Skip to content


The danger about the Confessor, Golda is certain, has to do with rationale. She knows his vices are inveterate; she knows his faith is sub-agnostic. And yet his explanations take her in.

These people need me, he says. That, he might even believe.

They jounce along ruts in a wagon drawn by motorcar. Golda drives. By sundown they’ll be at the next scrubby townlet, and she’ll get out the tent while he prepares his vulpine mask. Two bits to a couple likely cryers, and soon the pious and the curious will trickle in, water through the cup of his palm.


“We have always been at war with Prescription,” Golda intones.

“I’m not sure it qualifies as war,” says Nestor. “It’s more a dynamic tension that informs–”

“It is too a war!”

“That sounds like received wisdom speaking.”

“It’s not!” Golda backpedals. “It’s description! That’s what we do!”

“That’s an interesting circular problem,” says Roan. “If people choose to become Descriptivists based on our self-description, have we then prescribed a philosophy of–”

“Shut up, Roan,” says Nestor.

“Don’t tell her to shut up!” says Golda.

“Don’t end a sentence with a preposi–” is all he manages before they tear him apart.