Rosin Grentleyard pokes her head out of the doorway of her bedroom. It is dark, but she knows every plank of wood on the floor. Which ones creak. Which ones sigh. Her parents' room has been quiet for at least two forevers, so they're probably asleep.
I roll over in bed, squinting and fumbling for my glasses. There’s a hazy figure next to me, and for a moment my heart lurches and stutters like I’m in a horror movie. Before I can scream, her voice—and it’s definitely a her—says quietly, “Please come. It’s okay. It’s just me.”
Covers: An awful lot of books because I seem to be in a reading jag, The Chosen season 3, The Forever Prisoner, and more.
For a few days after my declaration of pure writing focus, the writing process was brilliant. It took me a few fits and starts, but I always found something to write about.
I stare down my muzzle, my eyes nearly crossed to track the glowing, twelve-inch form twirling in place near my foreclaws. It has been ten minutes since I awoke to this crisis and it. is. still. talking.