writing samples.

[iberis]

first and foremost, i apologize if this is the wrong sub-forum for this material. i saw a few other people post their samples here and thought i would do the same.

anyway.

i decided to post some of my musings to give you all an idea as to what i want in terms of quality and quantity. by no means do i expect you to match my post length down to the precise number of words; rather, if i write a few paragraphs i would appreciate a few paragraphs in return, not a paragraph or less.

this is geared toward the people who look at my search thread. you are more than welcome to contact me based solely on this thread, but since my tastes are limited to few themes it would be appreciated if you searched my post history for my search thread.

also, please do not post here. i am not going to check this on a regular basis, if ever after i post my writing samples, so you will just waste your time.

thank you.

 

[iberis]

"Feeling better?"

The small diner on the corner of Dorset Street and Chiltern Street was unusually crowded for an eight o'clock Thursday morning. It was an adequately popular diner, given that it had competition with four other eating establishments within a half-mile radius, but the building was a mere seven-minute walk from their flat on Baker Street and had raving reviews. It was bustling with the sound of men and women as they engaged in idle chit-chat over a cup of steaming coffee, intending to make the most out of each and every second before they were forced to leave for work. Some were engrossed in the daily news. Some found it more appealing to glance outside the window to admire the day's lovely weather.

John Watson did not fall into either of those categories. The two of them had been on the job for what seemed like days now and he was absolutely famished, hence the reason for them being away from their flat. 'We wouldn't be here you put normal things in the fridge,' the former Army doctor mused to himself as he used his fork to pierce a small piece of his hash brown and bring it to his mouth. It was true. They did not have the resources to eat out on a regular basis, but there was nothing to eat in their flat--the refrigerator was almost always stocked with inedible objects, namely severed human heads and pickled eyes, and even when he came home with a bag of groceries they inevitably found their way to the trash can. It was almost pointless to argue with that man. "To be honest, we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started." His dark blue eyes flickered up from the plate, stopping for a moment to examine the way Sherlock tapped his fingers against the table. It was done in a very clear, concise manner, neither too slow nor too fast; whether he was annoyed or anxious, John knew not. He was too busy eating every last bite of his scrambled eggs and hash browns to ponder it further. "Has it occurred to you . . ."

"Probably." Sherlock did not give John an opportunity to finish his question before he jumped in with a witty yet honest response. He did not need John to speak to read what was on his mind. It was most apparent, anyway. It would involve the reason for why they had been running around the city for the past two days. The detective continued to tap his fingers on the surface of the table; his grey eyes were glued to the pink cellular phone in-between them. It had not gone off during the night and he was expecting their next call any moment; not that he knew when the next call would be, but he had a feeling it would be inside the diner.

John furrowed his eyebrows in mild discontent. It annoyed him from time to time when Sherlock jumped in before he finished his statement, but he was just too ravenous this morning to care. "No, has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes . . . it's all meant for you."

'Fantastic deduction, John, really.'

"Yes, I know."

"Is it him, then?" he asked in-between a final bite from his plate. "Moriarty?"

Sherlock paused in thought, his expression blank. The idea had crossed his mind multiple times since the case first began, but it was still too soon to tell. He merely gave a subtle shrug of his shoulders. "Perhaps." Then it happened -- the sound of a text being received on the pink phone. Sherlock reached for the phone and unlocked it with a simple swipe of his finger. Three pips followed and an image of a woman with platinum blonde hair and rose-stained lips flooded the screen. He stared at the screen for a fraction of a second, blinked, and then adjusted the angle of the phone so John could examine the photograph. "That could be anyone."

John cocked his head to the left and glanced at the screen for a moment. "Well, it could be, yeah. Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed." It was the first time he could actually say being without a job had a positive effect on his life.

"What do you mean?"

"Lucky for you," he began as he pushed his chair backward, giving him enough space to stand up and stretch his legs. "Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly." He made his way across the narrow room to the counter, smiled friendly at the waitress and reached for the remote. His eyes flickered up to the television as he flipped through channels, stopping once he came to a program hosted by the exact same woman in the photograph. It was no more than a second after the woman spoke that the phone rang; this time, a call. John's eyes fell from the screen and landed on Sherlock.

The man adjusted the blue scarf around his neck before he picked up the phone. He clicked the 'answer' option on the phone and brought it up to his ear. "Hello?"

- - - - -

Audrey York woke up that morning with a throbbing headache and in an unfamiliar location.

The twenty-five-year-old waitress could not remember a thing from last night, save for the fact she had been asked to cover someone's night shift and very reluctantly did so. She tried to avoid those hours at all times; not only because the hours were dreadful and made her feel as though no amount of sleep would restore the rosy hue to her pallid and freckled skin complexion, but it was the only time she could work on her online graduate school courses for school counseling. Everything else was a mystery. She could not remember if she actually finished the shift or even made it home, but since she was in her work uniform--a simple white blouse with a black pencil skirt and black stockings--she assumed neither of the two happened.

'But where else would I be?' she pondered to herself as she rubbed the corner of her green eyes with the back of her hand, still too groggy to orally express her confusion. It would do her no good, anyway. The room she was in was both dimly lit and narrow, and for all she could tell there were no other people in close proximity. 'Maybe I just fell asleep at work.' Anything was possible, but she never remembered a room like this back at the restaurant. Where, then, was she? Chewing on the inside of her cheek in confusion, her eyes flickered around the room and tried to take in as much as possible. The room was dark, small, empty . . . quite empty, in fact. She could not see any furniture or decorations or anything that would lead her believe the room was habitable, just a hardwood floor that extended for the entire length of the room.

And a folded note.

A folded note with her name written in a delicate handwriting.

It did not take long for her eyes to fall to the floor when she saw the stark contrast of white paper against the dark floor; likewise, it did not take long for her to see the explosive device that had been strapped around her chest. It only just occurred to her that she had not felt the weight of the vest before now. There was one single light that blinked in a repetitive, timely fashion. She felt her muscles tighten as she continued to stare at the device, a motley of expressions on her face ranging from bewilderment to fear. Why? Why her? What had she done? She had enough sense to know this was an explosive device, if only because a subtle ticking sound could be heard each and every time the light blinked. Apprehensively, her eyes wandered back down to the note. She reached for it, slowly, and only then did she notice a black cellular phone next to the note. She retrieved both and opened the note, reading over it twice before attempting to digest the message. She was supposed to relay a very specific message to the number on the phone. Failure to do otherwise? Well, the note never said, but Audrey had a hunch that the explosive device was not for show.

She swallowed a lump in her throat and dialed the number with her trembling fingers, accidentally clicking two numbers instead of one, so she quickly fixed her mistake and listened to the dial tone. A man answered within milliseconds. It took her a few seconds to speak; she was positively frightened that the device would explode if she did not read the message word for word, but her throat also felt tight and scratchy. What if she wept? Fortunately, the message was not long. "T-This is . . . a funny one." A pause. "I'll give you . . . twelve hours."

The phone on the other line disconnected.

- - - - -

They were in Scotland Yard before John had time to finish his cup of coffee.

Greg Lestrade was waiting for them with an unidentified woman.

"No, don't even think about it," Sherlock groaned in exasperation before Lestrade had the chance to introduce the woman. "I am not going to entertain any more of your student police officers. They are all so . . . dull."

It was almost terrifying how he knew what other people were thinking without having to ask.

"Wrong," the Detective Inspector chimed in before the conversation was completely lost. "She is not a student, she is the newest member on the force, and you will bring her with you, unless you want me to kick you off this case."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the thought. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

They were locked in a stare down--poor John had gone over to the woman to introduce himself--for what seemed like half an hour before Sherlock began to bicker. "I'll have you to thank if the next victim explodes into itty-bitty pieces because of your inexperienced staff."

Lestrade refused to touch upon that last remark.

"Connie Prince. Fifty-four." He handed Sherlock a document stuffed inside a manilla folder. "The morgue called minutes ago. Her body's there."

"Then it would seem we have no further reason to speak," the detective murmured and turned to face the cab that he and John used moments ago. "Try to keep up, rookie."

If only her parents could see her now—spitting out renditions of popular jazz songs with a Lucky Strike dangling from her burgundy-painted lower lip, Esme Oates was living the life that any seventeen year old would wish for. It was not entirely wrong to say that her mother and father were unmindful of her current location; rather, they knew she was singing with that pretty little voice of hers for spare change while under the watchful eye of her fiancé, an amateur stockbroker, and apparently that was good enough for them.

How wrong they were.

Cecil sat in the rear with three of his co-workers, his fingers never leaving his glass of Stolichnaya, his eyes never leaving the five-foot-six-inch creature on stage. He could barely hear the others prattling on about this and that over the boisterous trumpets, so he would nod every time he thought a statement was directed toward himself, his eyes still focused on his fiancée. To say that she was beautiful would have been an understatement. With her copper-red finger waves and willowy figure, she was gorgeous. Of course, she was more than a pretty face, but the man took pride in knowing he had snagged a keeper.

Esme thought otherwise.

She breezed on through ‘Avalon’ and ‘Margie’, unfazed by Cecil as he tried his damnedest to get her to look at him. She would look right through him, a dull glaze settled over her green eyes. Her mother and father had the worst taste when it came to potential suitors — influential men with limited, insipid views. It had taken weeks to convince Cecil to let her sing and have a good night out, and he had the audacity to follow her to make sure her fun was limited.

She stubbed her cigarette on the heel of her shoe and flicked it to the side. It was time for her break, which would have amounted to five or six minutes, and instead of going to greet Cecil she lingered on stage with her back turned in his direction. She removed her compact mirror with intentions to spot-check her makeup. What she saw did not displease her: her eyes were outlined with mascara and kohl, the dark red tint to her lips had yet to run, and her rouge still looked quite nice against her pale complexion. She wore a beige-colored dress that came a few inches above her knees, exposing her stocking-cladded stick thin legs. The dress was straight and loose and covered her boyish figure. She wore a long bead of pearls around her neck. And if one looked close enough, they could see a dust of freckles over her button nose. She was everything her parents hated about the younger generation. No wonder they had set her up with such a prude.

She closed the compact and set it aside with her other belongings, turning around to face the crowd as her break ended. There was no time for her to open her mouth before the door was kicked in, a blur of blue following. Esme stared in shock, her mouth agape and eyes wide. The Fuzz. What an appropriate way to end her night. Unless she high-tailed it out of there right now, she knew no good would come out of this. She was underage and the scent of Luckies was still on her breath.

“Go get in the car.”

For the first time in her life she was glad to see Cecil.

“Now. I’ll grab your things.”

Esme did not protest. She peeled herself away from the microphone and fled from the scene; going through the only exit she could see, she panicked as soon as she felt a hand grab out for her delicate shoulder. She reacted faster than her common sense would allow her by elbowing the mysterious person hard in the gut, and when the mysterious person retaliated in shock, pain, or whatever it was that made the person let go, she bolted from the back of the bar and down the street.

Licking at her lips, she scanned the streets for Cecil’s Ford Model T. It took seconds before she found what appeared to be Cecil’s ride, and she leaped at the opportunity as she pulled open the door and hopped in between who Esme thought to be Cecil’s co-workers. The scent of her Chanel No. 5 quickly flooded the car.

She could still feel her heart racing, her muscles trembling even after minutes had passed since the car fled from the scene, but the look of fear had passed and now a wide toothed grin was bestowed on her face. What a rush! What excitement! Well, now it was exciting to look back on what had just happened. "Talk about a—" she began, her voice trailing off as she finally bothered to look at the three men, none of whom were familiar.

“You three,” she stated obviously, “are neither Cecil nor his co-workers.”

In a desperate attempt to regain her composure, she started to take deep breaths. Inhale. Pause. Exhale. Repeat. In with the good, out with the bad. Unfortunately, the only thing that came out of her deep breathing exercise was the feeling of being lightheaded. Blinking erratically, she forced her eyes shut, if only to prevent them from producing tears. The manner of execution was gruesome, as multiple body parts had been placed in different sections of the room; apparently, someone wanted revenge for an unknown reason. Liesel couldn't even venture a guess as to why someone would have done this, let alone ponder the idea. Petrine was good person, kind, caring . . . but some people didn't like it when people were too positive.

Upon stifling a sniffle, she opened her eyes. It was evident that she had briefly cried, for her eyes were bloodshot and every so often her breathing hitched. Nevertheless, she knew this was the wrong time to get emotional. There were no lingering odors in the air, so the murder must have been recent. That meant the murderer could have still been in the area, and she did not want to be here in the event the murderer returned. Liesel wiped her eyes with the inner corner of her hands. If she was lucky, she would find a guard before returning to Bruma. They were quite keen on surveying the area, as the stable was situated right outside of the gates.

But as it would seem, luck wasn't on her side.

Her hands were still wiping the inner corners of her eyes when she felt something sharp against her skin. It was nothing more than a tiny prick, but soon it escalated into a fair amount of pressure. Slowly, she stared to inch around until the pressure became almost unbearable, to the point where Liesel was sure the sharp object would puncture her skin. There was a voice, presumably a man, threatening to kill her. Instantaneously, her hands froze in place and her body became rigid. She didn't doubt whoever spoke, either. If the voice belonged to the same person that committed the murder, death would have been the least of her worries. For a split second, she wondered what happened to Humilis. She prayed to Azura that he was safe. Unbeknown to Liesel, snow was starting to accumulate on his soon-to-be-decaying flesh.

The silence had become more uncomfortable than the sharp prick against her skin. Minutes had passed, and not a single word was uttered. Liesel had no idea what this person was up to, nor did she really care at the moment. For all she knew, this was a matter of life and death. She could have endured the silence, or be killed for asking questions. Anything she may have mustered up the courage to say needed to be carefully worded. Except there was one problem: she was too stunned to utter a single word. At the very best, she could only produce the hitching noise when she breathed, and even that lasted a mere second.

Inevitably, she had spoken.

"I don't ha--," she paused, mid-sentence, and cleared her throat. The lightheartedness had returned. She just wanted to sink to the ground and crawl up in a ball, pray to Azura that someone would want to come buy a horse. Perhaps that was a bit selfish of her, but she kind of enjoyed living. A shaky hand reached into her pockets, trying to fish out whatever coins she had brought. Upon removing her hand, she managed to retrieve eleven coins--make that ten. One had dropped to the ground due to how badly her had was shaking. "I don't have much gold, if that's what you want."

WILLING TO PAY BIG BUCKS FOR A STRONG PAINKILLER. IF INTERESTED, COME TO THE GOTHAM WATER DISTRICT TUNNEL ENTRANCE TONIGHT AT NINE.

Agnes Oates was no stranger to the odd requests of Gotham’s finest, but even she had to admit this request was odd on a completely different level. It was the first time she had received a piece of parchment — folded with tattered corners and soaked to the point where the text was almost illegible — that had been pinned to her apartment door. The twenty-six year old medicinal chemist had hesitated the moment she found and read the note. “It’s always the crazy people,” she remembered thinking to herself this morning, “and you know what’ll happen if you get involved with those kind of people again.” How could she forget? Being one of the few chemists in Gotham City who worked with her own materials, Agnes had been the target of many criminals since her doctoral graduation from the previous year. She did not understand how so many people were now familiar with her name, but as long as she was paid and in the position to afford her apartment she was not too concerned.

There was something else that bothered her about the note: despite the words being hard to read from the smeared ink, she could tell the words were spelled correctly. She was sitting in her living room when that thought dawned upon her, with less than an hour to go if she wanted to take the city bus down to the described area. She studied each word carefully, her green eyes narrowing in an attempt to make sure she was actually reading what she thought she was reading. There was no denying that the words were correct in spelling. Likewise, there was no denying that the person behind this letter had a brain. It did not take a genius to figure out what a deadly combination that would have been, and the only reason Agnes still had the paper in her possession had to do with the ‘big bucks’.

Apprehensively, she folded the note in two and stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans. “You’re setting yourself up for a miserable night,” she said to herself, baffled that she would even consider this offer. How many decent people did she know that actually enjoyed being down at the water district at this time of night? She could not name a soul. She shook the thought from her head and grabbed the essentials — her cellular phone, a spare key to her apartment that she slid in her left boot, and her KA-BAR combat knife — she would need for the night. If luck were on her side, she would be done in a matter of minutes.

Unfortunately for Agnes, luck was never on her side.

The bus was running late when she arrived at her final destination with fifteen seconds to spare. The streetlights were flickering in the distance as she moved away from the street and near the entrance to the sewer system. To her surprise, someone was waiting outside of the sewer gate, though it was too far and too dark to make out the person’s identity. Her hand automatically grasped the combat knife in her pocket, ready to lash out if the mysterious person tried to pull a fast move on her, but no such thing happened. It was not until Agnes got within feet of the mysterious person that he pulled his hands up, carrying what appeared to be a submachine gun. If she knew any better, Agnes would have assumed he was in the military based on the way he dressed.

“It’s not nice to point a weapon at a lady,” she chided, pulling the note out of her back pocket with her free hand, unfolding it and holding it up so the man could try and read the illegible writing. “I hear you’re looking for an analgesic?”

The man tensed up as she reached behind herself, but he relaxed somewhat when she pulled out the familiar note. “Not exactly.” He stepped a few inches to the side, no longer blocking the entrance into the sewers. “The man I work for is looking for the painkiller. I was told to bring you to him.”

“And why would I want to go in there?” she asked, furrowing her eyebrows at the mere thought of entering the sewers. “I don’t care how much your man is offering, it’s not enough to make me go in there.”

“No, but this is.”

The man raised his gun and fired a warning shot inches away from her head. Agnes felt her body tighten as the bullet collided with a street sign and shattered into pieces, the sound of which rang uncomfortably in her ears. There was a part of her that wanted to call him out on his bluff, but she knew better than to bicker with someone holding a loaded weapon, blank ammunition or not. “Touché. Lead the way.”

Agnes followed the man as he led her through the sewers, taking ample time to make sure her boots did not come in contact with raw sewage, all the while shooting whatever questions came to mind.

“Does your boss currently use an analgesic?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“Not a clue.”

Agnes sucked on the inside of her cheek, somewhat bothered by the man’s ignorance. “Do you know why your boss needs a strong analgesic?”

“Yes, but you’re better off seeing for yourself.”

Sighing in distress, she slumped her shoulders and shook her head, remaining silent for the remainder of their journey. It was not until they reached a more spacious room filled with more people that the man told her to stay put, and when Agnes nodded in agreement the man continued down the corridor until he was face to face with his boss.

“Bane? She’s here. She’s with the others.”

“Why, Doctor Sutton, would I require you for that?”

She stared at him with her eyebrows knitted close together in thought. ‘Why -else- would I be here?’ It was the only rational thought that had crossed her mind. Surely he had not brought her here without first thinking it over?

“I never said you were a foo—” she began, but was unable to get another word in as he continued with his speech. It was inevitable that his supply of anesthetics would come to an end. Unfortunately, Audrey was still under the ill-conceived assumption that she was here based on her background in chemistry.

‘Maybe he -didn't- think it over.’

The sound of her fingers snapping in two echoed through the room. It took seconds before the noise registered. She lowered her gaze to the source of the cracking sound, and a wave of nausea hit her the moment her grey eyes glanced at the outcome — two of her fingers were broken and in ghastly positions. She continued to stare at the sickening image, blinking twice in a slow and consistent manner, her eyes wide in disbelief. “You’re . . . kidding me.”

He was not.

What baffled her the most was the fact that she could not feel a thing. Her hand was no longer tingling, but completely numb and void of pain. It would not last forever. Admittedly, she did not know how long the numbness would last — she could only wonder if this had something to do with holding one of his used canisters — but she knew there would be hell to pay before the sun rose.

“You will learn. Or you will die.”

She glared at him with accusing eyes as he opened the door. What other choice did she have? With her left hand holding her right, Audrey withdrew her presence from the room and made her way to the opposing room.



She did not budge an inch until she heard the satisfying sound of the door closing, and the only reason she moved — rather, she flinched — was due to the sound of something being smashed in the corridor.

Now that she was alone, it became apparent to her how apprehensive she felt — her entire being shook as though her blood sugar had hit an all-time low and she felt clammy. She raised her right hand to further inspect the damage. There was no way for her to mend broken bones, but she knew she had to do something about their abnormal positioning. The sooner the better. If she waited too long the anesthesia would have worn off.

Gritting her teeth together in discontent, she sat on the edge of the bed and began to twist her broken bones back into a reasonable location. It took a few tries before she was fully satisfied with her work. As she was getting ready to lie down she spotted what appeared to be a roll of gauze on the floor; having nothing else to use, she grabbed the fabric and began to wrap it around her index finger and her middle finger. It was an adequate dressing, but it was better than nothing.

‘Why?’

She resumed her position on the makeshift bed with her back to the door as she pondered his savage decision to harm her. ‘Why didn’t he just kill me?’ He had been offered many opportunities so far, yet this was as far as he had gone. She glanced down at her bandaged injury; it would be throbbing with pain in the morning.



And she was correct.

For some bizarre reason, she had let her defense down and fell asleep. The dull sensation of her hand no longer lingered the moment she woke up; instead, she was greeted by sharp, random twinges of pain, a sore neck, and purple bruises all over her throat.

She looked like hell.

She felt like hell.

And if she had a say in the matter, she was not going to move from her current position for the rest of the day.

The sudden knock on the door suggested otherwise.

When she failed to acknowledge the source of the knocking, the man who had brought her to the sixth floor opened the door a crack. He waited a few more seconds, expecting the young woman to turn her head and look in the direction of the door, but when she did not he finally spoke. “Are you hungry?”

Silence.

Deafening silence.

When she continued to disregard his presence, Barsad withdrew from the room and took a few steps to the opposite room. The door was open a crack; hesitantly, the brown haired man opened it another inch. “She refuses to speak.”

‘What do I do now?’

She spent the next few minutes pacing through the forest as she pondered the question — what should she do? The note had to be a vital clue, at the very least a connection between the disappearances and the abductor. The thought of bringing it back to the station crossed her mind more than once — they could dust it for fingerprints and be one step closer to solving this mystery — but curiosity seemed to get the best of the young detective as she continued through the forest. After all, who knew how many clues there were? What if she decided to leave and just so happened to be seconds away from finding something else? It would not hurt to linger a few more minutes.

And linger she did.

The forest was silent, save for the occasional leaf that crunched under her boots. It was dark, almost too dark to navigate herself through the forest without getting lost, though she continued to tell herself she would be fine. ‘Just five more minutes,’ she thought, stuffing her hands back into the pockets of her coat. Five minutes turned into ten minutes, and before long she was so deep in the forest that it would be impossible to return to her car until the morning; of course, she was oblivious to this certainty.

Despite this minor setback, some good did come from her decision to continue the investigation: she happened upon another note. The pallid color of the parchment made it easily noticeable, and Mea was quick to pluck the paper from the tree branch. Just how many of these were there? Furrowing her eyebrows as she tried to contemplate the thought, Mea flipped the paper and began to scrutinize the side that contained scribbles and drawings. This paper was different than the first — what appeared to be a tall, thin man in a dark suit was drawn in the middle of the paper, followed by the word ‘FOLLOWS’ in jagged print.

‘Follows? What follows?’ she cogitated in silence as she continued to scan the paper. She cocked her head to the side, and for a brief second something flashed out of the corner of her eyes. She looked up and blinked, seeing nothing more than trees and darkness. An animal, perhaps? If only it was an animal. Mea began to fold the note in two when a sudden compulsion to turn around emerged from nowhere; without much hesitation, she complied with the compulsion and peeked behind her shoulder, a wave of nausea settling in her stomach as she caught sight of a tall figure.

It was too dark to tell from this distance, though the nausea and sudden ringing in her ears should have warned her to leave. In her mind, this figure could know something about the disappearances. As far as she was concerned, it would have been foolish to leave without making an attempt to question the silhouette. Sucking on the inside of her cheek in contemplation, Mea finally turned around and began to approach the dark figure.

The nausea increased.

The ringing in her ears became louder.

She felt something itch inside of her nostril; seconds passed before the metallic fragrance of blood became apparent, though the fact that blood was starting to drip down her philtrum was less than apparent, at least for the unsuspecting detective.

Slender Sickness.

“Excuse me,” she called out to the mysterious figure, “I hate to bother you at this hour, but I’m in the middle of an investigation and I . . . I—“ and she paused, swallowed, froze in mid-sentence. Her body stiffened; her dark eyes widened in uncertainty. The only thing she seemed capable of doing was glancing down at the parchment in her trembling hands, glancing up at the unearthly figure standing feet away, and coming to the conclusion that the two were similar in appearance, if not the same exact thing.

“N-No.”

More than anything else, she desired the ability to turn around and scurry back to her car. Such a desire was all but impossible now, for her entire being was plagued with trepidation, much so that she could only gawk at the creature in terror.