Ideally real-death accounts. But the magic seems to be waning. I had a piece about football* that was nailed-on for a boost a while back, in which I killed off my own grandfather, George Santos-style, for extra heartstring points.

Nada.

And a heartfelt memoir on Iberospherical in which the writer dispatched his abuelo today - nixed by Curation.

How many family members do we have to slaughter to get eyeballs these days?

*It may be that the Curator was confused, and thought I was talking about the 'pajama and plastic exoskeleton' game they play in-between commercial breaks in heathen lands.