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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

Saturday, January 31, 2009

Writing Saturday

Finished up the new frame to War Stories. Kept to the same word count. The story is now a little stronger, a little darker. Now it's off to the editor to see if he likes it better.

One of the by products of coming up with my rejection statistics is it forced me to get my paperwork in order. Everything is in its place now.

Now on to other things.

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