This is an idea from The Periwinkle Pen, from weekly segments called Weekly Warmups.
In this exercise, I wrote something short based on a picture.
To be honest, I borrowed the title off a song, give or take one word.
Cold sweat coated my palms like drying glue. The communicator in my hand shook as I tried to control my breaths.
Now they know John is dead.
I will never forget his last words.
"There are aliens right behind you."
I stole a glance behind me, sucking in my breath quickly. But nothing stood there. No sounds. No footsteps. No growls. No snarls.
I gulped down the sigh that wanted to escape. I cannot allow myself to stick out any more than needed. Already, my body feels exposed with just the thin, elastic suit to cover the essential areas--chest, torso, hands, legs, feet. If John's uniform was clean and untainted, I would have worn it instead. I swear the boss dresses the women up like this for kicks.
I slipped the communicator back into the secret outlet slab and concealed it. With a wince, I pulled myself up from my kneeling position, and my legs screamed in their boots. But I could move them, and that's all that matters.
After checking my back again, I pressed my back against the wall and sidestepped quickly down the corrider. The corner approached, and I leaned a cautious head to check the area.
I won't let an alien tear me a new one. A death won't bring me down. And John knew so, and he knew so when he gave me his last piece of "advice." He knew that I don't listen to dead men.
There's maybe ten, fifteen more minutes to go until I reach the ship.
About eight now. I look behind me.
Five. Look again.
Two. Check.
One.
And John was right. There are aliens right behind me.
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