It was a Tuesday. Authorities had gathered about Todd’s small square abode, cramming through his front door, crowding circumferentially round his purple velour couch. Upon it, sitting rigidly upright, was Todd, board-stiff . . . it goes on – however, this piece is for writers.
There's a lot of stuff growing in The Land, but you've got to be a writer to see it all. We push a selection out to a superfeed for public viewership. The rest — along with replies and revisions — is workshop material.
