Season Of Mists

 By Maryanna Gabriel

"Season of mists
and mellow fruitfulness..."
    To Autumn - John Keats

The interview time was actually placed in my calendar. That's how fooled I was. Season of mists, alright. What with all this talk of artificial intelligence going sideways I expected more of myself. That I would be smarter. 

Being out there on social media attracts a lot of weird proposals like cleaning my office, or fixing my website, and lately it has been book promotions, with a slurry of book club offerings. Then came a letter from a publisher wanting more of my writing. I looked him up. New York. Quite famous. But I knew any editor of his caliber does not solicit, for in reality it is exactly the opposite. Nor would he have time to compose such a lengthy, detailed, and flattering letter. That was the tip-off. The flattery. And the perfect composition. Just in case, I wrote the publisher and actually got a reply confirming the letter was not from them. 

But this week's solicitation had me fooled. It was from a radio personality in London, England. The emails were somewhat personalized so I felt less like I was dealing with a form letter. I wrote the station to be sure. Then, after I agreed, the hit came - a request for money. Three tiers of payment depending on how much media exposure I opted for.

No thank you. See you later. Is this what you call a non-person player (NPC)? Without soul? The radio station has yet to reply. Maybe they think I am an NPC impersonating being scammed.