Don’t let the plot get in the way of the story.”
— Anon.
Prosatio Silban and the Ignoble Noble
THE THREE CITIES AND THOUSAND Villages of the Uulian Commonwell are home to a more disparate population than you are ever likely to meet. But sometimes, the more disparate are also the more desperate – and likewise, the more pitiable.
Prosatio Silban tugged his buopoth’s plaited yak-hair reins, halting his galleywagon in front of a village inn. Other than its being within the jurisdiction-lands of the city of epicurean Pormaris he recognized neither village nor inn, but after a long pull from his previous location he was eager to taste someone else’s cooking – anyone else’s – for a day or so. He jumped down from the dusty driver’s bench and up the inn’s few steps to arrange provender for his hungry dray-beast and growling stomach. Before he reached the door, however, a tiny blue bird landed in front of him.
“You are a stranger here,” it said in a high piping voice. “We don’t like strangers in our village. Strangers are trouble. We don’t like trouble either.” With that, it flew away down the street.
Holy Trap (A Prosatio Silban Tale)
(Five-and-a-half printed pages. If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction.)
THERE IS A SAYING ABOUT the religious life: that it’s only for the broken in spirit, heart, and/or mind.
That was one small reason why Prosatio Silban was a former Sacreant. In his brief stint as a servant of the Flickering Gods more than a quarter-century ago, he had seen much evidence for the old maxim. True, it did not describe everyone with a deep interest in divine matters, but it was accurate enough for many that it made him glad to have shifted careers and become a mercenary cook.
It is easier to comfort a hungry body than a hungry soul, he thought. And although one can do both, the former is also more profitable.
365 Names: The Nameless One
THE NAMELESS ONE was invented by me (unless I unrememberingly wheelered it from somewhere) to express, ironically, that the whole “365 Names of God” project (and similar efforts) is doomed to fail. As Lao-tze said more than a thousand years ago, “The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao.” By this I think he means that to name something is to limit it; and that-which-some-call-God cannot be limited. TWSCG is bigger than thought, bigger than speech, bigger than any experience. Does that mean we should stop thinking or speaking about It? Emphatically not! Because with every G?dward motion, we come a bit closer in our understanding — despite that we’ll never arrive. Here’s to the voyage. And the voyagers!
Prosatio Silban and the Uninvited Guest
(Three printed pages. If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction. Enjoy.)
THE RHYTHMIC RAPPING OF STEEL on wood filled Prosatio Silban’s cozy galleywagon with the sharp tang of garlic, and he marveled – not for the first time – at how easily the aroma sliced through a quarter-century of cooking smells.
Having stopped for the evening in the shadow of haunt-rumored Mount Tenebor, the Cook For Any Price had seen to his great dray-beast’s dinner and was now preparing his own to suit the clammy evening chill. The surrounding area, mostly bare basalt rock with a scattering of curious boulders, did not readily retain the day’s heat; and he paused in his chopping to close the galleywagon’s carved and windowed upper door-half. He latched it, turned, and regarded his portable haven with fond familiarity.
20 Observations on Newspaper Reporting
- ALTHOUGH THEY RELY ON THEM, few people say they actually trust the news media. (I call it “Ross’ Paradox.”)
- Everybody has a story. And many want to share it.
- Newswriting is a form of reality-creation, wherein readers trust you to describe the world beyond their immediate perceptions. Don’t ever abuse that trust.
- Every face is a door, and if you knock just right, you’ll be invited in to witness wonders.
- First-responders have the darkest sense of humor of anyone outside of reporters. It’s an evolutionary strategy that serves both well.
Prosatio Silban and the Final Kindness
(Two printed pages. If you’re new to these tales, here are the preface and introduction. Enjoy.)
OF THE NUMBERLESS CREATURES INHABITING the Exilic Lands, none are perhaps so quaint as the lumbering buopoth – and though no two descriptions agree as to the shy animal’s exact appearance, Prosatio Silban felt he knew every pore and curve in the great dray-beast’s backside.
His knowledge did not come from prurience; rather, he had stared at little else for the past few days.
The Cook For Any Price was driving his galleywagon eastward through the flat and sweltering Western Wides, and had been sandwiched between bright blue sky and featureless green plain for the greater part of a sweaty eternity.