Creative Writing: Mary Shelley's Frankenstein

One can never forget the feeling of fear dripping down their spine, curling and crushing their frail heart with rotting fingers. It was exactly what Molly was experiencing that peculiar day, during that single encounter resulting from her insatiable wanderlust. The sky rang with a metallic buzz, darkness swallowing the sun at only four in the afternoon. Sharp pollen and sour air settled thickly on the back of her throat, foreshadowing the abyssal of dread and nightmares that she was about to fall into. Blood was flowing stickily from a gash on the female’s leg, which she had won during a battle with some stones sleeping at the edge of a murky pond. The rich scent pried at her nose and drew lazy circles of fog inside of her head. A warm substance fell upon her hair from the tree branches swaying above her, clearing the smoke from Molly’s blurred thoughts. Her tentative hand shakily went up to grab a handful of the gelatinous mass; it seeped out of the spaces between her fingers and smelled of burnt flesh. Whatever was held in her stomach gurgled and churned at the horrendous odor, threatening to travel up and out of her

Her spared eyes widened substantially, pupils constricting and darting from side to side, then finally upward at the attacker. Throat dry, a cracked whimper escaped her; Molly was drowning in a pool of mucus and terror. A panicked attempt to reach for a squirming appendage was futile, as the monster only shot out another soaked arm and splintered the bones in her thin fingers with a single squeeze. It spoke in soft clicks and coos resembling those from an infant, gingerly releasing the unfortunate individual, slithering down to perch on her gaunt shoulder. Molly instinctively parted her lips to take in much-needed oxygen, eyes squinted shut to keep out the slime. That was her second error, and unfortunately, her