I didn’t strike him, for I was a reasonable child. But how I wanted to. “Answer me properly, slave.”
Manis breathed long, as adults so often do. “Philosophers mock common ideas, master. Perhaps the stonemason said...”
Squinting up at the sky, the philosopher turned so that his back was fully to the sun. His laughter became forceful, more of a phlegmy wheeze, his mouth wide. I saw what he was pointing at now: his own shadow. Blackness on the grey dirt, a grotesque, misshapen version of his grotesque, misshapen being.