{"id":27249,"date":"2020-12-02T06:27:57","date_gmt":"2020-12-02T12:27:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/brianjnoggle.com\/blog\/?p=27249"},"modified":"2020-12-02T06:29:44","modified_gmt":"2020-12-02T12:29:44","slug":"short-story-a-writers-wassail","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/brianjnoggle.com\/blog\/2020\/12\/02\/short-story-a-writers-wassail\/","title":{"rendered":"Short Story: A Writer’s Wassail"},"content":{"rendered":"

I wrote the following short story some time ago; I have a file of it dated 2006 on my machine here, but its setting and some of the details in the original version (12″ laptop, 17″ CRT monitor, PDAs) suggest I wrote it around the turn of the century or in the last century<\/em>. <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\n<\/hr>\n

<\/p>\n

A Writer’s Wassail<\/h3>\n

<\/center><\/p>\n

     J. Andrew Watson stared at the screen on the laptop and didn\u2019t like what he saw, but that wasn\u2019t anything new. Perhaps it would be better if he was looking at a spreadsheet with numbers identifying a business disaster he could possibly avert through the application of his acumen, or if the screen contained a green-text-on-black hacked details of an international plot he alone could unravel. Instead, Jake found only the fourth paragraph of chapter four trailing off into irrelevance.<\/p>\n

     He stretched his arms out to the sides and placed them onto his head. By Chapter 4, Luis and Andromeda would each have an attraction to the other, but wouldn\u2019t act upon it or admit it to the other. But paragraph 4 described Luis getting out of his import car, and Jake didn\u2019t know how to punch it through into the passion that Luis and Andy would share. He closed his eyes a moment to contrive a situation where Luis would feasibly encounter Andromeda Mcyrtle at the chain drugstore. <\/p>\n

     Within the last paragraph, Andy perused the hair care products. Jake didn\u2019t like forcing Andy into that situation, where Luis could happen upon her as he worked as a security guard. Andy didn\u2019t care much for how she looked, and probably wouldn\u2019t stop in to a convenience store over the local Whole Foods. He caressed the home row marker bumps on the F and J keys and thought some more about how every word choice, every scene choice, every comma would impact how the reader connected with the situation, with the character, with\u2026.<\/p>\n

     \u201cJacob\u2026.\u201d a voice said.<\/p>\n

     Jake snapped his eyes open. The laptop\u2019s tinny speakers hadn\u2019t spoken. He looked immediately to the door of his apartment, but it was closed. He cast his eyes over the dim bookshelves, the media center, and the barely-used kitchen appliances. Nothing, not even a flashing light on the answering machine to indicate he had an incoming call. He couldn\u2019t see Esmerelda, his cat, so he assumed she was sleeping in some secluded soft spot and not manufacturing noises he could construe as his name. Then the spectre appeared.<\/p>\n

     The apparition had long, dark hair and a full beard and thick glasses which distorted its squinty eyes ever so slightly. \u201cStephen King,\u201d Jake whispered.<\/p>\n

     \u201cThe ghost of Stephen King,\u201d the ghost of Stephen King said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI didn\u2019t even know you died.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cMy status among the living, the dead, or the undead doesn\u2019t concern you. We\u2019re not here to talk about me. We\u2019re here to talk about you, Jacob Watson. We\u2019re here to talk about the rest of your life\u2026.however short that might be.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cHowever short\u2026.\u201d Jake touched his wrist and then his neck, happy to find the pulse.<\/p>\n

     \u201cRelax, kid, I\u2019m just putting you on. I\u2019m not here to take you through the hidden portal at the back of your hall closet. I\u2019m here to tell you that your writing is suffering, and that unless you change, you\u2019ll cause untold misery and pain, mostly upon yourself but also upon those you love the most as your self-pity shrieks like a banshee foretelling your lost dreams.
\n\u201cTonight, you\u2019ll be visited by three spirits. The first will appear at the stroke of ten fifteen. The second will come at the stroke of ten-thirty. The third will come\u2026.well, I don\u2019t have to spell it out for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

     Jake looked to the clock on the VCR; it was ten o\u2019clock. \u201cSo soon?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cYou\u2019re not the only guy who needs help.\u201d Stephen King walked toward the darkest corner and began to fade.<\/p>\n

     \u201cMr. King, who cares enough about my writing to send me these three spirit guides?\u201d<\/p>\n

     Stephen King turned and smirked as he disappeared completely. \u201cThat\u2019s up to you.\u201d<\/p>\n

     Jake rubbed his eyes and looked at the laptop. Had he been dreaming? He stretched a bit, looked in the refrigerator, used the bathroom, looked in the refrigerator, and sat before the computer again. He put his fingers into home row position and reread the last sentences. He swiped and cut the last paragraph in its entirety.<\/p>\n

     \u201cJake Watson,\u201d a voice said. Jake looked up to see a man in a business suit, steel grey hair and sharp cheek and jaw lines, standing before the front door. \u201cGood evening, it\u2019s time for our ten-fifteen.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cWho are you?\u201d Jake asked.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI am the spirit of Writing Present.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cShouldn\u2019t I see the ghost of Writing Past first?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cListen, we\u2019ve got certain procedures and processes to follow, just like you. So rest assured, we\u2019re coming in the order designed to provide optimal learning and inspiration.\u201d He stepped forward and gestured at the laptop. \u201cNow, is this the novel?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cIt\u2019s the beginning of the novel.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cThe beginning of a novel? Did you finish Demeter\u2019s Warning<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n

     Jake reddened slightly. \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cWhat about Proserpina\u2019s Temptation<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cThat\u2019s sort of on hold.\u201d<\/p>\n

     The spirit looked over Jake\u2019s shoulder. \u201cWell, what is this then?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cAndromeda\u2019s Challenge<\/em>. It deals with\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cHow long have you been working on it?\u201d the spirit asked.<\/p>\n

     \u201cAbout four months,\u201d Jake said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cThat\u2019s about a month a chapter. Have you written anything else in the interim? Short stories, essays, poems, perhaps a blog?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cI\u2019m focusing on the novel.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cSo it would seem. You focus on the novel quite a bit, don\u2019t you? Too much, perhaps. Let us review the current days you spent with Andromeda\u2019s Challenge<\/em>.\u201d The spirit took out a device of some sort and began punching buttons.<\/p>\n

     The scenery shifted around Jake. Suddenly, he was beside the lathe in the shop and without a chair to support him; he sprawled onto the cement floor.<\/p>\n

     \u201cCombined Fabricators from 7 am to 3:30 pm, running a lathe and pushing a broom when needed.\u201d The spirit tapped a stylus against his PDA. \u201cIt\u2019s rather romantic that you\u2019ve not settled down and taken a real job like your fellow Bachelors of Creative Writing.\u201d <\/p>\n

     \u201cIt sounds boring,\u201d Jake said. He planted his hands on the cement of the plant floor and pushed himself up.<\/p>\n

     The spirit touched buttons on his device and the scenery shifted again. Jake hit his head on the top of a table. Ignoring the pain, he crab-crawled between table legs and chairs to stand within the familiar lines of the Carmel Street coffee shop. His store.<\/p>\n

     \u201cCarmel Coffee,\u201d the spirit said. \u201c12 to 20 hours a week depending upon the season. That\u2019s more like what the world expects from liberal arts majors who hold onto their dreams.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cIt pays the bills,\u201d Jake said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cAh, yes, the bills. You\u2019ve got your share for a late twenties, don\u2019t you? Rent, utilities, food, and student loans totaling\u2026. That can\u2019t be right. I could have bought a mansion for that in 1939.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cMe, too,\u201d Jake said. <\/p>\n

     \u201cSo you\u2019re working and traveling about 65 hours a week to keep abreast of those bills. Meanwhile, you\u2019re writing novels for how many hours a week?\u201d<\/p>\n

     Jake looked to the counter. He recognized Ryan from the back. The barista was cleaning the counter or the pots, as befit someone on the closing shift. The windows were dark and the tables were empty, like they should be in the last hour of business. \u201cI\u2019m trying to dedicate twenty hours a week to writing.\u201d<\/p>\n

     The spirit slapped a disbelieving scowl across Jake and touched buttons on his computer. Jake stood beside his computer chair once again. The spirit reached down and tapped on Jake\u2019s computer. The monitor\u2019s focus changed from the undercomplete novel to a roleplaying game. \u201cDo you include your video game time within those twenty hours?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cSometimes I need a break,\u201d Jake said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cSo long as the break does not comprise your entire writing life,\u201d the spirit said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cWell,\u201d Jake said. He couldn\u2019t think of an excuse why he hadn\u2019t finished a novel, nor why he hadn\u2019t finished anything else in some time. Perhaps he should call himself Ishmael. Or perhaps he should call his video game character Ishmael.<\/p>\n

     \u201cWell, that concludes my visit with you, Mr. Watson.\u201d The spirit pocketed its pocket computer. \u201cThe first spirit told you how it worked, no doubt. My antecedent will be along shortly.\u201d <\/p>\n

     \u201cWeren\u2019t you supposed to teach me a lesson?\u201d Jake said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI have showed you the present. Whether you derive a lesson from the things you will see tonight remains your responsibility.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cHow come I saw the present first? Wasn\u2019t I supposed to see the past first?\u201d Jake said. He tried to remember if he ever read A Christmas Carol<\/em> or if he ever watched the movie or cartoon completely to know the order in which the spirits appeared. He wasn\u2019t sure, and he feared his voice showed it.<\/p>\n

     \u201cYou\u2019ll see the past in its time.\u201d The spirit disappeared through the apartment door.
\nJake watched the door for a moment and sat before his computer screen again. The computer clock said it was 10:18, but he knew the clock was about three minutes fast, which meant\u2026.<\/p>\n

     \u201cJake Watson,\u201d a voice said behind Jake.<\/p>\n

     Jake started; his heart leapt to rattertat speed momentarily, but slowed as he recognized the spirit as the Spirit of Writing Future, although deep down he marveled that he could be startled, then comforted by the presence of a mere spectre. <\/p>\n

     The Spirit of Writing Future wore a shiny mechanicalesque suit that reminded Jake of the rocket pack men from middle seventies television. He didn\u2019t have a helmet on, but Jake could see how one would fit into the tunic neck. \u201cI am here to show you the future.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cOkay,\u201d Jake said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cNow, the future I will show you does not represent a future that is certain from the outcome of your present actions; it is only a future that might be. Before we venture forth into the aeons, what do you expect the future to hold for you?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d Jake said. His dream paths diverged in the dark wood of the possible, according to his charting. He could remain a struggling writer, living hand to mouth, cranking out a series of unpublished or under-appreciated novels until he died, wherein some scholars would uncover his genius for the aeons. Or he could meet a girl, settle down, and raise a family while writing popular but relevant fiction. Oddly enough, those dreams rarely conflicted, nor did he interchange elements within.<\/p>\n

     \u201cDo you know how you\u2019re going to get to those futures?\u201d the spirit asked.<\/p>\n

     \u201cWell, I\u2019m writing my novel.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cAnything else?\u201d the spirit asked.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI\u2019m too busy working and writing to do anything else,\u201d Jake said. He had marshaled the arguments and sent them to the barricades whenever his family questioned his life or when Steve, his remaining friend from college, asked him when he was going to get a real job.<\/p>\n

     \u201cSo your plan for the future is to continue what you\u2019re doing?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cWhat would you suggest?\u201d Jake asked. The spirit might have better insight into prophesy than Steve or his mother did.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI don\u2019t suggest anything, I merely question and show. Are you ready to see the future?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cSure,\u201d Jake said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cGrab my hand,\u201d the spirit said. It clasped Jake\u2019s hand and pushed a red button on its belt.<\/p>\n

     Jake expected the scenery to change, but nothing happened. He waited another second, but nothing happened in that second either. The spirit released his hand. \u201cI don\u2019t get it,\u201d Jake said. \u201cWhere is the future?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cWhere, indeed,\u201d the spirit said. \u201cThe future remains unwritten until you write it, but if you don\u2019t write the future, the future writes you.\u201d The spirit frowned. \u201cSorry, I\u2019m working on expressing that, and it\u2019s not right yet. You can dictate some of the future, and some of it is chance; however, if you don\u2019t act to make the future, the future will still occur without your input.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cSure, sure, if you choose to not decide\/you still have made a choice. You\u2019re no Rush, though,\u201d Jake said. \u201cKeep working on it.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cI\u2019ll take your advice, then. As you know, I am but the second of three spirits\u2026..\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cFour,\u201d Jake reminded him.<\/p>\n

     \u201cThree spirits of Writing Present, Writing Future, and Writing Past to visit you tonight. My counterpart will\u2026..\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cVisit me at his appointed time, I know.\u201d Jake smiled. \u201cI\u2019m afraid your lesson has been disappointing so far, but I won\u2019t send in the comment card.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cGood night, J. Andrew Watson. May your future be as you want it.\u201d The spirit stepped toward the door and disappeared.<\/p>\n

     \u201cI don\u2019t quite understand the point of that,\u201d Jake said. He sat back down on his desk chair, which creaked oddly and huffed down about an inch. He felt beneath for the chair for the lever that would raise him to ergonomic height but couldn\u2019t find it. \u201cWhat the heck?\u201d he said. He looked under the chair, and the lever was nowhere to be found. Instead, he found an old pen wedged into the mechanism. Experimenting, he found he could adjust the height with the pen, so he did.<\/p>\n

     He turned to the computer. Instead of his desktop and a monitor, the desk held two curving panels that displayed the title \u201cChapter 7\u201d and the beginning of a paragraph \u201cLuis tried not to think of the woman from the convenience store\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cEh?\u201d Jake said. He reached toward the keyboard to page up into the chapters he\u2019d forgotten, but the desk lacked a keyboard or a mouse. \u201cWhere\u2019s the keyboard?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cYou want the keyboard again, J. Andrew?\u201d a female voice asked from the screen. \u201cYou\u2019re so old school.\u201d<\/p>\n

     A keyboard and mouse materialized on the desktop as Jake watched. He cautiously touched the Page Up button. The text moved up on the screen and, more importantly, the hard plastic button depressed with a click reminiscent of the 1980s computer keyboards. Apparently, he had gotten Luis and Andy into the convenience store for a chance conversation about a shared hobby and an intriguing possibility. \u201cLooking back to Chapter 5, J. Andrew? I can show you the earlier drafts if you\u2019d like, along with your recorded commentary for each.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cNo, that\u2019s fine.\u201d Jake folded his hands on his stomach and encountered an unexpected shape. Instead of the flat belly his metabolism continued to support, he found a roll of flesh. He lifted his shirt and looked; it was his belly all right. \u201cWhat the heck?\u201d he said. Where had that come from?<\/p>\n

     A dialog box displayed atop the fifth chapter of his novel with the date December 21, 2045 and the text \u201c10:45 PM \u2013 appointment with past.\u201d The computer\u2019s voice added, \u201cJ. Andrew, it\u2019s 10:45. Your appointment is about to begin.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cMy appointment?\u201d Jake said. \u201cWhat appointment?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cYour appointment with the past,\u201d the computer repeated aloud.<\/p>\n

     \u201cWhen did I set that appointment?\u201d Jake said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cYou set that when you bought and activated my core processes on August 14, 2039. It\u2019s been the only appointment that has seen all of my upgrades and reactivations, so it\u2019s an appointment from the past as well, is it not?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201c2045, eh? I must be almost fifty. I bet I look it,\u201d Jake said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cOh, Jake, you\u2019re as beautiful as ever,\u201d the computer said. <\/p>\n

     The applications and screen faded to black, and the screen turned reflective. Jake could see himself as though in a mirror, but with the beginnings of jowls and with a haircut designed to hide the fact that his forehead suddenly ended four inches above his eyebrows. \u201cThat\u2019s funny,\u201d he said, expecting a trick. He reached up to touch the sloppy-long bangs he swept up and out of his sight, but his hand only met forehead. In the screen\/mirror, his fingers traced up his new forehead until they met the velvet of his crewish cut. His larger-than-expected stomach dropped as he realized he might be in 2045, and only chapter 7.<\/p>\n

     \u201cSorry I\u2019m late,\u201d a voice said. The speaker wore a tunic with flared lapels and breeches tucked into leather boots. \u201cI know, usually the past is gone, the present never leaves, and the future is late, but I was held up in the seventeenth century. You\u2019ll know why when you see it.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cYou\u2019re the Spirit of Writing Past?\u201d Jake said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cWell, I\u2019m the Spirit of Writing Past, but I\u2019m not out of date,\u201d the man said. \u201cHey, it\u2019s late, wouldn\u2019t we converse better over a glass of something sweet?\u201d The man clinked a bag hanging from his belt.<\/p>\n

     \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d Jake said. Suddenly, the two of them stood in a crowded, underlit room that smelled strongly of sweetness and sweat. Large groups of men sat around tables scattered amongst the floor more randomly than the straw underfoot. <\/p>\n

     \u201cAh, William,\u201d the spirit raised a hand to a man at a table.<\/p>\n

     The man, seated at a table with other men, waved a hand. Were he at a rectangular table, he would have sat near the foot; although the table was round, Jake still got that impression. The spirit pulled up a stool to the table, and Jake looked around until he found another and did likewise.<\/p>\n

     \u201cAnd so I struck the fellow with my stick, and the stick broke; the fellow cared not for my mind and let fly with his own blows. Well, as you would expect, I fled,\u201d said another man at the table. \u201cBut know you this; I again met the wife of Chetter, and as again, my stick broke not on her.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cOr in her,\u201d a man with a beard said. He unleashed a sound rougher than a guffaw.<\/p>\n

     \u201cWithout that false staff, you would have bested Chetter,\u201d another man said. He spit on the floor at the point where a period would have cut off his sentence.<\/p>\n

     \u201cWithout that false staff, he would not have met Chetter\u2019s wife,\u201d the man with the beard said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cJacob is also a writer,\u201d the spirit said to William.<\/p>\n

     \u201cIll luck!\u201d William said. \u201cFor he competes with me, and for he chooses a life hard to pursue. Why do you write, Jacob?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cWell, I\u2019ve done it since I was a kid, and people tell me I\u2019m good at it,\u201d Jake said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cOh, I like that better, then,\u201d William said. \u201cThat\u2019s less to challenge me then. Tell me, Jacob, what do your fellows think of your work?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cWhat?\u201d <\/p>\n

     \u201cDo your fellows enjoy your wit and words?\u201d William said. \u201cDo you share with them the quotes and the quips of your characters? Perhaps to see if what you have written brings joy your sorrow to your friends to know if it will bring joy or sorrow to your audience.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cWell, I submitted something to a contest and won an honorable mention,\u201d Jake said. \u201cBut I don\u2019t like to share something until it\u2019s finished.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cHo, I like this fellow,\u201d William said. \u201c\u2019I don\u2019t like to share something until it is finished.\u2019 Well, my good man, I warrant you finish little, which is good news for me, as there are but a few stages upon which to play. While you play at writing, my writing will play.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cI\u2019m going to be a writer,\u201d Jake said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cWell enow,\u201d William said, \u201cso long as you seek only to be a writer and worry not about writing anything.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cHe will be a boy till he is a body,\u201d one of the others at the table said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cWe shall take leave, fellows,\u201d the spirit said. \u201cDrink well, and know immortality awaits every tale you share. Come, now, Jacob.\u201d The spirit led Jacob away from the table until the table members focused again on each other and clinked his pouch. <\/p>\n

     Jacob\u2019s eyes adjusted to the relative dimness of his living room. His desk had a keyboard and a mouse and his old monitor. He wanted to check the bottom of the chair for its lever, but he wouldn\u2019t give the spirit the satisfaction of seeing it. \u201cSo that\u2019s it?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cThat\u2019s what?\u201d The spirit asked. \u201cOh, you actually wanted a cup of mead. Well, friend, to be honest, it sounds better than it tastes. Now, I bid you good night.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cWait a minute, didn\u2019t you guys have a lesson to teach me? Aren\u2019t I supposed to see something like my own headstone or something?\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cDue to liability concerns, we no longer show death scenes,\u201d the spirit said. \u201cWe have shown you the present, the future, and the past. What you choose to take from these is to you.\u201d<\/p>\n

     \u201cIt wasn\u2019t even my past,\u201d Jake said.<\/p>\n

     \u201cPerhaps there was nothing in your past to provide inspiration nor illumination,\u201d the spirit said. \u201cBut I am not here to debate you, I am here to leave you. Good night, Jacob Andrew Watson.\u201d The spirit clinked his purse and disappeared.<\/p>\n

     Jake looked at the clock. It was 11:30 He sat in the chair by the computer desk, and it accepted his slouching form without complaint. He looked at the screen. The beginning of the fourth chapter still shuffled into the middle of a blank page and stopped. He looked at the last words for a couple of moments, thought about perhaps having them meet in the pharmacy and talk about a hobby they shared\u2026..but what? Herb gardening? Cooking Chinese food? Hang-gliding over the Pacific coast? Which one of them seemed so silly in 2045? Jake felt his eyelashes brush his cheeks and sat upright.<\/p>\n

     \u201c2045?\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ll still be working on this book in 2045? I doubt that,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ve made so much progress tonight.\u201d He looked at the clock. Since he didn\u2019t have to get up until 6am, he could log in and play thirty minutes of Medieval Tourney and get six hours of sleep, or he could play an hour and a half and get five hours of sleep. He could pick Andromeda\u2019s Challenge tomorrow night. After all, he\u2019d read it was best to leave a scene in the middle of the action so he could pick it up easier at a later time. Tomorrow.<\/p>\n

\n<\/hr>\n

I have updated it according to the guidelines of my 2007 article “Immortality in the Details” for Writers Journal<\/em> magazine by removing some of the specifics of the technologies. I’ve also changed the dates of the future–I had set them to 2022, which is not far in the future from now. Stephen King is still alive, or at least he was as of December 1, 2020. As far as I know.<\/p>\n

Sadly, I projected the main character to be almost fifty in the far-future without having completed a novel. I have finished one and have started one or two others, but I have only finished, what, two or three short stories and maybe five poems since I wrote this story?<\/p>\n

Clearly, my fear that I am wasting my time on earth goes far back, and so far, I am living up to it.<\/p>\n

I have added the story as a page<\/a> withouth the commentary. Perhaps some day if I update this blog to something other than this 10-year-old template, it will be featured more prominently somehow.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I wrote the following short story some time ago; I have a file of it dated 2006 on my machine here, but its setting and some of the details in the original version (12″ laptop, 17″ CRT monitor, PDAs) suggest I wrote it around the turn of the century or in the last century.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3334,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[41],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-27249","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/brianjnoggle.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27249","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/brianjnoggle.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/brianjnoggle.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/brianjnoggle.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3334"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/brianjnoggle.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=27249"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/brianjnoggle.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27249\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":27255,"href":"https:\/\/brianjnoggle.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27249\/revisions\/27255"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/brianjnoggle.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=27249"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/brianjnoggle.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=27249"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/brianjnoggle.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=27249"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}