At our last writer’s group, we did a writing exercise with the following prompt: write about the worst visitor to ever darken your door. Here’s what I wrote:
I opened the door. A tall, lean figure of a man stood on my porch. He wore a shabby tweed suit. His keen eyes appraised me in one quick sweep, and an arrogant smirk played on his thin lips. He brushed past me and into my house without a word. He began crawling on all fours, analyzing the carpet. Then with a spring he was up and zipping around the living room, sniffing my lamp shade, tasting my mantel, tapping the window seat.
I felt so violated.
Then he launched into a rapid monologue about myself. He knew things about me he shouldn’t have since I had no idea who he was. It was creepy.
Finally when I could get a word in, I demanded, “Who are you?!”
He looked slightly taken aback, as if I should know.
Curtly he answered, “Sherlock Holmes.”