What am I to do about it before the marketplace officials discover my vagrant status and eject me?

He sighed yet again and, as was his usual habit when he didn’t know what else to do, decided to take a walk.

The ambience of epicurean Pormaris’ busy South Market enveloped him like a familiar garment. Today, however, he took no joy from the noisy mélange of indefatigable hawkers, haggling merchants, and excitable bargain-seekers. In fact, as he trudged along, he could concentrate on little else than his dire prospects.

A wiser me would not have frittered away his livelihood based on hopeful expectancy, Prosatio Silban thought. There’s just no way out of this that I can – oof! Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Free Lunch”

Ozone; or, The Horror Upstairs

WHEN A MAN HAS GIVEN his life to science, even to the naked edge of that science, he is expected to be vocal about it. And if others choose not to listen, well … perhaps they won’t have the nightmares, the persistent phobias, that I do.

My name is Howard Philips. I came to this city because it offered better opportunities for a dreaming poet and erudite antiquarian than did the sprawling, soulless suburbs. I dwelt in a squalid flat near the docks, one of the city’s older neighborhoods. The pre-century architecture and furtive residents suited my mood; the diverse faces of the passing crowds inspired me to tell (or invent) their stories in free verse and rhyme.

My building seemed to have stood forever, as evidenced by its worn-down hallway carpeting; shabby lighting; and close, dank air. Its most reclusive tenant lived directly above me. I never met or even saw him, but the loud and incessant hum from his apartment – an untuned wireless? droning rotary fan? Failing air-conditioner? – disturbed my creative meditations. When I tried to complain to him, my intermittent knocking brought no response.

Then, one day, the noise ceased. Continue reading “Ozone; or, The Horror Upstairs”

Stellar Blues

do the stars know the names
by which we call them?

we,
the hubristic and temporary,
label the unthinkably ancient
with quick mouth sounds
and fading pen-scratches.

will they mourn
when we are gone?

would they say:

“nice try, two-legs;
you had one chance
at planetary survival
and missed it
by not paying attention.”

would but those who did pay
had more power than
only the will
to shout

stop

and make it stick.

Prosatio Silban and the Proxy Diner

SOMETIMES, “HUNGER” IS JUST ANOTHER word for “desperation.”

Prosatio Silban heaved a sigh and pondered his bleak future. How does this keep happening? he asked himself. How do my circumstances seem to always drop so low?

To be fair, it wasn’t all his fault. Already scant on funds, he had arrived in Village-at-the-Old-Forest on the premise of feeding the hungry locals and any prolific passers-through with the rumored plenty of the hamlet’s woods, fields, and orchards. Here it was a week later, and the rumors of abundance had been thoroughly disproven – call it “bad luck” if you believe in that sort of thing, or “the fickle whims of the Flickering Gods” if you don’t. Either way, he had nothing to show for his generous ambitions but a nearly depleted pantry, an empty coin jar, and negligible custom.

I can’t afford to stay, Prosatio Silban thought, sitting at one of his empty tables-and-chairs and drumming his fingers on its painted wicker surface. Neither can I well afford to leave. So – what shall I do? Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Proxy Diner”

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