W. C. McClure can be a difficult one to track down, given time, space and other universal shifts that might be afoot, which is most disconcerting when she disappears in plain sight. If cornered on the subject, she claims merely that she’s looking for something.
Indoctrinated in the secret descriptive arts by the legendary gurus of a remote snow-swept world, W is careful to exercise her literary skills only for the sake of good. It is often a razor’s edge.
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