Writing

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!

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Writing

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.

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I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.”
— Thos. Jefferson

Writing

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.

Writing

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?

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Clearly the best time to be alive is when you start out wondering and end up knowing. There is only one generation in the whole history of mankind in that position. Us.”
— Carl Sagan, June 1974