When you currently read a book with creepy creatures in the fog and watched “War of the Worlds” recently, it may lead you to this:
“We have to run, love!”
The rhythm of my feet on the wet sand is competing with the beating of my galloping heart. My lungs are burning. The wind is mocking us; it is slashing the sand against our faces, pulling at our hair and our clothes, while I gasp for air.
We are running toward the light. Away from the crawling shadows, writhing and curling. Closing in on us.
Your hand is still in mine, warm and firm, I sense the hard calluses in your palm and recall the gentleness of your fingertips.
“Don’t stop! Whatever happens, don’t stop!”
I mustn’t trip. I mustn’t fall. I mustn’t…
Your fingers slip through mine. I try to hold on to them, try to hold on to you, but –
It may be too short to be anything, but I really had to get it out of my head.
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