{"id":67,"date":"2012-01-03T16:09:00","date_gmt":"2012-01-04T00:09:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/?p=67"},"modified":"2012-05-30T15:43:37","modified_gmt":"2012-05-30T22:43:37","slug":"unfinished-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/?p=67","title":{"rendered":"Unfinished #2"},"content":{"rendered":"

Here<\/a>‘s the first one, if you’re interested. These are a series of prologues for a longer work that I’m developing. Enjoy\/let me know what you think!<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
In other news, I bought my domain name and hosting today. After some WordPress tutorials, I should be good to go! Hopefully I don’t commit any design faux-pas. Anyway, here’s:<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Unfinished<\/strong><\/div>\n

\n<\/strong><\/div>\n
Prologue #2<\/strong><\/div>\n

\n<\/strong><\/div>\n
\n

Song: Around the Horn<\/em><\/p>\n

Artist: A\u2019Shan feat. Kayan T. & Fair-E<\/em><\/p>\n

Album: Beats from the Barrel<\/em><\/p>\n

Genre: Hama hip-hop<\/em><\/p>\n

A\u2019Shan: Hey you, mister doctor<\/em><\/p>\n

Lawyer<\/em><\/p>\n

Destroyer<\/em><\/p>\n

Education paid for by the man<\/em><\/p>\n

Pander to the master plan<\/em><\/p>\n

You think you earned all this but let me tell you somethin\u2019 son<\/em><\/p>\n

Around the Horn the only power is the gun<\/em><\/p>\n

Ain\u2019t no fun<\/em><\/p>\n

Sleepin\u2019 with one eye open just to guard your cash<\/em><\/p>\n

Or your stash<\/em><\/p>\n

Pickin\u2019 through the trash just to feed a kid who\u2019s prolly gonna die before the age of five<\/em><\/p>\n

Tell me does that make you feel alive?<\/em><\/p>\n

Refrain: Around the Horn<\/em><\/p>\n

Around the Horn<\/em><\/p>\n

Ain\u2019t no tomorrow and yesterday\u2019s gone<\/em><\/p>\n

Maybe today is the day you die<\/em><\/p>\n

But only if you\u2019re lucky<\/em><\/p>\n

Kayan T.: Ah, you say that you was tougher than the streets<\/em><\/p>\n

Droppin\u2019 beats, but yo\u2019 motha\u2019 still makes sure you eat<\/em><\/p>\n

Cruisin\u2019 down the broadway in her minivan wit\u2019 yo\u2019 thugs<\/em><\/p>\n

Pretendin\u2019 you was firin\u2019 slugs at all the haters and betrayers<\/em><\/p>\n

And the fakers who don\u2019t know yo\u2019 shit<\/em><\/p>\n

Well tell me, what is it? Ever had a bullet flyin\u2019 in yo\u2019 face?<\/em><\/p>\n

Seen a tank shell blowin\u2019 up yo\u2019 neighbour\u2019s place?<\/em><\/p>\n

Well, shit, kid<\/em><\/p>\n

Let me take you on a trip Around the Horn<\/em><\/p>\n

Fair-E: Around the Horn!<\/em><\/p>\n

Kayan T. : Trolls\u2019d pop you just to get those sneakers you got on.<\/em><\/p>\n

And you ain\u2019t tough until you seen a troll plead for his life<\/em><\/p>\n

Tellin\u2019 you he got a wife and kids, but you can\u2019t let a troll play you<\/em><\/p>\n

Betray you, or it\u2019s yo\u2019 sorry ass they\u2019ll be wastin\u2019<\/em><\/p>\n

His screams and dyin\u2019 dreams fill the air<\/em><\/p>\n

You shoot and everywhere, the blood is there, lets you know yo\u2019 still alive<\/em><\/p>\n

You\u2019ve arrived<\/em><\/p>\n

You at the Horn<\/em><\/p>\n

(Refrain)<\/em><\/p>\n

Fair-E: I was born in a smokin\u2019 crater<\/em><\/p>\n

Five years later<\/em><\/p>\n

I\u2019m runnin\u2019 devilgrass and witchweed for my cousin Loe<\/em><\/p>\n

Three years later and I\u2019m pimpin\u2019 his hoes<\/em><\/p>\n

Guess it only shows<\/em><\/p>\n

This is the life I know<\/em><\/p>\n

Twenty bullet scars, one for every year<\/em><\/p>\n

And one more from when I shot myself in fear<\/em><\/p>\n

That I would have a kid that grew up just like me<\/em><\/p>\n

Half-human freak, weak, life so bleak<\/em><\/p>\n

Runnin\u2019 drugs and wastin\u2019 cops and fuckin\u2019 every monkey bitch<\/em><\/p>\n

Around the Horn<\/em><\/p>\n

All: Around the Horn!<\/em><\/p>\n

(Refrain)<\/em><\/p>\n

A\u2019Shan: You say you know my shit<\/em><\/p>\n

But until you live it<\/em><\/p>\n

You\u2019re just another pretender<\/em><\/p>\n

Defender<\/em><\/p>\n

Of a system keepin\u2019 trolls and fairies<\/em><\/p>\n

Livin\u2019 in poverty and fear<\/em><\/p>\n

Down here<\/em><\/p>\n

Around this place we call<\/em><\/p>\n

The Horn<\/em><\/p>\n

(Refrain X 2)<\/em><\/p>\n

I step off the plane and the first thing I notice is the smell.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s not a reeking, overpowering stench like Faxton \u2013 here there is no river of filth and industrial sludge that undercuts the scent of human corruption. No, the smell is subtle. The hot breeze sends the moisture of the ocean to mask it, like a perfume over musk. Although I cannot see the heaps of garbage baking in the sun between shanty-houses of hot tin and reclaimed refuse, my nose does not lie. They are there in the city beyond, waiting to assail me with the sight and smell of concentrated, urbanized poverty.<\/p>\n

The airport doesn\u2019t have proper gates, so I mill around with the other passengers as we wait to claim our luggage right from the plane. Nobody is in a rush to grab a bag and leave for the city. Nobody wants to be here. The Horn is not a destination, it\u2019s a trap. Anybody who stepped off that plane is a hama<\/em> who didn\u2019t manage to escape the guilt of leaving everybody else in squalor, or a journalist hoping to make a name for themselves dodging bullets and earning exclusive interviews with crime bosses. I should have told them to start with the two well-dressed hama <\/em>on the flight. In the Provinces, businessmen wear gold watches. Around the Horn, arms dealers wear them.<\/p>\n

I grab my worn and patched tweed suitcase and mill about. I\u2019m afraid to face the city, but nobody here will sympathize. I am not hama <\/em>and I am no journalist. Either would laugh and tell me to go home before I get raped or killed, or both.<\/p>\n

Home. I close my eyes and picture the farm.<\/p>\n

The baking tarmac and shuffling and humming recede and I\u2019m six years old again, surrounded by the clucking of chickens.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy are they in cages, daddy?\u201d I follow his legs, the only part of him that I can see unless I look up. The whole room reeks of chicken feces, but I\u2019m used to it by now.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo they don\u2019t escape.\u201d He tosses feed at the cages and the chickens go mad with clucking. The cages are stacked three high, and the grains land on the wooden bases of each cage. Their meals seem paltry, careless. Their cells are small, and they cannot spread their wings. I imagine myself freeing the birds from their cages. They fly off into the sunlight, though even at six I know the mental image is silly. Chickens cannot fly.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy would they escape?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWould you want to be in a cage, your whole life?\u201d<\/p>\n

The question makes me pause. If being in a cage is undesirable, why would my father deliberately do such a thing to these innocent animals?<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m smarter than a chicken.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you? Your mother thought so, too. She took her freedom and died for it, but these chickens are still alive.\u201d<\/p>\n

The thought of mother makes me sad. A hen tilts her head and clucks at me and I wonder what she\u2019s thinking. I wonder what all these birds are thinking about. Do they resent their slavery? Are they content to simply live out their lives providing eggs and pacing back and forth in a cage that won\u2019t even let them stand tall?<\/p>\n

I watch my father gather the eggs from the cages. The hens are scared of him. They don\u2019t peck at him, don\u2019t fight for their eggs. Growing up on a farm, I understand reproduction somewhat, and I\u2019ve seen chicks being born so I make the connection with the eggs. Father makes me eat them even though I protest.<\/p>\n

One night I sneak into the warehouse, carrying a wooden stool. The chickens are clucking madly, and I tell them to be quiet, but they don\u2019t listen. The cages on the floor are easy for me to open, but I clamber onto the stool for the taller cells. Soon the warehouse is filled with chickens pacing about the floor, gabbing madly at each other.<\/p>\n

\u201cGo, be free!\u201d I urge them. I motion to the warehouse door, which I\u2019ve left open for them, but they don\u2019t seem too interested in it. They just mill about and cluck. I begin to gather up the eggs, hoping to bring them to my room and have my own private litter of chicks, but suddenly there is a shadow in the doorway of the warehouse.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m not upset about the thrashing I\u2019ve received, even though I won\u2019t be able to sit down properly for at least a week. I\u2019m upset because I freed the chickens and they betrayed me. What was worse, the next day they were all back in their cages. None of them even really tried to escape.<\/p>\n

The memory fades and I\u2019m in a filthy taxi, being driven down a dirt road toward a grey mass of city that looks like a colourless tumour spreading into the countryside. Here and there are sparse trees, but the desert from the south is beginning to overtake even the once-fertile Horn. The ocean is a border to the horizon, sparkling and pure. From this distance I can forget that even the beautiful blue sea is being despoiled by humanity.<\/p>\n

I thought that travel had immunized me to culture shock, but the taxi driver takes me into downtown Mohabi and I am shocked afresh.<\/p>\n

The streets are filled with junk of all kinds \u2013 cardboard with faded corporate logos (the cherry cola box is faded enough to look like lemon soda), rusted cars on cinder blocks take up most of the free spaces on the edges of the road (there is no real sidewalk, just a less-beaten-down strip of dirt on either side of the street) and broken shards of glass and metal everywhere<\/em>, though nobody wears shoes. Nobody can afford shoes.<\/p>\n

A legless hama <\/em>child sits in a rusted toy wagon and paddles up and down the sidewalk, occasionally cupping his hands at passers-by. He is largely ignored. The scariest part about starvation is that the belly becomes distended \u2013 the child doesn\u2019t look <\/em>like he\u2019s starving, but his eyes are hungry for anything, even simple human contact.<\/p>\n

Human<\/em> contact. Even our language subversively treats them as lesser beings. The sight of the child in the wagon makes me sick to my stomach and I almost signal to the silent hama <\/em>driver to stop the car, but by the time I find my tongue we are at least two streets away. He catches my eyes in the rear-view mirror but quickly looks away. He, like any hama<\/em> here, will naturally assume that I don\u2019t know the language…and hama <\/em>rarely speak when their hands are occupied. His are squeezing the steering wheel tightly as he watches a quartet of hama <\/em>with bandoleers and assault rifles strut down the street.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t blame my driver his silence. Not only does my appearance scream <\/em>\u2018human\u2019 \u2013 tall forehead, flat face, small teeth \u2013 there is also the fact that few humans can struggle over the steep learning curve of any of the hama <\/em>languages. It is a combination of vocalization, gesture and tone like no other language \u2013 music and movement and intent all rolled into one. I\u2019ve been studying the local dialect, Haumi<\/em>, for most of my life, and still I speak less eloquently than a five-year-old hama.<\/em><\/p>\n

Not to mention the fact that humans aren\u2019t well-liked in these parts. I shut my eyes so I don\u2019t have to see any more helpless orphans and remember where I was on the day the old puppet regime fell. The day the Tungo League sent troops into The Horn. I was ten years old.<\/p>\n

My hand has been up for a full minute, but Mrs. Khoso ignores me, as usual. She\u2019s afraid that I\u2019ll ask a question she can\u2019t answer. I\u2019m afraid that she\u2019ll fabricate a lie, but she\u2019s my only source of semi-reliable information. My parents don\u2019t follow politics and we don\u2019t even own a television. I remind myself to put on the radio when I get home.<\/p>\n

Mrs. Khoso sighs. \u201cYes, Alia, what is it?\u201d I can feel the eyes of the other students falling on me, judging me. Nobody cares about some hama<\/em> in another country, just like nobody cares about some caged chickens.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy are they fighting though? You didn\u2019t explain that part.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe republic fell, and other factions are fighting for control of the country.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo why are we sending troops in?\u201d<\/p>\n

Another sigh. \u201cTo stop the fighting.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow does more fighting stop the fighting?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause hama<\/em> can\u2019t govern themselves, Alia. The Tungo League is cleaning up their mess, because if we don\u2019t do something then they\u2019ll never stop bickering with each other. Their whole society is built on conflict \u2013 brutal, barbarian conflict \u2013 and they don\u2019t know how to resolve a problem without resorting to violence. So we\u2019re helping them re-establish a government.\u201d<\/p>\n

I put my hand down and wonder if an invisible border can be a kind of cage.<\/p>\n

When I get home that evening, I ask my father about the conflict.<\/p>\n

\u201cTrolls and humans don\u2019t mix,\u201d he says. \u201cWe shouldn\u2019t be sending our boys to die in the Devil\u2019s Horn. Let them kill each other and leave the rest of us alone.\u201d<\/p>\n

I put on the radio in my room later and listen to the news until it starts to sound repetitive. Troops moving into Mohabi. A militant faction has seized control of the media and the central government complex. Hama<\/em> using children as both soldiers and hostages.<\/p>\n

Eventually the news reports depress me and I fiddle with the dial, looking for music. Instead I stumble upon a talk radio station. I never used to be interested in it, but for some reason it doesn\u2019t seem so boring anymore. I fine-tune the dial for good reception and sink into my bed, listening to the rough-hewn voice of an old left-winger.<\/p>\n

He paints a different picture of the conflict. I don\u2019t really understand a lot of what he\u2019s saying, not yet, but as he jabbers on about puppet governments and Tungo oil interests, misplaced feelings of racial superiority and a tug-of-war for resource and religious control between the South and the Eye, I start thinking about the farm.<\/p>\n

They\u2019re just caught in the middle, caged. Herded and used.<\/p>\n

I make a stand that day and stop eating meat. I stop eating eggs, too. Five years later I\u2019m holding up a sign at a protest. My father backhands me when I get home \u2013 somehow he knew that I was there. His wrath still scares me more than teargas.<\/p>\n

My eyes pop open. There are things worse than teargas where I am, and I should keep my wits about me. There are car bombs and forgotten minefields and frequent shootings in the streets.<\/p>\n

I realize that I never told my driver where to go…all I said to him was \u2018Mohabi\u2019.<\/p>\n

\u201cExcuse me,\u201d I say in Haumi<\/em>, \u201cI actually need to go south of the city, to the International Aid Centre.\u201d Although I doubt he is watching my hands, I make the gestures, regardless.<\/p>\n

The driver raises an eyebrow at me in the rear-view mirror. I don\u2019t think he expected me to speak his language. He doesn\u2019t reply other than to nod, and we continue down the dirty street.<\/p>\n

We pass a group of triaum <\/em>children with sticks in their hands as they chase a rat down the street. The wide-eyed, bright-haired youths whoop and laugh as they tear after the frightened critter. I marvel at the fact that the triaum<\/em> have managed to survive here for so long amongst the hama<\/em>. Outcasts among outcasts, the Great Diaspora saw many triaum<\/em> shipped to The Horn against their will, to become the hama\u2019s <\/em>problem. Yet they persevere, despite famine and war, and many have aligned themselves with local political factions.<\/p>\n

The rat darts into an alleyway and the children follow. I feel sorry for the poor creature, but at least I know it probably won\u2019t be caught, and certainly won\u2019t be eaten. My abstinence from meat is a choice, but for the triaum <\/em>it is an absolute dietary restriction. As I watch the last mop of tangled yellow hair round the corner, a voice I haven\u2019t heard in years fills my head.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe are always learning, changing, absorbing.\u201d His voice is soft, calm, patient. His hair is like a billowy wheat field. His eyes, like oases. \u201cThat is life, Alia. We take in what the world shows us, convert it using the lens of our paradigm, and then we change and grow. Even plants do this. What we give to the soil goes into the plants, changes the way they grow. It\u2019s why a coffee or a wine from Naxia tastes different than one from Titania.\u201d<\/p>\n

We are holding hands, sharing energy. He believes in it more than I do, but he\u2019s my teacher and I am there to listen.<\/p>\n

Actually, I am supposed to be the teacher. I\u2019m the one with the degree, but Villus seems to be the one teaching me. The whole thing isn\u2019t much of a use of my degree, but it\u2019s an escape. I joined the International Aid Group to help fight an outbreak of Moth disease amongst a native group of triaum <\/em>who live in the rockiest part of the Lashes (those mountainous isles south of the Eye). It\u2019s as close as I dare to get to the Horn. Those fears instilled in me by my father and teachers and the media have clutched onto my very soul and refuse to let go.<\/p>\n

Even so, I am free, and I am still learning. Villus teaches me about his language and his culture, and more importantly, he teaches me to let go of all those preconceptions I picked up as a child.<\/p>\n

Most <\/em>importantly, I\u2019m helping others, and I am far away from my father.<\/p>\n

The aid mission ends, however, and I am sent back home, no matter how badly I want to remain. My work visa has expired, and the IAG has pulled out of the Lashes. Moth disease has come and gone. I go home and try to find work in my field.<\/p>\n

Instead I get married.<\/p>\n

I snap back to reality and look out the cab window. I have no idea where we are, but it doesn\u2019t seem like we\u2019re heading to the IAG building south of Mohabi.<\/p>\n

\u201cExcuse me. We are<\/em> heading to the aid centre, aren\u2019t we?\u201d<\/p>\n

The cab driver doesn\u2019t answer me as he turns down another side street. I feel my heartbeat pick up and wonder, not for the first time, if I\u2019ve made a huge mistake in coming to the Horn. It might be my last mistake, for all I know. I can hear my father\u2019s voice, yelling at me over the phone. He would never beg, but he certainly tried to browbeat me into staying home. He hadn\u2019t spoken to me since before the wedding, and the first words out of his mouth were curses. I gave him all the stubbornness I could muster and…<\/p>\n

The explosion rips through the air, and I can feel the heat even through the glass window of the taxi. We are flying through the air, flipping, and everything seems to happen in slow motion. I can hear bullets ricocheting off metal and concrete. The cab driver is screaming. Outside I can hear more shouts and screaming, and I swear there is the faintest sound of wings rattling against a cage…<\/p>\n

The car hits the pavement and my vision goes black.<\/p>\n

I dream I\u2019m back in the hospital. Mufi\u2019s hand is on my shoulder, comforting me, but I don\u2019t want his comfort. All I want is my baby, but he\u2019s gone, and the fertility treatments aren\u2019t working. If the doctor explains it all one more time I\u2019m going to get up out of my chair and scream in his face. He tells me that the risks are greater with a cross-species conception and Mufi is the one who loses it.<\/p>\n

He got deported for assaulting the doctor. Sent back to the Horn. Where I\u2019m going, so I can be with him…even though he got remarried so he could have kids, the asshole. Wait, no, I\u2019m not going for Mufi. I\u2019m going to teach. Or am I there already? I can\u2019t remember.<\/p>\n

I open my eyes and I\u2019m in the hospital again, only this time I know it\u2019s not a memory. It\u2019s the aid centre, I bet. No other facility in Mohabi would be this clean. I look down at myself and my sheets are clean, too. No serious injuries, just a throbbing skull and a bunch of bruises and scrapes on my arms that I can see. There are probably more of them elsewhere on my body. I wonder if the cab driver survived. As I shed a silent tear for him, I wonder what the fighting was even about, who the factions were, who won, and if it led anywhere. The Horn has been a mess for fifteen years, and it doesn\u2019t seem like it\u2019s going to get cleaned up anytime soon. Why am I here?<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat were you thinking, taking a taxi through downtown Mohabi?\u201d His voice is restrained, but his arms are gesturing wildly. He\u2019s talking so quickly that it\u2019s hard for me to understand him, but his tone is clear enough.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou could have been killed. You almost were killed. Why didn\u2019t you call me from the airport?\u201d<\/p>\n

My arms move much more slowly as I reply. My gestures are clumsy, my voice hoarse. I feel like I\u2019m a child again, stammering an excuse in front of my father.<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t want to bother you. I figured you were with her<\/em>…\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo instead you decided to go alone into Mohabi? God, it\u2019s a wonder worse things didn\u2019t happen to you.\u201d<\/p>\n

I sit up. \u201cStop trying to protect me. I\u2019m not your wife anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat wasn\u2019t my choice.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight. I chose for you to get remarried.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI meant the deportation. You could have come here earlier. Things would have been different.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell I\u2019m here now.\u201d I fold my arms. I don\u2019t want to cry, I hate crying in front of him, but the tears come anyway. I almost died and all he can do is yell at me and bring up the past, a past that I want to forget. Why am I here, again? This place just reminds me of failure. Failed missions, failed policies, failed degrees, failed marriages, failed conception, failed love…<\/p>\n

\u201cShhh.\u201d His arms are around me. His big, long, strong hama<\/em> arms, and his scent is there, and his deep musical voice, humming out a hama <\/em>lullaby and suddenly I remember why I fell in love with him. I cry anew, this time because I\u2019m still in love with him; that was never gone. But it hurts now. It\u2019s just all the good parts that are gone. He\u2019s not mine anymore. He has children and a wife that I\u2019ve never met and never want to.<\/p>\n

I want my own children.<\/p>\n

I look down at my legs beneath the hospital sheets and remember the time when blood was pooling there. I close my eyes and see blood on the chopping block, veal on the table. I throw up and Mufi yells for a nurse.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

We\u2019re walking to the schoolhouse. I\u2019ve fully recovered from the accident, and things with Mufi are fairly patched up. His wife doesn\u2019t know about us, but she doesn\u2019t really need to. I\u2019m not the one who gets the family and the kids. It\u2019s the one time I\u2019ve ever allowed myself to be truly selfish, and I wouldn\u2019t give it up for anything.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve been told to stay out of Mohabi, and I do. I have a little home near the school, and Mufi brings me groceries and other things that I need. My only other visitor is the rep from IAG. She thinks I\u2019m crazy for taking the job, but I think she\u2019s crazy to want to do paperwork all day. We meet for tea once a week.<\/p>\n

The farmland south of Mohabi is dry, unyielding. Even during the monsoon season, the soil is too saline, too sandy to be truly fertile. The hama<\/em> children are so scrawny they almost look like triaum<\/em>. I am the richest person for miles.<\/p>\n

As we approach the schoolhouse, Mufi slips his hand into mine. His is warm and tender, but his wedding ring is cold. I remind myself that I\u2019m still getting the best of him.<\/p>\n

The schoolhouse is a small wooden building, one storey. It is as paltry as the charity that the rest of the world shows for the Horn. Outside, parents mingle as the children run around playing simple games. They are so alive, so free. They do not yet see the cage.<\/p>\n

I stand before the children, blocking their view of Mohabi beyond. If I take them under my wing, perhaps one day they will learn to fly away from this place.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Here‘s the first one, if you’re interested. These are a series of prologues for a longer work that I’m developing. Enjoy\/let me know what you think! In other news, I bought my domain name and hosting today. After some WordPress tutorials, I should be good to go! Hopefully I don’t commit any design faux-pas. Anyway, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[18,22],"tags":[50],"class_list":["post-67","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-short-stories","category-unfinished","tag-unfinished"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/67","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=67"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/67\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":270,"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/67\/revisions\/270"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=67"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=67"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/jamesfunfer.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=67"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}