HE COULDN’T TELL WHETHER HE
loved beauty or women more
until the day he called his mom and said
“Guess what? I’m marrying a sunset.”
Tag: WIP
Works In Progress. The “typing” part of Writing — and the most challenging.
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”
Fable, With Apocalypse
IN THE MIDDLE OF A flat grey wasteland, under a grey streaky sky, a handful of figures warm themselves at a snapping fire.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
One of the figures has turned to gape across the waste: a vast landscape of broken dryers and tumbledown swingsets, with here and there half a gas station or bowling alley.
“Don’t do that,” says the speaker. He takes the gaper and turns him tenderly toward the flames to warm his hands again.
“Thanks.”
“It’s why I’m here. And that” — a sweeping arm — “is why that’s there. The wasteland is only good for wasting you.”
“Thanks again.”
“Don’t mention it. Just keep your hands warm. Even when you’re the last one here.”
365 Names: “Friend”
FRIEND, AT LEAST AS A Divine Name, is inspired by the Breslov Chasidic tradition. Its founder, Rebbe Nachman, once said (quoting from memory) “It is good to pour out your heart to God as if you were speaking to a good friend.” This exercise is central to Breslover practice, but for mystics — defined as any who approach G?d as an Experience rather than as a Being — this can pose something of a challenge: Who exactly am I speaking with, anyway? On one level, that doesn’t matter; the actual doing of it, even by agnostics, can be both focusing and grounding. Try it and see!
Once upon a time, The Metaphorager aspired to feature daily a year’s worth of different names for that-which-some-people-call-God: some creative, others traditional, each unique. For reasons, instead we’re just going to occasionally post them until we run out of the considerably fewer we’ve collected so far. If you want to see your favorite here, but haven’t, send it along with the subject line “365 Names” and let us know whether or not you want to be credited.
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”
Word to Bring Back: “Fastuous”
– Definition: adj. 1. haughty, arrogant 2. ostentatious, showy
– Used in a sentence: The fastuous have taken their first steps down the rabbit-hole of militant mediocrity.
– Why: It sounds similar to “fatuous” — silly and pointless — and rightly so.
(Thank you, M.F.K. Fisher. Good one.)
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”
Word to Bring Back: “Privacy”
– Definition: n. the quality or state of being apart from company or observation
– Used in a sentence: American culture’s “instant celebrity” fixation is playing hob with the basic concept of privacy.
– Why: Duh.
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”
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”
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”