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Writer's Block: Set the Scene

Empty parking garages, roadside motels, dark caves, dank basements, overgrown forests—what kind of setting makes you feel nervous?
What freaks me out most isn't so much the setting as it is who's there. 
     Let me explain:  last night, my friends and I were hanging out at a park near one of our houses.  It was almost eleven, which is the curfew in my town, and I had to leave a bit early to stop by the 7-Eleven to buy milk for my family.  I didn't give a second thought about walking alone the one block to my friend's house where my car was parked.  On my way there, I approached a group of eight or nine boys who couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old.  I'm seventeen, but regardless, the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stood up; I felt instantly threatened.  One female with a low-cut top walking by nine males is not a good situation.  
     Looking back, I'm not sure continuing on my path was such a great idea; however, if I had crossed the street, I had an instinctive feeling that they would follow.  So, I reached the corner opposite them and didn't slow my stride.  Immediately, the ringleader barred his teeth, jumped directly in front of me, and spewed out some choice phrases I thought only belonged in the foulest of pornogrophies.  I was so shocked to hear such profanity coming from a junior high boy that I stopped, smiled sweetly, and said in my most condescending tone, "Oh, you're so cute!  But isn't your bedtime about 7:30?"  
     I didn't think he could be any cruder.  He could. 
     To his response I simple dropped any pretense of politeness and hissed, "Show some respect."  I then got out my cell phone to call my friends still at the park, four of whom happen to be varsity water polo players or gymnasts.  Upon seeing the glow of the cell screen, the boys took off.  While hurrying to my car, I asked them to "deal" with the kids should they return to the park; luckily, my guy friends have a fierce protective streak, especially for me as I'm the most petite of the group. 
     Once I reached my car, I backtracked in the direction I thought the gang had fled; sure enough, I drove by just as they were scampering towards the back yard of a McMansion.  They seemed thouroughly terrified, looking over their shoulders.  As I drove by, I slowed to a crawl and angled the car towards their side of the street.
     I'm pretty sure the ringleader wet himself.  
     Last night, I was put in a position where I was acting purely on instinct and could feel the "women's intuition."  Those boys might have been scared, but they don't know that I was probably more threatened and high strung than any of them.  Nine against one aren't odds that I would gamble on next time.


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