The Cranial Tyro Chronicles

Cranial tapped the pocket chronometer he kept in his left breast pocket. It can’t be right, he thought. Eight months?

But it had been. Much had happened since his last trip into the pocket reality he’d concocted for himself, carved out of the catacombs in the bowels of the nevernever. The daughter he’d drawn along the walls like some drunken hunter-gatherer in a caveman’s tomb had been born. Of course, it was a boy. Some of the transmissions Cranial had sent into deep space in the hopes of distant recognition and entertainment had been received–even retransmitted. In fact, our little Tyro had even begun filtering transmissions intercepted by a local publishing hub.

Most of all, of course, he had lost his occupation in the shared mundane reality where he usually resided. And because he had lost this, he had time to work on the longest transmission of all.

Finally.