I've just finished a short story called 'Spuke' for the GA winter anthology. This means that I've written entries for every anthology this year. In fact the Spring Anthology is what started me writing in the first place.
I've also just finished chapter six of 'Seraph' which I'm enjoying thoroughly.
So what of 'King Of The Marsh'? Well, it's happening, but much like a snail swimming across a pool of gloss paint, it's painfully slow. ;)
And I'm still on bleedin' dial-up.
Why is it the faster things become, the slower we think they are? Why is it always, always greener elsewhere? Why is it that whatever we have we want more? Want the answer? Me too ... and I don't think it's 42.
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