Those Who Know, Chuckle.
“WHO IS WISE?” ASKS THE old sage-monk – and answers: “One who learns from everyone.”
Prosatio Silban squirmed in his damp sleeping-berth for the hundredth time, then finally rolled himself out of it and onto his feet. ENOUGH, he thought, passing a hand over his sweaty face and rubbing his wet fingers. Perhaps it will be cooler outside. I hope. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Sleepless Heat”
SOME KNOWN THINGS SHOULDN’T BE.
Prosatio Silban glanced up at epicurean Pormaris’ massive dockside clock-tower, an accurate timekeeper and source of immense civic pride. A quarter-hour past fourteen, he thought. My customer should be arriving soon – and aha! here he is.
An almost-shabby youth clad in an academic’s robes shuffled his hesitant way through the makeshift lanes of the grand city’s fabled South Market, a packet of scrolls under one skinny arm. Seeing the Cook For Any Price, lodged between a fatberry-oil presser and seller of imported curios, he broke into a brief half-hearted smile and sat down at one of the two empty tables-and-chairs. Continue reading “Prosatio Silban and the Hushed Revelation”
“WHAT MADE YOU WANT TO open and operate such a renowned dining-palace?” Prosatio Silban asked Hesto Panym, owner of many-harbored Soharis’ excellent and elegant Gull’s Wing.
“Honestly? I don’t quite recall,” the restaurateur replied with an emphatic shrug. “But if ever I decide to do so again, please: Take your largest pot of browned-onion soup – and drown me in it.”
“WHAT’S THE MOST ENTERTAINING THING I can do for the reader next?“
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