Poisoned

The decrepit and rusty golf grumbled down the windy country lanes, the brambles scraping it's sides. Sarah tapped on it's steering wheel to radio one, whilst she sipped her starbuck's coffee, despite it being cold - she needed the energy. As she drove on the roads became narrower until she was driving on a dusty track leading to a hamlet deep in the fields and medows of the English countryside - it was far from what she was used to! Eventually the car came to a abrubt stop at the side of an abdoned lane.

Sarah's  black siletto heels felt unstable on the bumpy ground, she wobbled slightly however she stabled herself by clutching onto her old car (the vechile rocked slightly as she did this). Unsteadily, she walked along the lane, she didn't really know where she was going but she carried on. After a tedious walk she came to a paltry cottage. Sarah opended the white, peeling garden gate, the entrace to a wild yet beautiful front garden with twisted trees and almost psychedelic flowers. Cautiously, she closed the gate and walked through the garden. A ginger cat with tabby markings came up to Sarah just as she was about to ring the doorbell, it wrapped itself around her legs and purred affectionatly. She knelt down to stroke the cat but then it's eyes went an intense purple and it ran away. Startled, Sarah jumped back tripping on a fallen branch and landing on the wet grass, where beads of dwe had gathered.

CRASH! Emma ran to her door and opended it. There on the grass was a very sophisticated looking woman lying on the floor. The woman was dressed in a  tight pimp-stripe suit  and high silettos (one of which was off her foot) she had sharp, strict feautures and her ginger hair was done up in a sleek pony tail.  As soon as the woman saw Emma standing at the door, slightly confused, she jumped up quickly going red in the face. "Sarah, Sarah Collins. I am a journalist at DAILY STORY and I am hear to interview you madam," she informed proffesionally, brushing the bits of dirt and cut grass of her blazor.    

"Okay then, my names Emma. Want to come inside?" Emma replied, pointing at her shabby green door.

"Thank you"

Inside, the cottage was small and cluttered. Brass  pots and pans lay unwashed on the kitchen table, bits of what looked like rubbish were clustered together on the dusty bookshelves, there was a musty smell and the dust tickled Sarah's nose; it looked like there had been a tornado. "Sit down, sit down," encouraged Emma, "whilst I make us some tea, eh?" she added. Sarah smiled, despite hating tea (she was much more a coffee person). She sat down on the sofa idly, there was no TV or phone, was this old woman lonely? Sarah brought the tea and placed it on the oak coffe table, which was covered with old magazines and crosswords. Begrudingly, Sarah sipped the rupulsive tea to please the humble old lady, with thin, white hair and worn feautures, her wrinkles deep in her skin. "So Mrs Brookes, where did you get this story from? A book? A play? A movie?" asked Sarah. Disgusted, Sarah put her tea down.

"Where did I get this story from? My dear girl, this is no story, it happended in that forest over there!" she protested, wavering a hand in the far distance.  Sarah suspected this woman was lying, she had probably become confused with old age but it was her job to listen to the nut-case.

"My apolagies Mrs Brookes, tell me the story," Sarah said, gathering her journalist equipment.

"Well..." Emma began...