Nick Goes Phishing

Here’s a story. It’s yours. Not about you, no. But it’s yours. Publish it. Under your own name, under a bushel, under a decade from now. Or not. You can take the credit, there’ll be no criticism. No. How do I know? A reasonable question. Let’s just say, I will silence the critics.  There is magic in words, no-one said it has to be white magic.  You must copy this out, in longhand, then make your digital manuscript in the usual way. Your runes and cantrips will lie behind in the meta of the file. A combination of keystrokes will attach the necessary code. Not a worm, no, although I loved the symbolism, years ago, though truly, I believed ‘wyrm’ far more appropriate. Nor will it be a virus, just think of it as more magic. After all you didn’t understand the workings of MyDoom any more than those of the fax-machine Mr Bolter used to insist you operate so he could look at your legs. Ah, yes, well I’ve followed your - how to put it - career with interest.

No, you do not need to know what will happen once you attach your file to an e-mail delivered by the client of your choice. Not that sort of client. Yahoo, gmail, whatever. Once the recipient opens it, they will speak to Siri, ask Alexa or worry Weena until they understand what is being asked for.

It will be your book...

Which won’t yet exist...

But will...

Think of it, millions of people asking for ‘The 13th Apostle’, ‘The Pewter Mirror’ or ‘Karen Bigsby is Menstruating’. These are not suggestions. Google them, they are already published, not even by independents, and certainly not self-published.

Yes, you may make up your own title for the story.

Nothing. I want nothing.

Only a signature.

Yours, naturally.

I’ll sign too.