March 03, 2005

word play

The ancient misanthrope labored over his crucible as he melted the proper ingredients into the cast-iron form. Smoke formed a diaphanous cloud, almost like a halo around his head as he worked. He didn't believe the masses when they said truth was "fungible." To this tendentious alchemist, truth was etched in stone and no king, no sheriff and no priest would ever convince him othewise. When he was finished with this spell, they would see. They would ALL see.