Name: Phyllis Luna Age: 35 Occupation: researcher, historian Genre: post-apocalyptic/supernatural Rough description: frizzy brown hair, green eyes, tanned skin, 5'7"; knowledgable and sometimes brisk, stocky and chubby
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Sample: She swung down from her cobbled-together motorbike, patting it familiarly as she caught up her recorder and notepad. She had electronic storage systems, but after a near miss with a thief, she kept them safely back at home. Most people seemed more comfortable watching her write things down, anyway. A gust of wind tugged at her pants pulled her jacket askew. She paused to straighten it, tucking the notepad under one arm, and strode toward the town, keeping an eye out for any sign of life. She was perhaps three steps down what looked to be the main drag through town when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned just in time to see a tattered curtain flutter back into place behind a broken window and rubbed her cheek. Then she shrugged and stepped down the walk to the house, raising her hand to knock at the splintering wood of the door. When there was no response, she knocked again. "Go away," said a quavering voice, and she smiled. "I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am, but I'd like to have a word --" "Go away! We don't need you here." She looked over her shoulder and froze in place. Behind her, a crowd had gathered, men and women of all ages, children peeking silently from behind their parents' legs. The entire gathering, in fact, was eerily silent, and it took her no more than a moment to catch the sunlight filtering through the half-transparent figures. "That's unusual," she said, turning slowly back to see a white-haired head peering at her from the window. She smiled. "The ones I've seen previously haven't acknowledged me. They just go about their business." "You ... you've seen them before?" The old woman's voice was barely a whisper. "I have." She paused. "May I come inside?" The woman vanished, but after several seconds, Phyllis heard the door slowly creak open. |