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On the side of a hill in the deep forest green, tracing a sparrow on snow-crested ground,
blankets and bedclothes the child of the mountain sleeps unaware of the clarion call.
On the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves washes the grave with silvery tears,
a soldier cleans and polishes a gun.
War bellows, blazing in scarlet battalions, generals order their soldiers to kill
and to fight for a cause they've long ago forgotten

Monday, July 10, 2006

Signs and Premonitions

Okay, I’m sitting here while the woman I share my life with is reading “War Stories.” No good laughs, lots of “hmms” and “oh’s” as in, “so, that’s what you mean.” Well, maybe it’s going to need another rewrite. That’s what readers are for, and it’s better that I get this feedback now, instead of rejection letters later.

Just for the record, no, I’m not upset. This is criticism, not execution. I’m trying to get better, not stay where I am. If you’re in a writing group and you can’t tell a person that they’ve comma-spliced or had a verb-subject disagreement, that’s a literary society.

Time to go get the news.

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