There are science fiction stories that I remember more in aggregate than in individual, which start with a place/date thing to avoid having the characters tell you when this takes place. This is often true if the story involves multiple centuries. I’m finding myself doing it in this time travel thing I hope to finish today after writing a bit on Through Fire (only 10k words yesterday, but things are beginning to fall in place and the story to be functional. Apparently it’s a bad idea to write while profoundly depressed and tired from being ill. Then the story is just blah. Who knew? Maybe the people writing grey goo are chronically depressed? No?)
The device goes something like this “It was the twenty-second century and we were all mourning.” Or “It was May of 1534 and we were all dancing.”
It was September, and it was a time of pleading. The family of an hostage pleaded for his life. England pleaded that Scotsmen might accept the proffered near independence, instead of independence. Our “friends” in the Middle East asked for us to help them combat Islamic extremism (possibly the same exact Islamic extremism they funded. The Middle East is like that.) Liberia pleaded for help with Ebola. But the only plea that worked as cold hard cash, even if we all know what happens when you give Dane Geld.
It was September and the Western world was losing faith in its institutions. From health to care nothing worked as advertised. Finances were in disarray. And we couldn’t help but wonder if the elites were as smart as they claimed to be.
It was September and Russian Putin was blustering. Pushing the limits of what he thought he should be allowed, and trying to terrify the rest of Europe, which one fears might not be very hard.
It was September and the cry of the SJWs was heard in the land, and this author was sick and tired of her colleagues with Stockholm syndrome.
And she put this post up, and went back to pounding on the keyboard, which is the thing for which she actually gets paid. Have fun in the comments.