ANOTHER YEAR TRAVELED, PROSATIO SILBAN thought. And what has it gotten me except older? and perhaps, may it please the All-Mother, wiser?
The cook-errant consulted the small mirror hanging outside his galleywagon’s black-curtained sleeping berth. One artificial eyebrow was neatly applied; the other half-dangled like a drunken caterpillar. He frowned and shook his head. I’m out of resin-gum, of course. Do I have anything to substitute? Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Public Subterfuge”