Writ

Prosatio Silban and the Disconsolate Wineherd

EVEN OVER THE CLANK OF his galleywagon, Prosatio Silban could hear the sobs.

The weeper, a well-to-do farmer by his dress, was standing beside a smartly-appointed and -laden oxcart at the crossroads near Vineol, a town renowned throughout the Uulian Commonwell for the delicacy and refinement of its wines. The day was hot for the region and season, and had been so for many days – hot, cloudless, but with an occasional breeze at the right moment. The cook wondered why the man was giving such unguarded vent, and reined his galleywagon to a halt.

“It’s too warm a day for such distress,” Prosatio Silban offered, dismounting.

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Writ

Prosatio Silban and the Haunted Oyster

OF ALL THE THINGS THAT make the Three Cities and Thousand Villages of the Uulian Commonwell unique, perhaps none so typify that uniqueness as their calendar.

Where other peoples marked time in a strictly numeric fashion, the Uulians used a more lyrical form of temporal accounting. Each of their years was named by the High Sacreant at the exact turn of said year, with duration expressed simply as “ago.” For example: Rather than saying thus-and-such happened in such-and-thus year since “King Felix’ birth” “or “history commenced” or “the world began,” the Uulians stated it poetically, viz.: “Twenty-seven ago, in the Year of the Moonlit Oak,” or “Thirty-two ago, Year of the Cerulean Tide.” Some years bore cyclic overtones, as: “Forty-seven ago, in the Fifteenth Year of the Lurking Jest.”

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Crit, Writ

Metaphoraging Roundup 2020

AS THE EARTH RETURNS IN its orbit to where it was last year, here is a look at the top ten posts The Metaphorager’s readers enjoyed (I hope) during the past twelve months:

My Favorite Jewish Joke – 80 Views
As it says. I have a couple of others; but this one, with its Hidden Truth, never fails to amuse and amaze.

How To Wash The Dishes – 53 views
A discipline drawn from months and years of twice-daily practice.

365 Names of God: “The Light of Eternal Mind” – 53 Views
Non-coincidentally, my favorite line from C.B.DeM.’s The Ten Commandments.

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Writ

A Prosatio Silban Amuse-Bouche: Meals

“WHAT MAKES A MEAL A meal?” asked one of Prosatio Silban‘s customers over a plate of pan-seared fidget-hen breast, green beans and blue rice.

“Many have attempted to define that term,” answered the Cook For Any Price, wiping his hands on his apron. “Some say it has to do with cooking or presenting the food a certain way. Others aver that it has to do with one’s dining companions. But I think it has to do with the transcendental appreciation of the fare and the setting, when Time slips away and only sheer enjoyment reigns. Moments like those cannot be replicated or defined — only experienced.”

Who’s “Prosatio Silban,” you may ask? Here’s a partial answer: http://metaphorager.net/wtmw/.

Life

Jedi Wisdom

OVERHEARD IN THE GROCERY CHECKOUT line, the following exchange between tall father and fidgety small son:

SS (holding a 2021 Star Wars calendar): Look! It’s Darth Vader. And Luke Skywalker.
TF: Luke is a Jedi, right?
SS: Right.
TF: Jedi are very patient. Do you know what Luke does every morning?
SS: What?
TF: He takes deep breaths.
SS: Oh.
TF: Will you take five deep breaths with me so we can be patient too?
SS: [unintelligible]
TF: …how about three breaths?

A young person who goes out and sees this great conjunction now can potentially see the next close one in 2080. It’d be a nice connection between generations, one that makes you think about all those who have seen these conjunctions in the past–and those who will glimpse it in the future.”
— Astronomer Patrick Hartigan on tonight’s celestial event

Writ

Gustibus Interruptus (A Prosatio Silban Tale)

WITH A PATIENCE DERIVED FROM long practice, Prosatio Silban measured his pain and disgust against the vast cold deeps of Time.

It was an old reflex, and a welcome corrective to the blood trickling from his arms and legs, not to mention the ropy brown slime soiling his apron, hands and face. The odor of putrid meat hung raggedly in the air, as did the fading echo of a soggy explosion which a lesser man would require weeks of strong drink to forget.

The banquet had not gone at all well. But what else could one expect, on Rifting Eve?

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