It's Tuesday. You know the drill.

Hello, people out there! Wow ... does this blog really have more than 5000 views? That's pretty awesome. :)

I'm not really writing anything currently, but I'm giving Walking Shadow another edit. (Still need to cut out about 30,000 words. GRRR!) So, I figured I'd post another teaser from it today. I think I've only posted one teaser from it before, anyway.

Now I need to finish writing a poem for Writing class. (What else rhymes with "grow"? *chews end of pencil*)

Enjoy this (very short) teaser, in which Cassandra has creepy dreams and such. Oh, and the "eyes on the walls" refer to the paintings she's done all over her room. So yeah. HERE IT IS!

Tonight, I dream of a place I've never seen. A layer of snow glitters on the ground, but the air isn't cold. The sky is a pale shade of pink. The strangest thing is, there are roses growing everywhere––their vibrant, blood-red petals standing out against the starry whiteness.

My footsteps whisper against the snow. I gaze around in wonder, as an unfamiliar tingling feeling rushes through me. Whatever it is, it makes me turn around … and that's when I see him.

He kneels on the ground, his dark clothes standing out in the bright landscape. A rose pokes out of the snow near to him, and he reaches for it. His fingers curl around the stem, and he plucks the flower from the ground. A thorn pricks his skin, and drops of blood stain the snow red.

The edges of the petals fade from red to ashy gray. The darkness spreads like a burn, all the way down the shriveling stem. He lets the crumpled flower fall, where it lies in the bloodstained snow. He looks up, and I feel the electric shock of recognition when I meet his eyes, so dark that they're almost black. There's desperation in them, like he wants to tell me something.

But he doesn't have a chance to say it, because everything is already gone.

*

My heart beats violently, like it's trying to break out of my ribcage. I rub at the goose bumps on my arms, blurring the drawings on my skin. This is the time when I'd normally reach for my pen, but I've turned to stone. I close my eyes and I can see it still, painted on the backs of my eyelids. The white snow, the roses, drops of blood falling, the flower shriveling and dying, his dark eyes looking up into mine––questioning, pleading.

Restlessness overtakes my mind, dragging me out of bed. As I pace around my room, the eyes on the walls watch my every step.

I've never seen that part of the Otherworld. And he wasn't like the Othersouls that I'm used to encountering. He seemed more human.

More alive.