*Creeeeaaak*
A branch of light claws its way into the room from the opening door: an indication that the returning individual is…well, returning. A shoe comes second, and the rest of Ivy follows thirdly. She makes her entrance silently; head down…unconfidently? Perhaps, her noiseless audience considers. Shuffling the folder she’s toting to her other arm, she clicks the door in place and (with her head still down) then continues to the chair in the center of the room. She sits.
Silence.
*Ahem*
“Is everyone present?” She asks, nervously risking a jocular tone (which is obviously fake).
*Scattered blinking and continued quiet from the audience*
Ivy manages an uneasy and equally counterfeit laugh, then makes the obligatory coughing noise before moving along.
“Well…for starters, I—uh, I know I haven’t been here in a while. Uh…February, to be exact.”
Her spectators mutter to each other in agreement.
“So…I figured, that’s kind of a lot of months, and, uh—well, without being here or commenting or writing, you know…”
“FIVE MONTHS!” One member of the crowd interjects, their voice teetering on anger.
“NEARLY SIX!”
“…Yes. Thank you for clarifying that for me.” Ivy hazards a mild shot of sarcasm, but knows she needs to keep it easy—this is an unstable gathering.
“ANYWAY, I’m here to make my return to Deviant Art official, and to prove it I brought along a new poem!” She waves the evidence up in the air, but before she can explain anything further, it is forcefully torn from her grip.
She jumps back a bit, surprised at the ferocity of the robber. But that person couldn’t be less concerned with her well-being, Ivy realizes. She can clearly see her greedy audience all scratch each other apart to read the peace offering she has brought for them. She wishes she had brought more.
A minute later, the pairs of eyes once fixed on her poem shoot back at her accusingly.
No one speaks. Until…
“This is all you have?”
Oh, no. Oh, God— please, no.
Quick, Michelle! An excuse!
“W—“ it starts to form.
“It’s been six months and you’ve made only this?” The retaliation comes way too soon.
“ALMOST six months, not quite!” she corrects them hastily (as if this is of any significance). “I was going to explain it to you before—“ She was going to say “before you starting behaving like savages”, but swiftly decides this would be indelicate and probably make that point even better realized—
Fear starts to seep in as Ivy sees the anger of the audience simmering and their patience fraying.
“Well, I work at Pizza Inn—I have a job now!” she pleads.
“So do I!”
“Yeah? Well, I have two!”
Whoops.
“Oh! So you do—yeah, yeah, you told me about that!” the laugh that she follows her weak joke with is the most manufactured, pathetic thing, and it doesn’t help that it’s further distorted by the handicap of terror.
Space between the opposing forces is becoming scarce, as is Ivy’s supply of verbal ammunition. Her arguments are evidentially not making much of an impression on the grudges held against her.
“C’mon, guys!” She’s scooted as far as she can out of the chair, and is flung onto the cold, hard floor.
Desperation.
One last chance.
“…Sheila?”
One final shot at victory is fired…
Sheila blinks. Then the marrow in Ivy’s bones freezes as she begins to grasp what she’s just done.
“THE FOOD PROCCESSOR IT IS!!!” Shelia explodes in a maniacal laugh.
The group charges at Ivy in insane fury as she scrambles for the tragically distant doorway like a chased animal bolts from its hunter.
“AAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!”

…*Click*. Well, I suppose that constitutes as my return to dA. Cheers, everyone!
-Ivy

P.S. I didn’t proofread any of this, so ignore all spelling/grammatical mistakes.