I could always smell it.
I just couldn’t find it.
Early on, hits from exotic places like United Arab Emirates, or Hong Kong, or South Africa fed my sad, yea hapless, ego. I thought people from all over the world were reading my stuff. What a dork.
Only in recent months would an old former colleague (he’s both) reveal how easy it was to fake a location online. South Africa was more than likely Wattsburg, PA and the reason for the hits?
How many college students were paying ghost writers to rip off everything I’d created from scratch since July 2014?
WordPress couldn’t protect my work. Nobody could. I’d likely been parsed out until there was nothing left. Only WordPress, ironically enough, had the time stamped evidence of the date of origination of my essays and poems. Would they show up in court? Whom would they send?
The pandemic was exhausting. The vaccine roll out, excruciating. The psychological horrors, mind devolving. Was it cognitive decline, or all of the above?
Where are the royalties? Will my self published series’ tell the tale?
Or, has everybody already long since forgotten the story?
© 7/11/2021 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, the actual originator of the above, whose stories are all hers and whose name appears above this line. All the good people are gone.