“ENSIGN MULDOON. RISE AND SHINE.”
“What? Huh? What? Time is it?”
“Oh eight hundred.”
“Oh EIGHT hundred? But it’s still dark ou– oh.”
Tag: Hey Fanboy!
I was 6 when _2001_ premiered; 15 for _Star Wars_. I keep a set of weird-looking dice in my briefcase. Nuf said?
Prosatio Silban and the Comedic Situation
IT ALL BEGAN WHEN Prosatio Silban leapt forward.
“Look out!” he bellowed, grabbing the careless man’s belt and yanking him back from the edge of the algae-slick dock.
“Blessed All-Mother!” the man exclaimed, straightening. “You saved me life!”
Prosatio Silban smiled. “Not really. All I did was –”
“All you did was save me life!” the man finished, taking his rescuer’s hand and shaking it with deep feeling. “As sure as my name is Gremo Elyp, I’ll never forget it!” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Comedic Situation”
Prosatio Silban and the Plain Truth
EVEN WHEN HOSPITALITY PROFFESSIONALS ARE “off the clock,” their discourse – like that of the other trades – can’t help but revolve around their livelihoods.
“How’s this for a topic?” asked Piriforma Syndro, head chef at epicurean Pormaris’ renowned Diamond Star. She stood at the crowded rear bar in Pelvhi’s Chopping-House, that much-beloved late-night asylum for the city’s food-service folk. “What makes for the perfect dining room?”
Her question provoked appreciative laughter and variations of “ah-HA!” and “Now that is a topic!” from those gathered nearby.
“I believe I have the rightest answer,” put in Prosatio Silban, raising his glass of blue duliac. “My tables-and-chairs are always, as the saying goes, ‘in the fresh’ – and all depends on wherever my galleywagon is parked. What could be better than taking a meal surrounded by the open air, and the comedic drama of passing humanity?” Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Plain Truth”
Prosatio Silban and the Secondhand Saga
IT IS A LONG-SAID saying, and with good reason: “Workers are only as good as their tools.”
Prosatio Silban lifted down yet another old pot from the galleywagon’s ceiling-mounted rack, placed it among its fellows in an empty durian-crate, dropped his weary arms, and sighed.
I never thought I’d have to sell any of these implements in order to provide for myself, he thought. Fortunately, I can make do with what’s left.
It had been an unusually long economic drought. First his dray-beast had taken ill, then his galleywagon broke a leaf-spring, and the price of blue rice had almost doubled. Finally, it seemed that the only way to earn his keep was to turn used cookware into coin, thence into low-cost ingredients from which to fashion meals that would, he hoped, bring in more coin.
I have to start again somewhere, he thought with a grim grimace. And I hope Cadro Borsh gives me a decent-enough price. What else can I do? Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Secondhand Saga”
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”
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”
Regarding ChatGPT (or, Cassandra’s Got Nothing On Me)
BE CAREFUL PLAYING WITH THE shiny new toy — the shiny new toy may decide to play with you.
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”
A Farewell to Mars
On and for the 54th anniversary of “Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.”
AS HE DANGLED FROM THE upper corner of the window before my typewriter, inverted and scowling, I first saw the Man from Mars.
His identity was obvious: three feet tall, emerald green where the spacesuit didn’t cover him, with more-than-vestigial antennae sprouting from a large bulbous head. His expression mingled disappointment with incredulity, as though his highest hopes had just been dashed, and with calculated cruelty.
“I cannot believe you people,” he said in a flat baritone. “Just can’t believe you.”
“I’m not sure I believe in you either,” I said.
He slid down to the sill, his scowl now level with my eyes. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Would you mind opening the window?”
“I would,” I said with ill-concealed suspicion. “How do I know you’re not, you know … part of some horrible invasion-force or other?”
“Because I’m the only Martian left – and I can’t even open the window by myself,” he said. “Besides, the latch is on your side.”
“So it is,” I said, and raised it. Continue reading “A Farewell to Mars”
Prosatio Silban and The Public Discourse
IT BEGAN, AS SO MANY good tales do, at Pelvhi’s Chopping-House. But it didn’t end there.
That bustling asylum for epicurean Pormaris’ vast and varied army of hospitality workers was especially busy for a night in the stormy Season of Huddling. The sounds of lively conversation accented by clinking glasses and tableware were audible even before Prosatio Silban opened the stucco tavern’s brass-hinged oaken door. A rush of warm, smoky air enveloped him as he entered, as did a dozen loud helloes from familiar voices.
“Good evening, everyone!” he called, shaking rainwater off his clothes and making his way to the crowded long bar at the capacious room’s rear. He took the lone vacant seat and lifted one hand toward the tavern’s namesake, who – as usual – was conducting a handful of discrete and discreet conversations. She courteously disengaged herself and sauntered over to the beefy cook, a meaningful expression on her half-wizened face. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and The Public Discourse“