The short story I was talking about on May 24, below, ballooned into a novelette.  It clocked in at 12,338 words when I wrote THE END last night.

Worse, I may have seen the way toward turning this into a series of stories, picking and looting from the carcass of another oeuvre of writing I’ve been playing with for the last 30 years.

As noted before, it’s unpublishable in its current state.  Names have been changed (I spent some time thinking about names, then ended up stealing some of them from that other oeuvre) but some situations will be really obvious, and probably painful, to certain people.  And I don’t want to hurt anyone.  God knows I hurt myself enough by facing up to writing a story about…her.  And what might have been.  And what could be, assuming the existence of a Heinlein-esque multiverse and a way to slip between timelines.

Well, speaking of Heinlein.  As the Master said, or had his character L. Long say, “Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards.”  So you’ll excuse me while I go wash up.