The Great Migration

First reaction: anger. A toned-down version of the thoughts in my head would probably land somewhere in the neighborhood of R-ratings.

But then, hope. Ah, hope. Doesn’t it come through just like a whisper at first, but then once you realize it, it becomes a flood and lightens the load a little. Sure, we’re losing our community here, but the people are still around, and the internet is expansive. Kevin has backed up all our ficlets (except for mature) and is working on a new ficlets as we speak.

Even if it could be for a fee, the fee could be optional, and this has become more than a website. I, for one, would probably use my hard-earned 14-year-old savings to use a new ficlets.

But just think: we’re the displaced ficleteers, the victims, and there’s always something oddly intriguing about playing the victim. We’re just characters in the stories we write, traveling, laughing, crying, waiting together – homeless – before someone offers us a place to stay.

And it will come, I think.

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