14 8 / 2012
There was once a boy named Milo who didn’t know what to do with himself— not just sometimes, but always.
On the 24th of February, 1815, the watch-tower of Natre-Dame de la Garde signalled the arrival of the three-master Pharaon, from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples.
Mouldering bone crumbled beneath their boots as Lord Mardus and Vargûl Ashnazai lowered themselves down into the tiny chamber beneath the earthen mound.
Call me Ishmael.
It was a breech birth; and so, right up to the very last moment of innocent ignorance, I remained aware of the midwife’s boisterous, bawdy encouragements.