|>> || |
“The moon! The moon! And that damn fish!” Stevens was muttering, luckily for the wilderness, inside, having closed the window. I guess we can’t blame Stevens here. His thoughts were racing, about many things, but it all coming back to the fish and the moon. “Who wants to read sci-fi novels when there’s now things going on that science can’t even explain?” he was thinking. “The fish isn’t even like something out of a sci-fi. It’s just insanity. Who cares about my bogus space novel now? Reality has disproved all my speculative fictions.”
Well, he is right about that. Stevens, before the fish came, had been working on the sequel to his successful space opera. Had plans to make it a series, a franchise, movie deals would likely follow, all he had to do was publish the second book and he was on Easy St, the street on Cape Cod the CEOs and Hollywood actors all had their summer mansions on, just two towns over. Well, he wouldn’t really be able to afford East St, but a fellow could dream.
It’s not like he could think that way now though. Ever since the incident, scientists have yet to stop scrambling, trying to sort everything out. New calendars were being worked on to address the longer years, everyone was adjusting to the changes in their local weather, laws were being drawn up about setting new legal ages for driving, smoking, and, Stevens favorite, drinking.
Is Stevens a drunk? Yes, but don’t tell him that. And he is quite functioning as an alcoholic. Once upon a time, he worried he drank too often. Now that he is a published novelist, he feels he has a license to do it. Besides, he doesn’t day drink. Always waits until his daughter is tucked in. That doesn’t change the fact that it is a nightly habit. Although with the new climate, with no future in sight for his writing career now that sci-fi was essentially dead (Damn fish!), with nothing to write about, he was starting once again to feel a bit like a drunkard. Especially with his wife gone.